Sapphire Wings

Chapter 1 �“ Cry Boy, Cry

Sound the bugle now || play it just for me
As the seasons change || remember how I used to be


Night. Dark Alley. Raining.

I should have been home ages ago. Not that it matters much. Mum and Dad won’t be back from their nine-to-whenever jobs any time soon and Cedrick doesn’t really understand the meaning of babysitting. His mind is just on the money and the amount of “booze” he can buy with his paycheck. Anyway, I don’t need a babysitter.

I need to get out of this alley. It’s giving me the creeps, and plus, I keep tripping over trash cans. And there’s that little problem of this being an East End alleyway and the fact that since I can’t see anything at all, those trash cans could easily be dead bodies.

There’s a cold mist in the air. Probably something to do with the rain, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like rain-mist. It clings to my skin and gives me goose bumps. And it’s not really cold, not physically, but it makes me feel like I’ve been chilled to the bone. I turn left at the end of the alley and enter a wide, completely deserted road. There’s only one streetlamp on it, and its bulb is flickering despondently. A few cars are parked in front of shabby-looking homes. Somewhere in the night, a dog barks. This first word that comes to my mind as I glance down the street is “shady”. Almost instinctively, I stuff my hands into my pockets and hunch over, trying to look smaller than I am, and pray that no hooligan will peak out from his window, spot me, and decide I look like good mugging-material.

And then I spot it. Right where I saw one last time. The same? Different? Am I losing my mind? This is the reason I have come to this crooked neighborhood during the dead of night. A large, floating, slinking thing, a black, dark creature, a creature that spreads cold and fear and makes the night darker than usual. It makes strange rattling noises, and is faceless as far as I can see. I have never been up-close to one. Ever. Wouldn’t want to be. Get within thirty meters of them and suddenly you’re gripped with a feeling �“ something that scared the pee out of me the first time I felt it. I almost fainted on the spot. The cold, something that makes you feel like dead hands are snaking around your neck and just asking for an excuse to squeeze.

I leap behind the nearest tree, crouch down, my knees quaking and my teeth chattering. I’m scared and cold, but for the love of God, I cannot make myself turn back and run �“ the thing, the creature attracts me like a magnet. I can’t get any closer to it than I am, but I can’t flee either. My brain cries out warnings, my legs just ignore them. Like noticing there’s been a pileup of cars on the road you’re walking down. You don’t want to look, don’t want to see it, but oh, how can you not look?

I peer out from behind my tree. The creature is floating, gliding down the street. It sucks and rattles and because the street is so silent, I can hear its noises clearly. The flickering streetlamp goes out. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand on end. This has never happened before. And then, as quick as a snap, the street is bathed in darkness. The bit of light that had been coming from the moon and the stars �“ gone. My heart skips two beats in a row. Time to leave! screams my mind, and for once, my legs agree.

I spring up, and run back into the alley I just came from. Trip over two trash cans, get up again, knees skinned, palms bruised from trying to break my fall. Keep running. My breath comes in gasps, and then �“ out on another street, this one lit with another lonely, flickering street light, but who cares? It’s light, light, precious, wonderful light! I want to kiss the tarmac. I don’t. Instead, in a moment of regrettable insanity, I run down the empty street, and whoop my heart out, my eyes closed and my hands in the air.

And then I slam into someone. My eyes fly open, and I freeze in mid-whoop and mid-jump, my hands still punching air, and think, Damn. Because I recognize the gorilla-proportioned kid I’ve bumped into �“ his name is Jack Eton. He goes to my school and he doesn’t particularly like me. In fact, I think it’s safe to say he hates me.

He stares down at me for a moment, as surprised to see me, as I am to see him, here in the middle of the East End. Both of us live on the richer side of the East End. I’m here to find my creature… and Eton? There’s only one thing Eton could be here to do.

‘I’ve been looking for you, mate!’ he says, smiling viciously. He grinds his right fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘I expected to have to look long and hard to find you, but look at this: you’ve found me!'

