Thanks!
- Lena
The seats on the bus were more comfortable than the ones in Chicago, if only marginally so, but she didn’t feel comfortable in them. As she made her way up the narrow winding stairs of the double-decker bus they glared at her with their garish purple brightness. Probably some designer had wanted to make the seats look happier, more welcoming, she thought, but on this dingy January night, they only looked sad and forlorn, the way a Santa suit would look when it’s been worn too many times, or maybe the way your favorite childhood teddy bear looks when you’re thirty.
But she sat anyway, because, while the idea of riding on a London double-decker bus seems wildly appealing at first, no one tells you what a pain-in-the-ass it is to get up those stairs while the thing is moving. Sitting down, she felt her body relax into the seat, let the tiredness melt through her bones, and tried not to think of the hundreds of other people who’d sat in that very same seat before her, or of their germs.
Listening to the words flowing around her, she caught a few snippets of conversation, some in English, commuters heading home for the day, others in languages she couldn’t begin to comprehend. She caught bits of laughter, and thought to herself, ‘Why does laughter in a language you don’t understand always feel so much more derisive?’
Lyssa closed her eyes for a moment, trying to still the voices, and soon they faded to a jumbled roar inside her head, a roar so much easier to ignore than the laughter. Feeling tears build behind her eyes, she opened them, blinking surreptitiously to avoid any excessive displays of emotion. And the first thing she saw when she finally opened them was a skeleton.
The bare tree stood just outside the window, naked limbs and bony fingers reaching for the sky.
Lit by the yellow light of the lamp post, it looked eerily like the massive skeleton of some creature whose spirit had departed long ago, or perhaps like an abandoned spiderweb. A rustle of paper brought her back to reality as she looked sullenly downward, at the bags sitting heavily with her feet, jammed to overflowing with cotton and polyester, creaking leather boots waiting to be broken in, and ballet flats of dubious quality. She anticipated dragging them home from the bus with some dread, knowing that the four-flight trip up the stairs to her room would be less than pleasurable. But looking down just then, the bags felt empty. There wasn’t anything in them that truly mattered; just material, cloth that would be in a dumpster or decorating a consignment shop hanger a year from now.
She’d been up and down Oxford Street all day, meandering into stores hung with banners that declared “SALE 70% OFF!!!!,” and trying not to get crushed in the crowd. Now she was finally on her way home, and the darkness that fell early during the winter seemed haunted somehow.
This was not the London she’d come to see. She remembered staying up late, reading guidebooks until the sun rose. She remembered dreaming of the Tower. She’d marveled at its history, the millennia-old complex that had stood guard over London since the time when it was only a Roman trading outpost, since 64 a.d. She’d wanted to see the place that had so much of London wrapped up in it, that held the ghosts of history, that had housed royals and been the home of hope and tragedy.
And instead she’d only encountered a centuries-old tourist trap, where silly Americans bought over-priced souvenirs and went to look at the collection of shiny rocks that was the crown jewels. Anger coloured her cheeks as she thought about it. Didn’t they know that there was so much more? She’d come for the history, to see the bones of a city that had existed for thousands of years, to feel small in the presence of something great. And she’d come to find …. something, although she didn’t quite know what it was yet.
So far, the London she’d seen had been one hopelessly shrouded in tourism, one that held only shiny baubles for the easily distracted, but she couldn’t help hoping that all the glitter hid a soul.
Looking up, she saw that she was still quite a few blocks away from her destination, and feeling the tiredness of her day wash over her again, she leaned back, placing her head against the hard plastic of the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment.
And upon opening them, realized she was in darkness. Sitting up, dread filled her as she sensed the kinks in her neck and back. She’d only closed her eyes for a moment, but the pains told her she’d been asleep for hours. Panic trickled down her spine like cold water, and her breathing came fast and shallow as she realized that she’d not only overslept her stop, but that she was entirely alone on the bus. The comforting breathing of the slightly portly man beside her was gone, as was the derisive laughter and the conversation. The air was still and dark, and the only sound she could hear was that of her own breathing, loud and ragged in the silence. Briefly, she noticed that she no longer had her shopping bags with her, but this worried her much less than the fact that she didn’t have the slightest clue where she was. Rising from the seat, with the accompanying pains of her legs having fallen asleep and the kinks in back, she grabbed her purse and stumbled down the bus’s staircase, falling outward onto the street. The streetlights were, oddly, unlit, but the moon presented a buttery glow, so she had enough light to see the abandoned street.
