A Story in Three Parts

By Suzanna Stanbury

PART ONE

The shriek of the alarm clock ripped through her dreams, yanking Sylvie Giddings cruelly into the reality of another Monday morning. Reaching out an arm, she thrashed at the clock in a fruitless attempt to splat the ‘off’ switch. As she rose from the bed, Sylvie felt a wave of nausea overcome her in a choking rush. She hit the clock, stumbled out of bed and half-ran and half-staggered into the bathroom.

Sylvie eventually managed to face the world, banging the front door closed behind her and cringing at the loud noise. Her head ached and her eyes watered. In an attempt to jump start her lacklustre brain, she tried to remember the events of the previous evening. It had been a good night in the Hunting Ferret, it was Tom’s birthday and she’d slurped back far more Pinot Grigio than was good for her, which was evident by this morning’s painful start. Sylvie picked her way carefully across the slippery pavement, wet with frosty dew. Crossing over the road she headed down the hill, picking up speed as her black boots slithered over the shiny ground. Heading down towards the main road, she noticed the usual thunder of traffic seemed far quieter than normal this morning.  The air was thickening into a fog, the curls of misty grey smothering the sounds of rush hour traffic, absorbing the smells of exhaust fumes and other noxious vapours.

Sylvie slipped into the fog joining the line of other trudging office workers threading their way towards the town. As she walked through the gathering fog, she felt the cool sticky mist caress her cheek. She shuddered: it felt as if a hand had gently touched her face; she shook her body, telling herself not to be so silly. She was still feeling a little sick and was sensing the start of a monstrous hangover beginning to scrape at the insides of her temples. Sylvie realised her feet were dragging on the ground when she tripped over a loose paving slab. She only just corrected her steps in time to stop a fall. The sudden shock jolted her into walking more carefully. She cautiously crossed the road, peering hard into the grim thickening air to espy any headlights heading her way, but luckily there were none.

Having made it successfully onto the bridge, Sylvie glanced sideways over the railing towards the river. She could see nothing. Beyond the bridge’s iron railings, a screen of soft grey blanketed the view; the river was gone, vanished as if some celestial curtain had swept down across it. Sylvie scurried on over the bridge, passing the derelict shops at the edge of the old warehouse district. It was always a bit scary along the hundred yards or so of lonely boarded up buildings. If the day had been clear, she would have seen the dozing bundles huddled in the recesses where the homeless were sleeping fitfully in the shadows of the deepest doorsteps. Sylvie trod carefully, stepping over rolling bottles, the remnants of last night’s sleeping draughts. She gazed down at her boots as they made their way along the pavement. She could see tiny crystals of frost leaving patterns where her feet had crushed them.

The fog had isolated her, made her forget the other pedestrians. Sylvie rounded the corner and hit a large woman a glancing blow on the shoulder as they collided like ships in a storm.

They apologised almost at the same time. Sylvie paused, realising the fog had removed her sense of perspective. She took a tentative step forward, a cyclist whizzed past her. Almost immediately Sylvie heard him clip something or somebody. She heard the bike topple over, taking him with it as it crashed to the ground. She strained her ears to catch a sound and could hear him grumbling, pulling his bike up from the bottom of the fog. She tried to walk around him, only realising she was too close when she bumped into him. They were almost nose to nose, she could smell his overpowering body spray. A quick glimpse showed her he had a graze on his cheek and his dark purple backpack was skew-whiff on his shoulder. She felt the sudden intimacy swamp her, it made her face grow red with a blush. Stepping backwards hurriedly she started walking, hastening her steps to get away. She joined a small huddle of hopeful road crossers, all perched like roosting starlings on the kerb’s very edge, bobbing back and forth, eyes straining for dim yellow head lights before rushing lemming-like towards the far side of the road.

Sylvie landed on the far kerb with relief. It was pedestrianised walkway for half a mile and she could relax until she needed to cross the next road. She looked carefully for the break in the wall leading into the little park. The park was a small haven away from the urban bustle of the busy streets. A place where blackbirds darted from bush to shrub and magpies cackled at one another from the long abandoned customs house. Sylvie jumped as a blackbird screamed out its warning call, she grinned, realising it was she who was the intruder on his territory.

Stepping out of the gateway and onto the pavement, she narrowly missed a student intent on screwing in his earplugs a little tighter for maximum sound, man. Veering away, she saw him smile at her and tip her a cheeky wink, before he was sucked into the fog. Once again she felt a blush redden her cheeks, a sudden smile threatened to break out, but the stab of her headache took over. She clutched her forehead, wincing in pain. Sylvie’s steps started to slow again as she suddenly felt a little sick, a little dizzy and her vision began to swim. She gulped, feeling a rush of chewy fog fill her mouth, tangy and smoky. She breathed in through her nostrils in an attempt to filter the fog. She headed on, poking her hands deep inside her coat pockets, grinding the material downwards towards her knees, dipping her face as she tried to see where she was going. It was even difficult to see her feet now.