Eton, though unfortunately sized, and cursed with the looks of your average idiot, isn’t stupid. He’s clever, calculating, ruthless and unforgiving. He has a gentleman’s accent and speaks charmingly and kindly �“ when he’s in the presence of adults or people he’s buttering up. The Eton I know retains his gentleman’s voice, but has never spoken a charming word to me. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t read too much into that fact, since our meetings don’t involve much chit-chat.

From behind him steps his number one crony, a lovely strawberry-blond haired girl named Patience. Tall and slim, she looks like a model out of a magazine with a perfect face and a big Hollywood smile. Why she would go for a guy like Eton is beyond me. Why she would lower herself to being Eton’s crony is a mystery. She could be anyone, anything… but she chooses to be a bully.

Eton’s tired of standing around. He grabs at me with a hand that could be mistaken for a baboon’s, but for once, I’m too fast for him. I duck; he grabs air, and roars in frustration, ‘O’BRIEN!’ I spin around and begin to run down the street. It is fairly level for a while, but before I know it, the road has dipped into a practically vertical descent. I gasp, try to balance myself on the slant, but slip on the rain-soaked street. My shoe catches on an uneven bit of tar and that’s it. In a matter of seconds, I’m down. Rolling, rolling, rolling. Everything aching. Grunts escape my throat as I slam repeatedly into the road and the air bursts from my lungs. I’m dead. I know. I’m as good as dead.

As suddenly as it started, it’s over. I don’t even remember stopping. I’m just there, at the bottom of the road, lying on my back, staring up at the star-strewn sky, raindrops falling onto my face, leaving the skin tingling as they slide down my cheeks.

‘THERE!’ Patience.

I hear their footsteps, make a last ditch effort to get up and run, but it’s not happening, no way, I’m completely winded and the shot at movement leaves me dizzy. A heartbeat later, they are upon me. Fists, two pairs of fists, attacking every part of me, beating, beating, beating. Kicking sometimes, when they tire of the fists, just plain old pounding the hell out of me. I don’t know how long it takes for me to blackout. Feels like years, but maybe it is only a second or two before the edges of my vision darken. I breathe a sigh of relief �“ at least I won’t feel the pain any longer, but after so many beatings Eton’s come to recognize my actions and expressions so when I sigh, he quickly increases his onslaught. Something explodes into my throat and then �“ nothing.

**

‘Conner, hey, Conner.’

Shaking. Someone’s shaking me. I open my eyes, but it’s harder than usual, as if something has been crusted over my eyelids. It’s morning. The only reason I know that is because it’s a dull gray sky, and not a blue-black cloak of darkness that I see. Thick clouds coat the heavens. Snow… or rain maybe. Wasn’t it just raining last night?

Last night.

Everything comes rushing back to me with a suddenness that leaves my head aching. My vision blurs abruptly and I have to close my eyes to stop a wave of nausea that threatens to engulf me.

‘You okay?’

No, you complete moron, I am not okay. I open my eyes again and stare up at the person kneeling over me, working to bring the face into focus.

‘Hey,’ he says, smiling when he sees me looking at him. I know the face. Dimitri. Dimitri… something. An East Ender. A cockney, I suppose, but not a Cockney. Something about not being born within the sounds of Bow Bells.

‘What happened to you mate?’

I was at a tea party.

‘Eton and Patience,’ I mutter. I try to sit up, but as soon as do, something warm and thick surges into my throat. I gasp (a mistake) and immediately start coughing violently. Dimitri reacts quickly and grabs my shoulders, turning me over so that my face is towards the tar-coated street. The nausea I was feeling earlier evolves into full-blown vomiting. I struggle to hold myself up, even as my stomach contracts, pressing my palms against the hard road, but my arms and legs are shaking violently. Dimitri keeps a strong grip on my shoulders.

By the time I’m finished, I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering. Dimitri helps me to my feet, leads me away from the sick. It’s laced with blood. A lot of it. We sit down on the edge of the road (much safer than dead center) and Dimitri pats my shoulder, not at all awkwardly.

