Furies

At 2.30 pm on the 23rd of April, Oscar came into the city, tripping from the train and out into Liverpool Street station, running before the storm. He knew nothing of the first attack, only 36 hours before in that very place, in front of bemused workmen who stopped briefly to view the spectacle before returning, laughing, back-slapping, to their nocturnal labours; but he knew the shape of what was coming, shifting to readiness beneath the surface of things. It lay revealed in every current of history and in the very form and structure of the land. The tense, fraught choreography was, by now, all too clear. Heavy cloud was massing and Oscar's umbrella had been carelessly left on another train, in another city, weeks or months before. He turned up his collar and set off to find shelter before the torrent struck, his feet sending flocks of chittering hystericals flapping, panicked, skywards before him.

"Back again, Oscar?" Mrs Mulberry did not look pleased, but she was.
   "Obviously." He shed his dripping overcoat and mopped his face with a sleeve. "I shall be here for a while, I think, as I'm needed."
   "I'll say so, my dear, our evenings simply haven't been the same without you. No fun at all."
   "You are too kind." Oscar took a deep and stertorous breath as Mrs Mulberry bustled the coat away, and Derek murmured his own slack-mouthed welcome from his place beside the log-effect gas. The landlady was back in moments.
   "The others are at the hospital with Maisie. Another stroke, worse this time. They say she may not live, but I don't believe it. She'll be back among us in no time, kicking up her heels, you mark my words."
   Oscar knew a lie when he heard one, but knew better than to draw attention to it.
   "Assam, honey, no milk? You see, I always remember." She thrust the little china cup into Oscar's hand and settled on the settee, pouring a fresh one for herself and lifting it by the saucer. "How was Norwich, dear?"
   Oscar sank back into the faded armchair with a sigh, placing a hand on his chest and allowing his ample chin to rest atop it. There was a pause.
   "Grisly," he said finally. "The whole country has become a seething rats' nest. Where it counts, anyway. Expectations are running high and people are believing the silliest things. Nobody knows the full extent of what's coming, but they all feel it. Battle lines are being drawn; they all have their little war to fight. It's out of control.
   "Everyone's making a huge fuss about this wretched book, every two-bit charlatan and half-baked occultist and shady political hustler, they're all out looking for it. There isn't the slightest chance they'll find it, of course -- hell, I've read the wretched thing and even I don't believe it exists -- but it's causing no end of trouble. They're all dreaming of some silly mystical solution to their problems and meanwhile the real story is happening elsewhere. Pass me one of those spice biscuits, won't you?"
   Mrs Mulberry handed him the plate.
   "The rising tide of bitterness and lunacy is just a backdrop to it, a side-effect." He pursed his lips dubiously. "We should let it run its course, really. I mean, it's none of our business."
   Mrs Mulberry nodded agreeably. Oscar was right as always.
   "But somehow we never do."
Posted by matt at October 2, 2003 01:28 AM