A Vagrant Story Read online

  Rum squinted dryly. “You know, I really don’t care. Other people have to live here too and we’re not all into that comic book crap. The hell is your problem anyway? A big guy like you shouldn’t be into that kiddy stuff. When I saw you first I never figured you for a comic nerd. You seemed a little too psychotic.”

  “That’s just ignorant. Comics aren’t for kids anymore than books or movies. Many comics have been considered too violent for our shores.”

  “You tell him to stop but it just gets worse. I don’t know whether to roll over and go to sleep or put you to sleep.” Rum mumbled under breath, “Weirdo, such a bloody weirdo. Always talking about shit nobody cares about.”

  “They’d do a lot more for our imaginations if more people read them. Many comics contain stories more complex and unique than much of what is brought to our screens and book shelves.”

  “Do you rehearse this stuff or something?”

  “No. It‘s fair to say a large portion of the movies we see are based on comic books alone. I may not be so far off in saying that comic books are the defining entertainment media of our age.”

  “Pretty pictures.”

  “Maybe some people read them for the art but I’ve always read them for the stories. I’ve always been impressed by them as far back as I can remember. I used to be so pulled down by the way our society manufactures books and movies these days that it killed any motivation I had to become a writer. Comics gave me my own way of writing, my own style that could have only been inspired by them. That’s why I started writing in the first place. Without comics I-”

  “You wouldn’t be here,” Rum interrupted.

  ”That’s not the point. They gave me a flare of originality I didn’t feel in the rest of our society. Their creativity is…”

  “Right, it’s creativity, excuse me. Look at this, I’m taking career guidance from a bum.”

  “You’ll never get it. Your deadbeat brain has aged too much I guess.”

  “Quit back talking. An overgrown man-child freak has no place to be back talking.”

  “I gave up caring about the things you call people long ago.”

  The old bum formed a frown. “Quit caring? Of course you care, you’re just one of those people who keep it all inside until you burst, like a true freak.”

  In an effort to shut Rum up, Sierra said, “I guess most of you people really are like that.”

  Alex returned a questioning frown.

  “Writers. You people always seem so closed off you never seem to know what to do when confronted directly. You just hold it all in.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then there’s that other quality they have … how they have to point out how they’re right and everyone else is wrong, and if they’re proven wrong they’ll say you don’t know what you’re talking about and secretly loathe you till they get bored. That’s why you should never put too many writers in the same room. They’re kind of like cats. I guess all artists must be like that to some degree.”

  “Sounds like your confusing writers in general with someone you knew.”

  “My dad … at least my foster dad, my third foster dad. He used to be a writer. His name was John, he used to talk like that a lot, about how our western society is caving at the seams. Stupid stuff now that I think of it but it made me feel kind of dumb at the time. I always get that about writers, they seem to know it all like that.”

  “That why you ran away from him?” Alex asked.

  Rum shuffled as if to smack Alex for the question. He settled once Sierra showed signs of answering.

  “John killed himself. That’s why I left. After Dad number three went bye bye I just gave up looking. I walked out and never went back. Couldn’t really go anywhere else so I ended up here. Wish I were nicer to him now. Everyone else had abandoned him yet I didn’t bat an eye. Too late now … I guess. I was only ten back then. Now I‘m almost twenty and still weeping.”

  “We can hang onto these feelings through all these years … and still the world keeps spinning. Next thing you know the day you figure out how to fix things is years too late,” Alex said.

  Sierra choked her sadness down, forcing out a smile. At once she sprang up from her beer crate seat. “Look at this!” she spoke in raised spirits. “I’ve actually managed to drag you miserable bunch of saps lower than you already are. Maybe it’s time I went out for some air before I pull you any further.” She made for the exit. “Don’t wait up.”

  Chapter 2

  It was one of those nights not really worth sleeping through anyway. Not that it mattered, not like she had any place to be in the morning.

  Sierra went to a pond at the centre of the park, seating along the grassy banks. Lamps brightened the stone path around, their rippling glow settling upon glassy water.

  She had said those things though she tried to restrain herself. Now she found herself perched on cold grass, head bustling with thoughts of a dead man, her foster father, John. She’d withheld the memory so long it flushed free upon a words encouragement. In that moment, she realised the memories never stopped and never really went away. And it burned, knowing what she did to him.

  General coughing and sneezing broke out from the panorama of trees surrounding the pond, sounds of homeless kin sleeping amongst the damp shelter of their bark entwined hostels. Those sounds acted as clear territorial signals to those who knew better, for the odd passer-by they were no more than the howls of mange ridden dogs. The park was a popular hub for castaways, therefore dangerous for all sorts.

  Sierra looked around to address the rustling of a bush.

  An old tramp came stumbling out. His face bore more dents and wrinkles but he was just a little older than Rum. Unapologetically, he plonked down beside her, whiskey bottle cupped in hand. He spoke in a drifting liquored up sort of tone.

  “Nice night for the drink, eh Sierra?”

  She shifted a glance to his greasy face and up-curled side hair. “Not now, Len - sort of busy.”

  “You’re sitting by the pond doing naught. Got your head full of thoughts?”