It’s drizzling, but my face is wet with more than rain. I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop. I put my head in my arms, not wanting Dimitri to see, but of course, he probably knows. He’s sitting right next to me, and I’m not exactly being quite. I can’t help it.

‘It’s alright, mate,’ he says quietly, squeezing my shoulders reassuringly.

I hiccup.

‘Why are they after you?’ Dimitri says after a moment. ‘What have you done?’

If I knew the answer to that, all my problems would be solved. Instead of replying I wipe my face with the front of my shirt. It doesn’t do much good; my shirt, I realize, is caked with blood. Probably from my nose. I settle for using my hands and as I wipe away salty tears and smeared blood, I notice my arms are covered in blue-black and yellow bruises. As I stare at them, my entire body begins to ache again, and it feels like someone has set a boulder on my shoulders. I just want to go to sleep. But the thing is, the bruises, the aches and pains, aren’t really that bad. Not as bad as they could be. I wonder why I blacked out. Maybe a blow to the head…

Dimitri notices my inspection and grimaces slightly. The hand of the arm not wrapped around my shoulders goes up to my hair. ‘Red on white,’ he says, lifting a few blonde locks. ‘You must have cracked your head open.’

Great.

Just then, when I’m finally beginning to regain my composure, one of Dimitri’s many friends leaps out from behind a tree. He takes one look at me and cries out, ‘’ey, the chuffin 'rich Saucepan Lid's 'ad the bloody stuffin' beaten aahhht of 'im! Did ya do it Dimitri? Mother's pearly gate Corn on the bloomin' Cob!

That’s enough to cause my regained composure to hit the road. He �“ Johnny, I think �“ sounds much too happy. Plus, I’ve only understood a quarter of what he’s said.

‘No, I didn’t do it,’ replies Dimitri. He catches the confused look on my face and smiles. ‘He said, “Hey, the rich kid’s had the stuffing beaten out of him. Did you do that Dimitri? Great job!” Quoted verbatim, of course.’

Of course.

Dimitri turns back to Johnny, who is now swinging by a thick tree branch, belonging to the same tree that he leaped out from behind moments ago.

‘What are you doing here, Johnny?’ he asks, talking normally. Being the polite boy he is, Dimitri usually speaks in a language all those present can understand. It’s not that he can’t revert to cockney rhyming slang it’s that he just doesn’t. ‘I thought you finally decided you would go to school.’

‘I changed me Chinese Blind,’ answers Johnny, grinning, and letting go of the tree branch. He doesn’t care if everyone can understand him or not. He swaggers over to where Dimitri and I are sitting on the curb. ‘I'm not a bookworm loike ya, Dimitri. Can't risk tarnishin' me reputation, can I na?’

‘I suppose not,’ says Dimitri, laughing.

Dimitri goes to school. Don’t know how that makes him a bookworm, but there you are.

Dimitri goes to school. School being, either the lady tutor near Petticoat Lane, or the school I attend. Usually the tutor. Don’t know how that makes him a bookworm, but there you are.

And then, surprise, surprise, just as Johnny makes to sit down next to Dimitri, the heavens open. Johnny’s rear hasn’t even hit the curb, and already we’re soaking wet. Sheet after sheet of rain pours from the sky, and immediately the wind picks up. Every now and then it hits the rain-sheets just right and pushes the drops together, concentrating them into a prominent sheet, discernible from the rest of the rain around it.

‘I have to go,’ I say, standing up suddenly. Mum and Dad aren’t completely insane �“ they’re usually home by morning. And because of the cloud covering I can’t tell what time it is.

‘Okay,’ says Dimitri smiling. Johnny doesn’t even bat an eyelid. He’s busy arranging his hair with a red comb that’s missing half its teeth. Dimitri offers to come with me, but I can tell he really doesn’t want to so I turn him down quickly. Except for school, he never visits my side of the East End. For kids like him and Johnny it’s not completely safe. I mutter a quick goodbye to both of them, and turn away.

**

As Conner walks off, Johnny returns his comb to his pocket and asks, ‘Why do ya trust ‘im?’