Sylvie was just about to enter Gentian Square. She stopped, feeling wary because the old cobblestones under foot were slippy, and slidy. Sylvie looked up and around her; she could just see a vague semblance of the grand statues that graced the square,  now just black shapes in the fog.

Forgetting to test her footsteps on the icy ground, Sylvie slipped. She fell down so fast her hands made contact on the hard ground with a loud smacking sound. She winced as small sharp stones bit into the flesh on her palms. The shock of the fall made her stay very still as she regained her breath. Slowly, she rose back up to her feet, peering at her hands and rubbing away the stones ingrained in the skin of her grazed palms. Sylvie sniffed the air and caught an odd scent. She started to walk very slowly, placing her feet carefully, watching them rising and falling. She moved dream-like through the peace and deep silence filling her ears. The fog seemed to quickly grow thicker; it was so heavy here it tried to invade her lungs, freezing them from the inside out. Sylvie tried to take a deep breath to last her for a little while, but the sulphurous ooze made her cough, the small sounds of her choking cut off as soon as they left her mouth. She drew her coat tightly around her body, pulling the collar up for protection. Turning her head she tried to see a landmark in the solid blanket that seemed to be smothering her. A figure emerged through the wall of soupy grey and she felt fear swamp her as she took in the visage of mottled skin. Greys, greens, yellows and streaks of brown dirt covered that face, ingrained into the skin; the person’s hair was so dirty and thick with grease, it gave off a smell that made Sylvie heave.

“Sorry, so sorry,” the figure gasped out the words, lurching away from her. Sylvie turned, her eyes following the bundle of dirt that had passed her by. She realised  her mouth was gaping open and closed it quickly, like a trap. That homeless person had looked much, much worse than any she had ever seen before. The raggy, baggy clothes draping on the ground, but worst of all was the smell, the awful stench that still clung to her little patch of fog.

Swallowing hard, Sylvie moved away, tripping over something on the ground. She looked down at her feet and saw a fallen branch lying on some churned up mud. Wrinkling up her brow in puzzlement she wondered if she’d wandered off course. There should be crunchy gravel underfoot. The council had been clearing up all the urban squares in the town and the square had been freshly strewn just a few weeks ago with creamy yellow gravel. Stepping aside just in time, Sylvie narrowly avoided falling into a deep hole in the ground. This was all wrong. It was messy and uneven. The ground was dangerous, not conducive to a smooth passage at all. It just didn’t feel right, everything was different and what was that awful smell? Sylvie wondered what on earth was going on. She suddenly experienced the cold fingers of uncertainty tiptoeing up her spine as she tried to make sense of it all.

Shivering, she side-stepped the hole, then a crash nearby made her stumble. Her body wobbled crazily as she tried not to topple backwards. Straightening up, she heard another noise. It sounded close by. Curious, she edged a little nearer and gasped as tall shapes began to materialize through the mist. Suddenly, a large mass moved and whinnied loudly. It was a shire horse, a huge feather footed beast rearing up its head. She watched as he tossed up his nose, straining at his harness and his tether mate nudged him, trying to calm his nerves. Sylvie could see they were attached to an old dray wagon. Fascinated, she moved closer to the horses. She reached out a hand and patted the soft mane of the nearest horse. It was damp with the fog that clung to everything. She walked around the front of the horses, whispering gently to them, soothing them with her soft voice. Reaching the pavement on the other side where the horses waited, she saw an open trap door under a pub. Sylvie walked around the back of the dray. There was a collection of wooden barrels clustered there, ready to roll away down the lain planks into the cellar below. Confused, Sylvie looked about her for a film crew. She thought maybe it was a set for a costume drama. Maybe these were all props. She patted a barrel; it felt very sturdy, the wood was smooth with age and use, pitted at the edges from its frequent trips from brewery to hostelry.

“Looky here, Wilf -  a lad out for a morning ale!” The sudden sound of the man’s voice made her jump wildly. He came into view, big, coarse and filthy. Sylvie shrank backwards away from him.

“The cheek of it, I tell yer. You can’t leave them barrels a moment before some swine tries to steal ‘em.” He sounded angry.

Sylvie felt confused and looked about her. What lad? There was no boy here. She suddenly realised he meant her - the man had thought she was a boy. Thoughts raced through her mind. She supposed with her short haircut and trousers she did look a bit boyish. But loads of girls wore clothes like hers and they had short hair. She yelped when a hand clenched down hard on her upper arm, gripping it tightly. Before she could react she’d been pulled down the steps and into the cellar of the pub. He pushed her roughly and she landed on the top of a crate; feeling the struts biting into the back of her calves as she landed, she yelped again.