  “I’m just preoccupied, okay.”

  Len waved the whiskey bottle. “Nothing a nice shot of this can’t fix, moments ago I was ready to jump in this pond, now I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  Sierra figured it a bad idea, speaking to another homeless person while depressed. Jumping into the pond was a bit of a trend around here, and some would jump at the chance to bring another with them. Alcohol tended to shake that ill-spirit, making them reasonably more bearable if not harder to understand. At least this way conversation tended to be slightly less pitiful.

  “Nothing beats a nice warm one on a night like this,” Len continued. “So what are ya doin’ for Christmas?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Same as I always do, Len.”

  “Eh? Then what are ya getting?”

  “Same as I always do Len.”

  “Ah, now I got ya.” He took another sip.

  Despite the mood, she feigned a certain kindness by sealing her lips. At least she hadn’t hit him yet, which was the usual reception for nosy strangers. Not that old Len could be called a stranger. He just wasn’t part of their group.

  Len gasped out a cough, and with it every bad stench one or a few men could have in their gums.

  Sierra fell away with a jump to her feet. “Len! I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to at least skive a stick of gum off someone.”

  “Why gum when you can get food?”

  “Or at least shove a bar of soap in your trap. Christ, vomit would do against that!”

  After a belch he added, “Aw, yer sweet ta say that.” His grasp on reality clearly slipped some.

  She watched the old fool slink calmly backwards. Even as his body limped into slumber he managed to hold the drink without spilling. It was a subconscious trick acquired through habit, so un-conscious he probably didn’t know he could do it. Waste of a trick really, whenever she saw Rum do it he’d just spill it the moment he woke. A
few things about Len reminded her of old Rum. The way he cupped his drink, the brown trench coat which might have once been green, and a grey beard which might have once been young. It was hardly rare to find similarities. Look down any alley and an old Rum lay cradled against the wall. He could hardly be called a trademarked figure, at least on the outside. She knew Rum better than most, better than Alex and Henry knew him. She’d known him long before those two showed up, since she was ten. He would work hard, from time to time, but when failure struck he’d dive back to the bottle – he did try, sometimes. She had clung to him as a sort of father figure, a lousy one under any other circumstance. He did do the trick, even if they did take the piss out of each other.

  It is almost Christmas. Maybe she could get him something this year round. Then again, Alex and Henry would probably want something too. Actually, Alex would probably turn it down and Henry would feel too awkward to ask.

  “It could work,” she thought aloud, as though unable to hear thoughts over Len’s snoring. “John, maybe this year I can make it up to you too.”

  With a nod of farewell, she idled away from Len. Hands tucked into her pockets, she touched the wallet she stole earlier. To distract her thoughts she took it out to appraise its value, which immediately plummeted the moment she noticed the words ‘to daddy from Emma’ stitched into what might have been real leather. The tacky inside compartments cast doubt on any hope of that. She thought it might have been real satin at first but under the pale glow of lamplight she could see straight through the material. Straight through, and inside. There was something hidden inside the wallet, blackening through under the light. “Money … you sneaky man,” Sierra said proudly.

  Without risking too much damage she found the slit used to put it inside. It wasn’t money. It was a piece of paper with words scribbled all over.

  Standing at a halt, she read it word for word. Her fingers tightened the edges of the sheet. Her heart skipped a beat, setting her body into a shiver which prompted her to cease reading. She didn’t need to read all of it. She’d read it all before.

  ***

  Rum, Henry, and Alex waited back in the shack. Rum tucked in closer to the fire in an attempt to catch what pieces of warmth he could. The snow had begun to pick up. It fluttered through their defences, drabbing the flame away. While Rum struggled to hold it, Henry and Alex had retired to their sack like beds.

  Rum held his palms over it as though blocking out the cold. “Will you idiots lean closer? We gotta keep it lit.”

  “It’s gone, Rum. Let it die,” Alex muttered, distant in his attempt to sleep.

  “Quit being a lazy bastard. If we keep it up now we can make it last the night. No point freezing for no good reason.”

  “Just go to sleep and you won’t feel it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. We go to sleep in this cold we won’t wake up.”

  Alex wrapped the blanket around his ears. “Be sure to let us know if we do. If you want a fire tend it yourself. I’m sure there’s some dry sticks outside if you look hard enough.”

  “To hell with that … Blondie can do it when she gets back. Come to think of it, she’s been gone a while.”

  As if in response, Sierra burst in with dramatic flare, before tripping over a beer case seat and landing knee first into Rum’s groin. He released a harrowing roar which consumed the moment.

  Henry stirred awake with weary eyes. “Did something kill Rum?”

  “A little … just a little bit,” Alex replied, sitting up with a grim little smile. It quickly broke into laughter.

  Slouched on knees, the old man cried, “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

  “Quit bitching and look at what I found.”

  To see better, Sierra re-lit the fire by tossing some pocket junk in. She took a piece of paper from her pocket.

  “Good, you found some money. At last some news I’d like to hear,” Rum said prematurely.

  “There’s no money.”

  The old man let his graceful expression fall. He slouched back and folded his arms like a punished child.