Dimitri shrugs and wipes some of the hair that has taped itself to his skin away from his eyes. ‘He trusts us.’

‘Maybe… but that’s not a guarantee of aahht. Something’s Pete Tong wif that Saucepan Lid. ‘oo beat ‘im up?’

‘A bloke and his girlfriend. From school,’ answers Dimitri, still not speaking in the cockney slang, for no reason whatsoever.

Johnny follows Dimitri’s lead and reverts to slang-less speech. ‘A girl?! Blimey, ‘e’s more pathetic than I thought! The crying baby.’ They’re both silent for a moment. Dimitri is frowning. Rain drops slide down their smooth cheeks and noses. Then, Johnny: ‘They got summit on ‘im?’

‘More like… he has something on them. He says they just beat him for the heck of it… but it feels like they’re trying to keep him quiet.’

**

A/N: Reviews would be nice!

Chapter 2 - Creature

Now I can't go on || I can't even start
I've got nothing left || just an empty heart

‘What exactly is that?’

School. Monday. Eton is being a jerk, of course.

But not just Eton. Patience is with him too, sitting as close to him on the bench as she possibly can without being right on his lap. Next to Patience, Jeremy Nobel and next to him, Nicholas Boucher.

‘What’s what?’ says Jeremy, playing along as usual. As if he can’t see, as if he doesn’t know.

‘That thing!’ Eton raises his forefinger and points at a boy, a kid, probably eleven-years-old (which happens to be a good seven years young than Jack Eton) with blonde hair.

It’s not the blonde part that’s funny; it’s not the blonde part that sometimes makes Eton call this kid “Mop-Head”. It’s the fact that this kid’s hair is not either straight or curly… it’s a mixture of both. The kid’s parents (when they actually bother to be at home) say his hair is “cute”. His parents, however, are severely deluded.

‘Ew,’ says Patience, her eyes following Eton’s forefinger. ‘Which zoo did that thing escape from?’

Mop-Head’s eyes are a strange, bluish-green (Eton insists this color is the exact color of sewage), warranting another clever name thought up by Jack Eton. I’d mention it here, but I’d have to censor it anyway so there’s no point. Mop-Head’s parents feel that his eyes are “attractive”. But we know that Mop-Head’s parents are certifiably insane. Once, back in the first-grade, a girl (Yes! A girl!), told Mop-Head his eyes were “lovely”. Her judgment can’t be trusted though, since she was only interested in his crayons (which, being much more naïve at six than he is at eleven, he gave her).

‘The Cockney Zoo!’ says Eton. His cronies roar with laughter.

Mop-Head is not a Cockney. Mop-Head just knows a few Cockney kids. He’s not even sure if those Cockney kids like him. I should know. I’m Mop-Head.

‘Conner O’Brien,
Lives in a zoo.
Looks like a monkey,
And smells like one too!’

Original. Very original. I hurry past them, past the group of laughing, giggling hyenas. The school hallways are mostly empty. The bell hasn’t rung yet so the students are still outside playing, talking or bullying, so I amble along.

Mum and Dad weren’t home yesterday �“ surprisingly. Told you they’re certifiably insane. And Cedrick had left punctually: as soon as he had awoken from his drunken slumber. So until five yesterday afternoon, I had the house to myself. I did a bit of cleaning �“ took a shower and washed my clothes and patched up a few cuts �“ and then wondered how to cover my bruises. The ones on my arms and legs were easy enough. With the kind of weather we’ve been having this September, the only kinds of clothes we can wear outside are long, think pants and long-sleeved shirts and jumpers. Usually with a large coat added on for insurance. Though it’s only September, it’s been extremely cold. We get freezing rain and loud thunderstorms almost every other day and snow on the days it doesn’t rain. It’s baffled the weathermen to say the least, not only because this is not the time for such harsh weather, but because London is the only place in Europe getting such weather. Travel to the next city and you might be able to feel the effects of the London weather �“ cold winds, a bit of rain �“ but not much besides that. Head farther away from London and the weather returns to normal: a bit chilly on some days, but on the whole, quite warm.

