The mist stirred as a light breeze blew up the alleyway moving the moist air in its path. At the far end of the darkened alley a lump of humanity was huddled against the cold, discernible now and again by the quiet noises she (for it was indeed female), made. The shivering of the being had nothing to do with the cold and was more a reaction against the intake of considerable amounts of alcohol and drugs. But the mist did not care and it swirled regardless.
Charlie Wallace had walked this path for a few years now because it was the most direct route home. He worked as a Janitor in a newspaper boiler-house. He tended the machines until the night crew came in to print the early editions and the hours suited.
Darkened streets held no fear for him. He was a figure of the night, for Charlie the night and the dark had become part of life. At night he could walk free from taunts and jeers from other people and go his way without the need to cover his face.
In years past Charlie had been a hard worker. He had stood on the slippery decks of oil-rigs and wrestled with cables and chains as the wicked seas battered the puny object in this most un-natural of places. He stood fast against all weathers whilst his masters had begged for more and Charlie made sure that they got their oil and they had paid him well for his efforts.
When the rig had needed repairs they gave him time off to visit his wife back in London and he had journeyed from the hellish waters of the North Sea to his home.
Perhaps he should have called first. Perhaps he should have knocked. Perhaps he should have given his wife the benefit of the doubt. Charlie did none of these things, he had wanted only to get home and climb into bed and into the arms of his loved one. What he most certainly did not want was to find her in the arms of another; in his own bed.
The lighted oil-lamp he had picked up spilled the volatile liquid over his hand and ran down his arms as he held it aloft above his head. It dripped onto his hair and ran down his face blurring his vision as it mixed with the tears in his eyes.
Doctors thought he would not survive. Experts had reasoned that such disfigurement would need years to recover. The burns to his face had attracted Professionals but most others had shied away and continued to do so. Now Charlie kept to the dark places where none could see him.
The figure that lay huddled and whimpering in the alley stirred with the restlessness that alcohol can bring and it attracted the attention of another that was abroad during those late hours. Rats scurried away from their foraging as he approached. The tramp was dirty and smelled bad through lack of the usual hygiene that civil people hold dear.
In a City there are those that prey upon others, they beg and steal and take what comes where they can because they are safe in the knowledge that the City does not care. The City will blaze with light on the outside whilst underneath and behind the facade it holds its own to its breast and allows them to grasp at the dregs that pass through.
The tramp stumbled and shuffled through the pile of split sacks, cardboard boxes and debris until he unearthed the figure of the drunk. A leering smile crossed his lips as he discerned the full figure of a woman. In the gloom his hands quickly frisked the body and he looked about as best he could for any handbag or coat that might be nearby and perhaps would contain money. Nothing forthcoming he turned his attention back to the body and he began to touch. His loins stirred as his fingers probed and he uttered a guttural, primeval grunt as his desires gave in to the lust in his heart.
Charlie froze and cocked an ear. Someone was near, though the darkness kept its secret from him. He listened. He reached into his pocket to find the torch that he kept about him. He liked to have a torch; shining it into the eyes of those that demanded information from him gave him an edge in a dog eat dog world. He slowly drew his hand from his pocket and tried to locate the exact spot where the sound came from before aiming it and switching it on.
The flood of light illuminated the tableau. The tramp had raised the skirt of the girl and with one hand his fingers, thick and dirty, groped and probed as he let his lust take hold.
The now half-conscious girl stirred and writhed beneath him and though she tried in vain to wriggle free he had her trapped by his weight on her legs.
He had seen enough and his reaction was instant. He lashed out and caught the tramp across the temple with a blow that would have felled an ox. The wretched man passed out instantly and fell sideways while the girl, now almost fully roused pulled herself free. In her brainless state the girl staggered and stumbled as Charlie helped her to up. She giggled a little when he put an arm around her and she tried to put an arm around his neck then she cried some before vomiting.
It would do no good to leave her here so he took her home. It was small flat but he kept it clean and tidy and it suited his simple life. The girl was light and he had no trouble carrying her up the three flights. He dropped her onto his bed and left a bowl on the floor. She slept uneasily but eventually the whimpering stopped along with the shivering and Charlie made himself as comfortable as he could on a well-worn sofa.