Her lungs filled with panic once more as she realized that the street, like the bus, was completely empty, with not a soul in sight. Leaning against the cold stone of a nearby building, she allowed it to support her as her knees collapsed and the tears began to flow down her face.
After a few minutes of crying sense returned to her, and, of course, sensation finally returned to her legs, allowing her to stand and move on. She had, by this point, realized that she needed to find a way home, or find someone who could help her get home, and that leaning against a cold building in the dark wasn’t a particularly practical way to do this. Taking one last deep breath, straightening her clothes, which had been somewhat disarrayed in the stumble, and settling her purse across her shoulders, she set off down the street, and tried to look confident, for all she hoped there wasn’t anyone watching.
*****
Leaning up against another building, she pulled up one foot and then the other, massaging them tenderly, and sending up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be bleeding before this little escapade was over. She also wished she’d chosen the sneakers that morning instead of the boots with the cute little heel, but her bed was made and she had to sleep in it, so to speak. As soon as the thought traversed her mind, however, she regretted it, as it only reminded her of an ardent desire to find her bed and sleep. After allowing herself one deep sigh, she closed her eyes for a moment, and pushed off the building.
Her heels clicked in the still air and for a while it was the only sound she heard.
When she did hear the distant clanging, she thought it was only in her head, at least at first. But as they got slowly louder, she finally recognized them for signs of life, and ran with all the relief of salvation toward the noise, because while the sounds were not particularly comforting, noise meant people, and any kind of people would’ve been a relief at that point.
Running as fast as she could, regardless of the pain in her cramped toes, she could hear it with increasing detail, hear clangs and bangs and odd scrapes. Lyssa wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but now an intense curiosity mingled with her desire to see a human face.
Finally, she was close enough to see a slight glow emanating from the region of noise. Just another block, she told herself, and only allowed herself to pause at the end of it. Her eyes widened with surprise, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the source of the noise and light that had been her goal, which she swiftly realized, had nothing to do with humanity at all.
Mannequins spilled into the center of the street, scraping and kicking and beating at each other with wild abandon, with a vicious passion that she’d never even thought the slender, supercilious oversized dolls possessed. But there they were, bashing at each other, blank eyes glaring.
The parties were clearly divided, and the same mannequins who’d posed in windows hours early as she walked by, vengefully attacked their neighbors. The mannequins formerly in the windows of Selfridges, decked out in silver leggings, with delicate white Greco-Roman tunics and silky pale gowns, which had been topped for some reason with chain mail helmets did fierce battle with the warriors from House of Fraser. She’d wondered about the helmets earlier and figured they were just for decoration, but now she knew better.
The Fraserians, far more intimidating in their red and black war attire than the flimsily clad Selfridges, were still taking quite a beating, due primarily to the fact that the Selfridge mannequins had been posed with long staffs of fluorescent light and were now using them to great avail. Nonetheless, the Fraserians took every opportunity to flail with their long slim limbs (which were surprisingly lithe for being made out of plaster), scratching and kicking at the Selfridges, taking advantage of their loose flowing clothing in every way possible. The moon observed all, making the plaster limbs shimmer in the moonlight, glinting off of hardened, plaster eyes, and giving the entire show an appearance of cruelty.
Ripped shreds of designer fabric and chips of plaster decked the street around the battle, and
Lyssa watched fascinated. Finally, she knew why the mannequins you see in windows all the time are chipped, at least if this is what all of them do at night. She began to giggle slightly to herself, morose hysteria turning into disbelief.
‘Maybe this is all some freaky dream?’ she thought to herself.
She was so wrapped up by watching the mêlée that she didn’t hear footsteps behind her, in fact didn’t notice anything other than the spectacle before her until she felt a hand grip her upper right arm with a viselike strength. About to scream for help (although she had no idea if there even was anyone to hear her, much less help her, seeing as the mannequins didn’t have ears), she felt a hand clamp over her mouth. Squealing and kicking to no avail, she found herself being dragged out of the street and into a side alley regardless of her protests.