There was only one really big, purple-black bruise on my face to worry about, sitting right above my right eyebrow. On the whole, I think Eton and Patience avoided my head. In then end, I couldn’t think of a way to hide it and told Mum and Dad (when they returned home) that I fell down the stairs. They believed me.

I don’t know how…

There are no stairs in our house. Probably, they weren’t even listening to my explanation. Didn’t care where I had gotten the bruise. Typical. I should be used to it by now.

I slip into my classroom the second the first bell rings. There’s only one student sitting at his desk right now: Dimitri. He grins when he sees me and says, pointing at my forehead and the bruise, ‘Where can I get one of those?’

I have to laugh.

**

School passes in a flurry of creative writing essays, maths tests and science experiments. Before I know it the final bell has rung and it’s time to go home, something I’m not looking forward to.

Outside its freezing. I should have expected it, should have pulled my coat on inside, but I didn’t. So I drop my bag now, pause on the gravel path that leads to the gate and stick my arms into my jacket. Just as I pick my bag up again, I spot Dimitri. He’s quite a bit ahead of me, near the bench Eton and his cronies had occupied in the morning. They’re sitting on it again, now. Eton’s caught sight of Dimitri.

As Dimitri ambles past the bench, Eton jumps up from his seat and grabs the back of the boy’s shirt. ‘What are you doing here, freak?’

‘Attending school,’ says Dimitri coolly, turning around and freeing his coat in the process. Eton grabs his lapels instead.

‘What does a Cockney bastard need to come to school for? Can’t your buddies teach you?’ Eton sneers.

‘Well. The kids all say that you’re a bloody murder-happy idiot, Jack Eton, but I never really believed them. Now I do.’ A few kids near me laugh and I can’t help a small smile. Seeing someone mouth off to Eton is a pleasant change.

Eton doesn’t return the insult. He seems to have found another meaning to Dimitri’s words. His face contracts as if someone’s slapped him and his eyes grow stormy. Even at a distance, I can see the change. My heart skips a beat �“ I don’t like the look on Eton’s face. Suddenly, he looks literally like a wild animal. He releases his hold on Dimitri and smiles a sickening smile down at him. Dimitri looks wary.

‘Who told you that, my friend?’ asks Eton.

One of Dimitri’s eyebrows shoots up. He obviously had made the “bloody murder-happy idiot” thing up. No one told him. What is Eton on about?

When Dimitri doesn’t answer, Eton’s eyes start to bug out of his skull, his smile disappears and he grabs Dimitri’s coat lapels again. ‘WHO TOLD YOU?!’ he roars into Dimitri’s face. Dimitri’s scared now too. He shakes his head frantically, but this time, Eton doesn’t seem to care that his victim has no answer. He pushes Dimitri away from him forcefully, causing him to stumble backwards and land hard on his rear. Eton turns away, searches the crowd of students that has formed in the school courtyard.

By instinct, I start to shrink away, but it’s way too late. Eton’s eyes are attracted to mine like magnets. As soon as he catches sight of me, a wide, insane grin spreads on his face. He strides over to me. I want to run, leap away, go back into the school building, anything?, but my legs just won’t listen. I back away, back away until I hit the school’s brick wall. Behind Eton, Dimitri is getting up, his eyes wide and scared. He tries to move forward, but Jeremy is quick to act, and trips him before he can take even two steps.

And then Eton is upon me. Like a lion upon it’s prey.

‘DID YOU TELL HIM THAT?’ he screams, spit flying from his mouth. He grabs my shoulders, shakes me like a doll. ‘DID YOU?!’

No, I didn’t you bastard! I want to say, but all that comes out of my mouth is, ‘N-n-n-no�”’

And suddenly Eton’s voice has gone all quiet, something that is, even more frightening than the yelling. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget you little creep. Tonight. 8 PM. Gibbets Alley. Understand?’

No, you freak, I’m done doing what you say!

‘UNDERSTAND?’