The need to pee woke her as the dawn broke. Looking about her confused her addled brain but, ever game for something new, she stood up and went in search of a bathroom. It was the next door and she gratefully sat. The mirror above the cracked sink gave her a shock as she stared at the wreck that stared back. Her face was dirty and scratched and the few clothes she wore had been torn and bore the remains of the vomiting she had done the night before. She stripped, then washed herself and her dress and panties. A big dressing-gown hung on the door and she pulled it around her before opening the door and heading out to find out more about this place.
Before falling asleep Charlie had prayed. Something he did every night. He had read a few verses from his Bible and then pulled the blanket over him and fallen asleep. He slept well but had been awakened by the movements of the girl and as she entered the room he became fearful that his disfigurement might scare her. He mouthed his concern and the girl had agreed not to turn on the light though not without a hint of curiosity. She sat in an old armchair and they talked.
Charlie gave his story and then listened to hers. He learned that she was not homeless, she was just hell-bent on having a good time. The state he had found her in was nothing new, it had happened before and on occasion it had turned out worse. She had money and she had a flat but she had not been there for a while. An orphan from the age of seven she had been searching for someone to love. She liked to meet people and she liked men to like her and many of them did, but it was strange that not many of them came back. Another party, another day. More people to meet, more people to make use of her. And she knew what she was and she knew no way out.
And that is when Charlie gave her something. He gave her a way out. Nothing tangible that she could keep and hold and look at. He gave her a thought to nurture. Something to dwell on and return to when times looked bleak. Charlie became the Good Samaritan.
From that moment the Light glimmered and she saw his face and she saw how much love it held and she in turn gave a cry of anguish that he should be so kind to a worthless stranger. Charlie did not see it that way, he was just doing what anyone would have done to help a poor soul. He was also grateful that she had not screamed when she saw the extent of his hideous facial wounds.
He had prepared a simple breakfast of toast and butter and lots of tea to follow and they ate and talked while she sewed the torn dress as best she could, until noon.
He would not accept thanks. He wanted only for the Message to stay with her. It had comforted him in times of trouble and he was sure it would comfort her, if she let it.
All he was doing, he said, was switching on a light.
...
I will never forget Charlie.
Charlie Wallace had walked this path for a few years now because it was the most direct route home. He worked as a Janitor in a newspaper boiler-house. He tended the machines until the night crew came in to print the early editions and the hours suited.
Darkened streets held no fear for him. He was a figure of the night, for Charlie the night and the dark had become part of life. At night he could walk free from taunts and jeers from other people and go his way without the need to cover his face.
In years past Charlie had been a hard worker. He had stood on the slippery decks of oil-rigs and wrestled with cables and chains as the wicked seas battered the puny object in this most un-natural of places. He stood fast against all weathers whilst his masters had begged for more and Charlie made sure that they got their oil and they had paid him well for his efforts.
When the rig had needed repairs they gave him time off to visit his wife back in London and he had journeyed from the hellish waters of the North Sea to his home.
Perhaps he should have called first. Perhaps he should have knocked. Perhaps he should have given his wife the benefit of the doubt. Charlie did none of these things, he had wanted only to get home and climb into bed and into the arms of his loved one. What he most certainly did not want was to find her in the arms of another; in his own bed.
The lighted oil-lamp he had picked up spilled the volatile liquid over his hand and ran down his arms as he held it aloft above his head. It dripped onto his hair and ran down his face blurring his vision as it mixed with the tears in his eyes.
Doctors thought he would not survive. Experts had reasoned that such disfigurement would need years to recover. The burns to his face had attracted Professionals but most others had shied away and continued to do so. Now Charlie kept to the dark places where none could see him.
The figure that lay huddled and whimpering in the alley stirred with the restlessness that alcohol can bring and it attracted the attention of another that was abroad during those late hours. Rats scurried away from their foraging as he approached. The tramp was dirty and smelled bad through lack of the usual hygiene that civil people hold dear.
In a City there are those that prey upon others, they beg and steal and take what comes where they can because they are safe in the knowledge that the City does not care. The City will blaze with light on the outside whilst underneath and behind the facade it holds its own to its breast and allows them to grasp at the dregs that pass through.