“Ain’t he like a puppy, Bill, whinging and whining – ‘ere lad, what are you doing about in this fog?”

Panic prickled at Sylvie’s temples, she coughed to buy some time. She was not able to understand what was happening to her, where on earth was she?

“Lost,” she squeaked out the small word, it seemed to make sense, as she was indeed very lost.

“Ahh, and you reckoned you would pass the time with a drop of the landlord’s ale did you, eh?” Wilf’s calloused finger prodded her shoulder hard. Sylvie wriggled back across the crate, trying to get away from the jabbing.

“No, of course not,” she pulled her body backwards. Wilf reached out a large hand and grabbed her ankle. He pulled it hard, yanking her towards him.

“Ooh, no, of course not!” he mimicked her sarcastically. Dropping her leg as she came within reach, he grasped the front of her jacket pulling her nearer so she could smell his foul breath where he was now so close.

“You’re a posh one, aren’t you eh? Where do you come from? The manor?” The men both laughed long and hard at this joke.  They wiped their eyes with their dirty sleeves, s****ing all the while. Wilf dropped her then kicked the crate, making Sylvie squeal again.

“Shut up and leave me alone. Please let me go,” the words shot out of Sylvie’s mouth before she could stop them. She quickly realised her mistake.

“You stay where you are, thief.” Wilf bent over her for a better look. His breath smelt of ale and onions. Sylvie tried to move backwards but his strong hands clamped down on her shoulders.

“No you don’t. You just stay ‘ere a minute.”

He looked over at Bill. “I think he’s been out a thieving this morning, what d’you reckon, Bill? He’s taking advantage of the cover of the fog?”

Suddenly Wilf swooped on her bag. “Let’s see what you’ve got in that bag of yours,”  he snarled at her, wrenching the bag away from her shoulders with such force it got stuck on her elbows. As he tugged, the bag freed its straps and flew into his hands; Sylvie tumbled from the crate onto the dusty floor of the cellar. She struggled upwards watching as Wilf’s hands delved inside her bag, scrabbling about in its depths. He first brought out her umbrella, flinging it aside when he spied her purse. She watched in horror as he started to pull out the notes and coins. He turned slowly and looked over at her. She gulped as a deep suspicion spread over his wide and bristly face.

“Who are you, then?” He snapped. “Where’d you get all this money? It looks foreign. French, I’ll bet.” He jangled the coins in his palm. “Hey, come and look at these coins, Bill, funny little things they are.” Wilf bit down on a coin, and howled as a weak tooth gave way on the hard metal. He threw it away in a fury. Sylvie watched the fifty pence piece bounce against a wall. She heard it land on the stone floor, spinning out of sight in the shadows, lost to her. Wilf was now clutching his cheek, his face bore an expression of agony as he poked the broken tooth; it was oozing blood over his lip. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and kicked out at a crate to release his anger. To distract himself from the stabbing pain, he started to look at the bank notes, pulling the paper taut, wrinkling his nose at the other drayman.

“What do you think then, Bill? Where’s it from, can we use it?” Bill took the twenty pound note from Wilf’s hand and sniffed at it like a bloodhound on a trail. Sylvie had only taken the money out of the cash point the previous evening and the notes were still crisp and new, the ink still pungent. Bill held a note up high.

“Smells fresh to me, Wilf. I reckon he’s a printing ‘em off somewhere.”

Wilf spun round so fast Sylvie didn’t even have the time to react. He grabbed her shoulders with flat heavy hands, shaking her so forcefully she felt her teeth rattle. She knew she had to think fast. She had to get out of this place and away from these two scary freaks.

“Where’d you get ‘em lad? Speak up!” Wilf snapped at her, the frothing blood on his face making him look like a rabid dog. “Have you got any more?”

“They’re American!” Sylvie said quickly. She had no idea why she’d said that and she hoped desperately the men would have heard of America.

Both men shrank back from her making identical sounds of awe.

“American!” They breathed out the word in unison. Both men bent over the note and stared at it, almost as if they expected it to glimmer and light up the dark cellar with a transatlantic glow.

“American,” they said again, staring at the note.

Sylvie stood up slowly and quietly, while they continued to gawp at the note. She began to edge away from them. One step at a time, inching towards the steps as slowly as if she were playing creep mouse. When she reached the bottom step she pounded upwards, falling over on her knees by the dray, wincing as her sore hands hit the ground. Sylvie sprang to her feet running wildly into the safety of the fog. She could hear the men’s voices shouting after her, gradually becoming more distant as she ran and ran. Her head was empty now of thought, except escape.

To be continued

Copyright Suzanna Stanbury 2009 - All Rights Reserved