After being dropped somewhat unceremoniously against one of the walls of the alleyway she felt the grip on her arm release, and the hand clamping down her mouth finally left her at liberty to squeal, should she have any more desire to do so. Swiftly drawing breath for a fresh volley of screams, she was forced to pause when she heard the angry scolding pouring out of her kidnapper.
“What the HELL did you think you were doing?!!! Stupid, stupid girl. There isn’t always going to BE someone there to rescue you. THAT was a dumb FUCKING move!!!! Do you know what would’ve happened if they’d seen you?!!”
His voice would otherwise have been a pleasant tenor, but cracked under force of outrage. He finally seemed to have run out of breath, but by the time words had stopped pouring out of him, she didn’t really have any desire to scream anymore.
Now, actually, she was a bit afraid to venture a statement, lest it provoke an even stronger response from this man, who apparently thought himself to be her rescuer.
‘He’s probably deranged,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘But I don’t think he wants to hurt me.’
Out loud, she said, in what she thought was her most soothing voice, the kind of voice therapists on TV usually use, she said, ‘Ummmm, thank you very much for your help, …. Sir.’
Looking him up and down, she belatedly realized that the ‘sir’ might have been unnecessary.
Ripped jeans that were perhaps once blue but now resembled something of a smoggy grey covered his legs, did not quite conceal worn, busted tennis shoes, through which several ungainly, dirty toes protruded. She briefly wondered if his feet got cold before her eyes moved up his frame to find an equally grimy leather jacket, one which seemed as old as she was, covering a tatty old t-shirt of indistinguishable colour, which seemed to have some sort of Smurf designed onto it. Even with the smurf thrown in, he definitely looked like the kind of guy you’d give a wide berth to on the underground, if only because of his smell. His dark hair was shaggy and clearly hadn’t seen brushing in weeks. His face was unshaven with a kind of scraggly undergrowth, but his eyes were clear blue, and the only thing about his that seemed even vaguely reminiscent of cleanliness.
“Sir,” he smirked. “That’s hilarious, kid. Where you from, Princess?”
She ran her fingers through her hair, almost instinctively, before answering.
“Chicago,” she said, as quietly as she could and still have him hear her.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know where that is, but it doesn’t matter around here. And you’re going to have to toughen up a whole lot if you want to survive.”
And with those sweet parting words, he turned on his extremely dirty heel and walked away, more swiftly than she would have thought possible, considering the state his shoes were in.
She had just enough of her wits about her to get up and follow after.
“Wait, you can’t just … leave me here …” she panted, after having made a significant effort to catch up. “You … haven’t told me … anything … yet.”
“You didn’t ask, did you?” he sneered.
“Fine then,” she snarled back angrily. “I’m asking now.”
“Asking what?”
“What is this place? And why were those mannequins fighting? And why did you pull me away from them? And how do I get to the nearest underground stop?” The words poured out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them.
“One question at a time,” he replied.
Taking a deep breath, she chose the first one that came to her tongue.
“Why were those mannequins fighting?”
His mouth quirked up, and somehow even his smile looked a bit grimy.
“No answers without payment,” he stated, and the words came out solemn despite the smile.
She glared at him, before turning away to dig around in her purse. After all, there didn’t seem to be anyone else around willing to divulge any information. Finally, scraping the bottom of her bag, she dragged out a pound coin. Holding it up in the minimal light of the alleyway, she asked, “Will this do?”
“No, darling,” he replied slickly. “I don’t want your money. It’s no good here anyway. I want …..”
He paused, eyes slipping up and down her person in the darkness, and for the first time since she had woken up on that God-forsaken bus, she genuinely felt in danger.
“I want …,” he continued, still smiling. “This.”
He laid his filthy fingers on her coat and began to pull, hard.
Before she could scream or try to run, he held up his prize, whirling her bottom coat button between his fingers.
“This should do for an answer or two,” he said, as the shiny black button disappeared into some mysterious crevice in his jacket.
Adopting a more businesslike persona, he began to answer her question.