The tramp stumbled and shuffled through the pile of split sacks, cardboard boxes and debris until he unearthed the figure of the drunk. A leering smile crossed his lips as he discerned the full figure of a woman. In the gloom his hands quickly frisked the body and he looked about as best he could for any handbag or coat that might be nearby and perhaps would contain money. Nothing forthcoming he turned his attention back to the body and he began to touch. His loins stirred as his fingers probed and he uttered a guttural, primeval grunt as his desires gave in to the lust in his heart.
Charlie froze and cocked an ear. Someone was near, though the darkness kept its secret from him. He listened. He reached into his pocket to find the torch that he kept about him. He liked to have a torch; shining it into the eyes of those that demanded information from him gave him an edge in a dog eat dog world. He slowly drew his hand from his pocket and tried to locate the exact spot where the sound came from before aiming it and switching it on.
The flood of light illuminated the tableau. The tramp had raised the skirt of the girl and with one hand his fingers, thick and dirty, groped and probed as he let his lust take hold.
The now half-conscious girl stirred and writhed beneath him and though she tried in vain to wriggle free he had her trapped by his weight on her legs.
He had seen enough and his reaction was instant. He lashed out and caught the tramp across the temple with a blow that would have felled an ox. The wretched man passed out instantly and fell sideways while the girl, now almost fully roused pulled herself free. In her brainless state the girl staggered and stumbled as Charlie helped her to up. She giggled a little when he put an arm around her and she tried to put an arm around his neck then she cried some before vomiting.
It would do no good to leave her here so he took her home. It was small flat but he kept it clean and tidy and it suited his simple life. The girl was light and he had no trouble carrying her up the three flights. He dropped her onto his bed and left a bowl on the floor. She slept uneasily but eventually the whimpering stopped along with the shivering and Charlie made himself as comfortable as he could on a well-worn sofa.
The need to pee woke her as the dawn broke. Looking about her confused her addled brain but, ever game for something new, she stood up and went in search of a bathroom. It was the next door and she gratefully sat. The mirror above the cracked sink gave her a shock as she stared at the wreck that stared back. Her face was dirty and scratched and the few clothes she wore had been torn and bore the remains of the vomiting she had done the night before. She stripped, then washed herself and her dress and panties. A big dressing-gown hung on the door and she pulled it around her before opening the door and heading out to find out more about this place.
Before falling asleep Charlie had prayed. Something he did every night. He had read a few verses from his Bible and then pulled the blanket over him and fallen asleep. He slept well but had been awakened by the movements of the girl and as she entered the room he became fearful that his disfigurement might scare her. He mouthed his concern and the girl had agreed not to turn on the light though not without a hint of curiosity. She sat in an old armchair and they talked.
Charlie gave his story and then listened to hers. He learned that she was not homeless, she was just hell-bent on having a good time. The state he had found her in was nothing new, it had happened before and on occasion it had turned out worse. She had money and she had a flat but she had not been there for a while. An orphan from the age of seven she had been searching for someone to love. She liked to meet people and she liked men to like her and many of them did, but it was strange that not many of them came back. Another party, another day. More people to meet, more people to make use of her. And she knew what she was and she knew no way out.
And that is when Charlie gave her something. He gave her a way out. Nothing tangible that she could keep and hold and look at. He gave her a thought to nurture. Something to dwell on and return to when times looked bleak. Charlie became the Good Samaritan.
From that moment the Light glimmered and she saw his face and she saw how much love it held and she in turn gave a cry of anguish that he should be so kind to a worthless stranger. Charlie did not see it that way, he was just doing what anyone would have done to help a poor soul. He was also grateful that she had not screamed when she saw the extent of his hideous facial wounds.
He had prepared a simple breakfast of toast and butter and lots of tea to follow and they ate and talked while she sewed the torn dress as best she could, until noon.
He would not accept thanks. He wanted only for the Message to stay with her. It had comforted him in times of trouble and he was sure it would comfort her, if she let it.
All he was doing, he said, was switching on a light.
...
I will never forget Charlie.
1 comment:
Beautiful.
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