‘I nod quickly. ‘Yes, yes, I understand!’

**

Everyone knows Gibbets Alley. Everyone who lives in the East End anyway. Ironic that I should be going to be taught a lesson there.

Not too long ago, Gibbets Alley was a “lesson” for the peasants of the London. A warning. Well, look at the name of the place �“ what do you think happened there? Even now there are a few old gallows hidden away in the dark corners of the alley, the alley that is more of a large abandoned square than anything else.

I’m not on time. I’m not punctual. Maybe I don’t say what I want to Eton’s face… maybe I don’t stand up for myself… but as long as Eton’s not around, I can do what I like. I take my jolly good time getting to Gibbets Alley, imagining Eton standing in the square, alone, glancing around at the gallows, shivering… calling for his mummy… okay, maybe the last bit is somewhat far-fetched. But still. It’s a happy thought.

The night is unusually dark and still. The moon has set early and the cloud covering is hiding the stars from view. It’s not raining yet, or snowing, but in a few hours, it very well could be. A war plane flies just below the clouds. I wonder, not for the first time, what it’s doing. England isn’t at war with anyone, but recently many war planes have been seen flying to unknown destinations. What is the government not telling us?

Close by, an owl hoots dolefully. I pause, hands deep in my pockets, to see if I can spot the bird �“ there it is… in a large tree on my left. A snowy white owl… strange… I’ve never seen one like that before. I wonder if it’s native. It hoots again and blinks at me with mournful amber eyes. I turn away quickly �“ something about that bird doesn’t feel right.

Are owls an omen of danger, by any chance? Maybe Eton’s going to have a go at killing me tonight �“ I honestly wouldn’t put it past him. He has a wicked reputation. Wicked, bad, not wicked, good. Parents like to tell their kids, ‘Be good or Jack will get you!’ Now, is the Jack they’re referring to Jack Eton or Jack the Ripper? I like to think of it as the former �“ anyway, why in the world would Jack the Ripper “get” kids?

To get to Gibbets Alley, you have to turn right on St. Denis. I turn left. Here the street is brighter, with a few more light poles, but extremely crowded. The small houses are squeezed together like sardines in a tin. Lights are lit in windows and the sounds of chatter drift outside. I wonder what it would be like to be safe at home right now, perhaps enjoying dinner with my parents, talking about school and other things, a fire lit in the fireplace. I wonder what it’s like to have decent parents who actually try to come home on time and be with their only kid �“ who actually make an effort to show their kid they want him and like him, even if they don’t. I wonder why this is happening to me.

And I wonder what Nicholas Boucher is doing walking up to me with a glare… oh.

‘Where have you been, twerp?’ he growls as soon as he’s within earshot.

‘Er…’

‘It’s nine o’clock! Why aren’t you at Gibbets Alley? Do you have a death wish or something?’ He grabs my arm and forces me to turn around, back the way I came.

‘If I were actually on my way to Gibbets Alley, then you could say I have a death wish.

‘Don’t be a fool. The later you get, the angrier Jack’s going to be and the worse it’ll be for you. If you had any sense, you’d have been there at five to eight.’ He’s dragging me forward, towards Gibbets Alley. Well, not really dragging, since I’m not putting up much of a fight. The fact that I’m having a reasonably sane conversation with one of Eton’s (many) cronies and that I have not yet been punched or kicked, is a little shocking.

‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask suddenly.

Nicholas Boucher just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. Then he says, ‘I don’t know �“ I really don’t. Jack’s off his rocker.’

‘You just noticed?’ I grumble.

For a while we just walk, him, muttering under his breath, me, silent. We reach Gibbets Alley in about twenty minutes. Eton’s waiting there for us, his arms folded across his chest, that freaky smile back on his face. Now I realize something �“ his smile isn’t one of a wild animal who knows its prey has nowhere to run and no place to hide… Eton’s smile is evil. Evil. Really, truly evil. Something only described in books, something moviemakers try to reproduce. Something I’ve never realized actually exists in the real world, in our world.

