Chapter One: Hints

It was gone. Washed down the drain. George peered into the dark gulf, while water ran over his hands, although there was nothing to see in the depths. Frustration built like the angry clouds overhead, gurgling and roaring like the very flood that poured into the tunnels under the street. He lifted up a fist and splashed it down with an angry shout. The sewer had stolen his boat, the boat that his brother had painstakingly made, made specially for him. Sure, it was only newspaper and wax, but it was the action and the meaning that counted. Now he would have to trudge home in disgrace and admit to Bill that he had lost the boat within half an hour of them making it. Tears of desperation ran down his cheeks with the raindrops as he sat back, ignoring the water that rushed around him from the temporary stream and soaked into his pants.

It was then that he noticed the pair of boots standing on the concrete curb above the drain entrance. Big ones, that had been black once, but were now pitted and caked in the grey of faded mud. His eyes followed them up, past the khaki trousers that clung to the tops of the boots, past the waist and the arms with thumbs stuck into pockets, all the way up to the face of the man that loomed over him.

"Hullo, lad," the man greeted with a grin. A grin that instantly stirred George's stomach like a bubbling cauldron. It was far too close to a leer for his liking. His father always told him to be careful of strangers. That smile looked like it should belong on a hyena, not a human.

The man crouched down. He winced at the sight of the bleeding scrape on George's knee. "That looks nasty. What happened to you?"

"I fell," George responded simply and haltingly, yet compelled to answer by the sympathy in the man's voice. "Slipped while I was running after my boat."

"Would that happen to be the one I just saw slip down the drain?" the man asked.

George nodded, holding his knee as the pain needled back into his perception.

"I can get it for you," the man offered, before stepping off the curb and kneeling down and examining the interior of the sewer.

"Don't bother," George spoke up. "She's gone. I couldn't see her."

The man didn't seem to have heard him, reaching into the greedy maw of the drain with a long, thin arm. He got all the way up to his shoulder, looking remarkably similar to George's mother when she was getting clothes out of the washing machine. He even had the same eyebrow-raised expression on his face as he searched with feeling alone.

"Aha!" he cried after an indeterminate period of time. He smiled at George; a different, warmer smile this time. George straightened up, daring himself to hope for the first time since the start of this whole situation.

"Ta-da!" the man declared, sitting up and whipping his arm out of the sewer. Pinched between his fore- and middle-finger was the yellowy-white triangular shape of the newspaper boat. George almost squealed in delight, but immediately bit his tongue. He was six, after all, not three. He shouldn't be making noises like that. Even so, he was still overjoyed.

The man flicked his hand, releasing the boat and sending it flying up a few inches, before he shot his hand out and caught it, holding it towards George. "Yours, I believe, Captain."

"Thank you," George replied, grabbing for the boat, but he stopped and drew back. The man raised an eyebrow. "I'm not supposed to take stuff from strangers."

"But it's yours," the man remarked, gesturing with the boat. George still shook his head. "Well, then, let me introduce myself. My name is Lawrence."

George frowned. By technicality, the man wasn't a stranger anymore. That doubt was enough to make him shrug off the cautious attitude he'd taken until now. He can be excused for trusting the man; he was six after all, and six is an age where the adult world is confusing and uncertain. "I'm George."

Lawrence smiled pleasantly again. "Good to meet you, George. Here's your boat."

George took it and caressed it between his palms. Miraculously, there was no sign of any tearing, holes, or waterlogging from stem to stern. "Thank you for getting her. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," Lawrence replied, standing up. For the first time, George noticed that the man was not wearing any sort of rain protective gear. Even his head was uncovered, with water droplets clinging and glistening in his brown hair like dew on spider webs.

"I think the rain's going to get worse." George belatedly realised that Lawrence was still talking. "You better head on home. Are your parents there?"

George nodded. "My mom and my older brother."

Lawrence stuck his hands back into his pockets. "I'll accompany you. To make sure you don't slip again and hit your head this time."

A shiver ran up George's spine at the thought of cracking his head open, like the eggs his mother used to make breakfast for him when he was sick, by falling on the road or the curb.

"It's this way," George said, starting back up the street. He strode through the puddles dispassionately. Despite his disregard for his parents' cautionaries, a grim atmosphere was now enveloping him like a fog, and it scared him, because he did not know where the feeling came from. He glanced back and saw Lawrence marching behind him, taking steady, measured steps. "Why'd you call me 'Captain'?"

Lawrence stopped and blinked. "Well, you were commanding that fine little ship. It seemed logical."

"I wouldn't be a good captain," George remarked, limping slightly from the pain of the scrap on his knee. "The boat went down the drain."

"I've known a few captains in my time. I'm sure most of them would have ended up with their boats in the drain as well."

"Uh-huh," George replied sceptically. He wasn't sure if Lawrence was being truthful or just trying to make him feel better. "Are you from overseas?"

"What makes you say that?" Lawrence asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You say your 'a's and 'i's differently. Are you from England? I have a friend in my school class from England. He speaks the same way that you do."

Lawrence had an empty gaze in his eyes, as if he was looking at something far in the distance, or far in the past. "Once . . . once I lived there. But that was a long time ago."

He sank his chin until it was on his chest. "I've lived in Europe for as long as I can remember. There was a lot of suffering. But it's starting to go away over there. There's nothing for me back there anymore, so that's why I came to live here."

"I don't know why you'd come here," George stated. "This town is boring. Nothing happens here."

Lawrence smiled: his unsettling smile this time. It looked like his face had been slit open with a knife. "I like this place."

He sniffed the air. "There are roots here. Deep roots. I find the sewers most fascinating. Almost remind me of home."

George shuddered, this time at the dreamy expression on Lawrence's face. Looking up, he realised with relief that they were now standing in front of his house. Just a few steps away, behind protective walls, were Mom and Bill. Hugs and stability and safety. Within reaching distance.

"Uh . . . thank you for rescuing my boat, Mr Lawrence," George said nervously, before running up the path and through the front door. It slammed in his wake. For a long while, Lawrence stood watching the house and the shut door.

"You're welcome," he murmured, before turning and vanishing into the rain, the gloom, and the fog.