  “I found this hidden in the wallet I stole. There’s something else written on it.”

  She passed the note around. From each there came a show of unease, a shrug or an averted head to avoid eye contact. Their reactions hinted of stunted sentiment, yet more so of immediate dismissal. These men hardly held the reins on their emotions. It was a fact apparent on their faces, burned into their eyes as they read that disquieting little note:

  ‘Another day gone and nothing’s changed. Maybe you’ll think I’m dropping this all on you. Truth is, you’re the only one left that might care what happens to me these days … sad as it might be. You know things haven’t been good since my sister died. I’ve been trying to get over what happened to Ann, but it just keeps gnawing at the back of my mind in everything I try do. Some days I can’t even leave my room. With everything that’s happened, there’s no surprise my last bit of money is spent. I can’t pay rent anymore. With all the debt I’ve racked up I think I’ve made more enemies this weak than I’ve made my entire life.

  All my chances are up.

  ‘I went to see that crook Jack Matters. He was in the usual place, that black bookies in one of his buildings around Middle-Park. Thought it might be a good place to discuss my loan. I wanted to give it to him straight. Don’t worry, his goons won’t hassle you and Emma any more. Two days till Christmas and all I had to do in my life was hop a bus cross city to see some old dirty mobster. Figures, I should be alone in my life.

  ‘I guess I don’t have anything left to say … or do anymore. I’d like to ask you to tell Emma I love her, but that might be asking too much. Maybe it’s better she forget about me. Emma deserves a better father. I never want her to know her father was a loser like me. And I know it’s New Year’s Eve, a time for happiness and new beginnings, and I don’t want to drag this down on you.

  But goodbye.

  John.

  XXX’

  When their appraisals ceased, the room paused for time to let it sink in. The silence came accompanied by the blinking of dim-witted eyes.

  The sensitive scene shattered upon Rum’s first word. “Yeah, it’s a New-Year’s suicide note, so what? Plenty of them I’m sure.” Coughing awkwardly, he slouched back to his place.

  Sierra rolled her eyes. “That’s right Rum, I really did expect you of all people to care, because you’re such a softy.”

  “This must be quite strange for you, Sierra,” Alex spoke as if thinking aloud.

  “Tell me about it, it’s strange for all of us,” Rum replied. “But it’s common at this time of year. Happens all the time and it sure as hell ain’t our business.”

  “We find this note on the same night Sierra tells us about her foster father’s suicide, and you don’t see anything in that?”

  “That’s why they’re called coincidences.”

  “Coincidences are cheap and unnoticeable. This is something else.”

  “You talking about some divine plan? Don’t bring up any of that fate crap around me. I don’t buy that shit.”

  “It looks like his,” Sierra said with two bright expressive eyes, the added effect may have been to get on the old man’s nerves or push him toward empathy. “It looks just like my foster father’s note. They even have the same bloody name! It’s like a joke! A sick little joke!”

  “Maybe it means something,” Alex said.

  “It means somewhere up there some sick bearded man on a cloud is going to get a cheap laugh out of us,” Sierra stated.

  “Going to?” Rum asked. “What’s that supposed to mean? Nobody‘s ‘going to‘ do anything about this.”

  “Hate to say it but you did want that second chance, Sierra,” Alex said.

  Rum held up a stern index finger. “Don’t you start. I mean it. Don’t.”

  Alex was right. Sierra figured that after reading the note first. She’d not spoken of her foster father in the longest time. John kil
led himself some thirteen years ago, not long before Christmas. Since then she’d not uttered his name until now. And now another one would fall her way, at this time of year of all times of year.

  “Second chances don’t come easy,” she said as if to herself.

  It didn’t stop Rum from hearing. “Aw shit, she’s got that weird look in her eye.”

  “Rum, you’re not saying you want to leave him are you?” she argued.

  “Leave him? Nah, I’m for the plan that involves us doing as little as possible. Try giving it in to someone if you’re so concerned. Let someone else handle it. The cop shop stays open through New Year. It’s their job to deal with stuff like this.”

  “The cops don’t handle these things. They wouldn’t even be able to find him. There’s no address, not even a second name.”

  “Then what do you expect us to do?” Rum asked.

  She put her head down in deeper thought.

  Alex brought forth a solution. “What about that building he mentions in the note … the one owned by someone called Jack Matters. That mean anything to anyone?”

  “Jack Matters?” Sierra pondered the name. “There … is a place called something like that around here. Whenever I hear any of the other bums talk about debt that name usually follows.”

  “Any idea where it is?” Alex asked.

  “Kind of. Shouldn’t be too hard to find if it’s in the area.”

  “What’s there to find?” Rum said. “According to the note the owner’s a book keeper by day and a loan shark at night. Someone like that ain‘t going to help.”

  “We won’t make a show of it. We’ll just ask if they know who he is and where to contact him. Idle conversation, that’s all.”

  “It’s a small start but it’s something, “Alex added. “He also indicates he lives outside the city centre.”

  “Yeah that sure narrows it down. Christ, what the hell is wrong with you people, why do you even care?”

  “I’ve always thought it’s better to help when you can.”