‘Welcome,’ says Eton. Nicholas shoves me forward into the center of the square, where Eton is standing, and then melts into the shadows near one of the rotting, wooden gallows. I just stand there, a few feet away from Eton. Even if I wanted to try and run, now, after so many encounters with Eton, after having been caught and beaten up only the night before last, I wouldn’t be able to. Though they stand in the shadows, I can see Patience and Jeremy flanking one entrance to the square, Nicholas and another one of Eton’s friend, Darren, flanking the other. I’m pretty much trapped.

Eton walks up to me, slings an arm around my shoulders. I flinch instinctively, something that makes Eton happy. He forces me forward and points elegantly at a small, raised bit of land against a wall of Gibbets Alley. It’s small, compared to the size of the square, but rather large on its own. Eton, who looks to be a bit taller than six feet, could easily lie down on it, any which way he chose, with a lot of room remaining above his head and below his feet. Laid on the slope of the hill parallel to (but not attached to) the wall is a wooden double-door with rusted iron handles. A small window is attached to the mini-hill as well, on the left slope.

After staring at it a moment, I realize what I’m looking at. A cellar, with the building over it removed. Perhaps there was a garden shed on top once.

‘You’re going to be spending the night in there,’ says Eton, bringing me back to reality.

Nicholas has come away from his post at the entrance and has pulled open the cellar door. Even with my heart thrashing around inside my rib-cage, I notice the odd look on his face. Nicholas’s eyebrows are locked together and his mouth is twitching strangely. My heart gives an extra lurch in my chest at Eton’s words. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Excused!’ says Eton. Suddenly his hands are on my back. He gives an almighty shove and I pitch forward, right into the open cellar. The door slams shut behind me, I spring to me feet, stairs creak ominously under me. ‘HEY!’ I cry out and bang on the door, bang with all my might. I can hear laughter on the other side. Idiots! Idiots! I hate them!

‘LET ME OUT!’ I roar, my fists slamming into the wood, splinters from the old door slicing into my hand. For a moment I think I’ve got it, that the door’s about to open, but then I hear Eton yelling out something.

‘Oy! Jeremy! Get over here, sit on this with me. The kid’s stronger than he looks!’

I ram my shoulder into the wood, but it’s useless. I can’t shift a door with two eighteen-year-olds on it. I bang my head against the door, desperately, hopelessly. And then I feel it.

Even through the thick wood I can feel it, the biting cold that has suddenly spread outside. The lightly chilly night has suddenly become freezing. Even in the dark cellar, even with my coat on, goose bumps erupt on my arms and I’m suddenly shivering. Outside, I hear Jeremy give a shrill, squeaky yell. The weight on the cellar door suddenly vanishes and I can hear receding footsteps mingled with shouts.

But I don’t push open the door. Instead, teeth chattering, I back away slowly, I’ll take whatever is in this cellar before I take the creature outside, the creature that spreads this cold, this horrific feeling. I step back �“ and fall down the stairs. Fall down, down, down, into the deep cellar, into the large room, filled with a strange, unearthly light, blue and shining and shimmering, as if I’ve slipped underwater. I stand, glance around, blink to focus and walk around a wooden box. My breath catches in my throat.

I’m not alone.

There, behind boxes and tea chests and trunks, sits a figure, cloaked in something black, head down, curled into a small ball. I cry out, stumble backwards, afraid that the creature outside has somehow made it into the cellar without my knowing.

And then he looks up. For a moment, a split second, his blue eyes meet mine.

The entire room seems to get suddenly darker. His eyes are filled with furious fire. I back away further.

‘Enough!’ rasps the �“ the man, the thing, the creature. And suddenly he stands, grows right before my eyes. Behind me the cellar door is banging and shaking, flying open and slamming shut, again and again. The window glass rattles frantically in its pane. ‘OUT!’ he roars and I stagger back, fall over a chest.

“NOW!’ he bellows and, as if I’m in the middle of a horrible nightmare, something explodes out from behind him, something huge, monstrous.