“The mannequin wars have been raging for decades. The Knights of Selfridge and the House of Fraser battle on a daily basis, and while the Dukes of Harrods usually hold themselves above the melee, they will occasionally burst in with an ambush. Normally, they only fight each other, but if anyone, like you perhaps, catches their attention, they have no problem defending their territory against outside attackers,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“And those ‘attackers’ usually end up splattered on the street,” he added for emphasis, as though she hadn’t gotten the point already.
Her curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn’t help asking, “Why did you pull me away from them?”
He laughed, and she knew that he was going to lie.
“Because I don’t like seeing pretty little girls splattered all over the sidewalk. Is that good enough for you?” he asked.
“No,” she answered honestly. “But that’s all right. I paid for answers, not for truth. What is this place?”
“You’ve only paid me for two answers, sweetheart,” he replied. “If you want another one, it’s going to cost you extra.”
“Fine, thief,” she grumbled, reaching down to pull another button from her coat.
After wrestling with her coat, which was, unfortunately, rather well put together, she finally came up with another button. She offered it to him, resignedly looking up at him, and the round, black plastic disc sat in the center of her palm.
“Don’t want that now,” he muttered under his breath, and before she could react, he reached down and kissed her solidly on the mouth.
He was gone before she could push him away, running away from her significantly faster than she could run to catch up, particularly on the cobblestoned streets that were now underfoot.
As he ran, he shouted her answer back at her. She had, after all, paid for it.
“Your question’s easy. You are in the Underground.”
She could hear the echoes of his laughter as he got farther away. Great, not only had that creepy guy kissed her (although his breath had been surprisingly minty) and stolen a button from her favorite coat, but she still had no idea where she was. The Underground. Some help that was. Cheeky bastard had the nerve to kiss her and then give her that stupid answer.
Besides, she knew she wasn’t in the Underground, because she was aboveground. She could look up and see the sky. In fact, she wished she were in the underground, because then at least she’d have a way to get home. She still didn’t know where she was, although, after the fighting mannequins, she had to concede the point that she wasn’t exactly in London anymore. She sighed, shoved her button into her pocket and continued plodding onward.
She didn’t remember where she’d heard it, but she’d heard the saying before, that when you’re lost, the only way to go is forward. At the time when she’d heard it, she’d thought it was stupid, seeing as going forward would generally only get you more lost, but it seemed to make sense now, as staying put wouldn’t help her in the least, and going back would only get her attacked by a mob of plaster dummies. Besides, if she was moving she might be able to find an actual tube station, get on the real underground and go home.
******
She didn’t know where she was going, but she kept her eyes focused on the streets before her, in hopes that something, or someone, might be able to help her with her predicament. Keeping her eyes forward, she didn’t notice the puddle that was underfoot until she stepped in it.
“Shit!” she yelled, cringing as she felt the water seep into her boot, and heard her voice echo through the alley.
She paused and looked around, because at the same time she’d shouted, she’d heard another voice underneath hers, yelling something that sounded a lot like, “OUCH!!”
Looking around, she didn’t see anyone, and swiftly convinced herself that it had been her imagination. She went to lean against the wall, trying to get as much wet off of her boot as possible before continuing on.
And then the voice spoke again.
“You’re not even going to apologize, are you? Typical.”
It sounded young and kind of whiny, but regardless of how whiny disembodied voices are, they’re still kind of intimidating.
“Who said that?” her voice echoed again.
“You people … You don’t even know who I am. No consideration for anyone but yourselves.”
Now she was offended.
“You don’t even know me. For your information, I am usually a very considerate person,” she huffed back, unsure of what to say, or even why she was defending herself to someone she couldn’t even see.
“Yeah, well, if you’re so considerate, why don’t you apologize then?” he (it sounded like a he) asked.
“I would, if I knew where you are,” she sneered.
“You do know where I am. After all, you did step in me,” the disembodied voice answered, more offended now than it had been before.
Her eyes widened as she returned to the center of the alley and looked down. There indeed, the puddle she had stepped in had seemed to form lips, and it looked like it was crying (although she couldn’t satisfactorily explain to herself how a puddle could cry).
She didn’t know what else to say, other than: “I’m very sorry and I didn’t mean to hurt you.” (she still felt quite odd apologizing to a puddle though)
“Well, that’s better,” the puddle replied, somewhat mollified.
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