White and Other Tales of Ruin

Tom used his head. Flipped forward as hard as he could, his artificial muscles writhing and knotting as he pumped them with adrenaline, Tom’s forehead connected squarely with the pimp’s nose. The sounds was sickening. The pain and shock must have been dreadful, because the man didn’t even scream as he sank to his knees and slipped down the slimy wall.

“Leave us alone,” Tom said. “We’re in love.” He vaulted Hot Chocolate Bob’s splayed legs, kicked the gun down the alley ahead of him and sprinted for Ashley Street. It only took a few seconds, but they were filled with so many thoughts that it felt like hours.

Most of them centred around whether the pimp carried more than one gun.

As he burst out in the street and angled left, Tom felt a foolish sense of elation. He may be away now, yes, but he’d made an enemy, a deadly enemy. From this moment on the city was no longer safe, could never be called home again … but the sun shone down on his adventure, laughter still came from the dead park at the end of the street, Honey’s weight hugged his shoulder as if she had an arm draped there and he could smell her on him, smell her.

He wondered whether this place would become famous, just as Pudding Lane had in London. That’s where the Baker had taken his name from. He’d said that he would be responsible for initiating a new Great Fire, but this one would be a conflagration of love.

Tom ran through the park, noticing that the Chinaman was still entertaining. There were fewer people watching him now but he seemed not to notice, so intent was he upon his little play. The finger puppets bobbed and weaved and stared. Tom wished he had time to stop, but danger loomed large and dark behind him, an almost palpable force that drove him on into the city.

He stopped running after a mile because he was drawing attention. Glancing around constantly, he was certain that he was not being followed. Enraged and bloodied, pride dented, Hot Chocolate Bob would certainly not be silent in his pursuit.

The midday lull was almost over and now the streets were buzzing again. Cars vied for space and ground against each other, coughing out exhaust fumes at pedestrians. Street performers were counting their lunchtime takings, many of them looking sad and despondent as they pocketed a few measly coins. Nobody looked at Tom. Nobody could know what he had in his rucksack.

He felt like a murderer. Honey may well be dead in there, a coiled, folded mess, a smashed egg with no hope of reconstruction. Each time he caught someone’s eye he looked away guiltily, blushing with the obviousness of what he had done. Surely they could see it on his face? Surely they could discern the shape of her bulging the rucksack, smell her scent as Tom took her towards salvation or death?

But the streets stank of rot and smog and fast food. And anyone who did look at Tom seemed to look away just as quickly as he.

It had always been a city full of secrets.

The sense of threat behind him drove him on. He would have to go back to his flat for a while — Honey’s state now made things much more complicated — but he didn’t want to stay there for long. Hot Chocolate Bob could know anyone, and it would be easy to snatch Tom’s image from the street cameras outside the whorehouse, download a privileged search programme from the net — police maybe, or military, depending on who he knew — and trace Tom.

He’d have ten minutes to collect some things, and that was it. He’d be leaving. Fleeing the city if he could, perhaps making it into the mountains where, rumour had it, there were still regions of wilderness to get lost in for those with the courage or need.

He’d been here all his life, and yet he had no regrets at all about leaving. There were no ties here anymore.

Passing by a shop Tom glanced in the window and saw himself reflected back. He didn’t recognise the face for a moment and he spun around to see who was behind him. But then he walked on, knowing that he was already changing. Love, fear and desperation had left their mark on his face.

He reached his flat a few minutes later. He remained at the end of the street for a while, trying to spot whether there was anyone waiting for him. All seemed normal. His backpack weighed him down. And the longer he delayed, the less chance there would be of Honey coming back as fit and functional as she had been just an hour before. So Tom strode down the street, palmed the doorlock and went inside.