‘GET OUT!’ he screams and I jump to my feet, race up the stairs. The door flies open at my touch; I fall out of it, back up to the surface. The wooden, rickety, momentarily-possessed door bangs shut behind me and remains shut. I grab a piece of wood sitting nearby, jam it in the handles, locking the door, and slump to the square floor.

My chest is heaving and screams echo in my ears.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl lets out a long, low hoot.

**

A/N: I'd love some reviews!

Chapter 3: Sapphire Wings

I'm a soldier || wounded so I must give up the fight

The little window is blue stained-glass. It’s cracked in three places, probably after yesterday’s… episode. It’s a wonder it wasn’t shattered last night, the way it was rattling in its pane.

I use my shirtsleeve to wipe away the dust layered on the glass, as I crouch near the window on my feet, knees bent, rear-end an inch away from the black tarmac.

Yes, I’m back in Gibbets Alley. No, you don’t need to tell me that I must be insane. I am well aware of it.

The window is still too dirty to see through even after all that rubbing, so, with a sigh, I add a bit of spit to my sleeve and begin wiping again.

I wouldn’t be back here if it wasn’t for something Eton said in school this morning. He was swaggering around the school courtyard when I arrived, grinning and waving his arms and talking loudly. I had a feeling I knew what he was telling the students gathered around him.

‘�” and he was screaming like a little baby the whole time, it was hilarious!’ Eton was saying as I slowly approached the crowd.

‘What’s in there Eton?’ asked a small boy, clutching his bag to his chest and looking up at Eton with large, round eyes.

Eton blinked, as if the question surprised him. ‘Why, Sapphire Wings, of course!’ he replied after a moment.

‘Who?’ questioned someone.

‘Sapphire Wings! Everyone knows about Sapphire Wings!’

It seemed however, that everyone didn’t. People were exchanging confused looks.

‘Sapphire Wings?’

‘Is that someone’s name?’

‘Maybe it’s a dog!’

Eton shook his head, looking a little confused and a little amused. ‘It’s a man! He’s lived down there for years! A barmy old nutcase! How can you not know?’

Finally someone piped up with an interesting question. ‘Why do you call him Sapphire Wings? Who told you his name?’

Eton raised an eyebrow and shrugged slightly. ‘My brother told me �“ I don’t know where he heard it from. Everyone calls him Sapphire Wings. He is Sapphire Wings. That’s all there is to it!’ He knelt down and grabbed his bag off the ground and then turned towards the school entrance. End of discussion. Story over. Luckily, he didn’t catch sight of me.

The effects of Eton’s tale were apparent throughout the day �“ the topic of most conversations was Sapphire Wings. From all the eavesdropping I did, I only learned a few things: Sapphire Wings is a man who has lived down in the abandoned cellar in Gibbets Alley for as long as anyone can remember (though when I spoke to Tray Sanders the class know-it-all, he insisted that “as long as anyone can remember” meant “only a few years”) and that he has never come out of the cellar that is his home and no one has ever really seen him up close (though someone must have at least spoken to him at one time or another to find out his name).

Basically Sapphire Wings is an enigma. I hate enigmas - so I’ve come to find out more about this one. How can a man live in a cellar for years? Doesn’t he eat? Or relieve himself? Or bathe?

The little blue window’s still not very clean but at least I can see through it better than before. Not much is happening inside the cellar. Actually, nothing’s happening. There’s no movement, no sign of life at all. I can see trunks and boxes stacked and piled wherever there is room: against walls, in the center of the room, anywhere. One large trunk catches my eye. It’s made of plain wood as far as I can tell and hinged with a shiny metal that glitters and looks blue (only because the stained-glass is blue). It catches my eye because there is a dark shape leaning against it, curled up into a small ball. I watch the lump for a moment but it doesn’t move at all. Doesn’t he even breathe? I wait and watch and watch and wait and finally get bored. My legs are aching, curled up underneath me and I can’t stand just sitting around anymore, so I decided to do the stupid thing and go inside the cellar.

The piece of wood that I jammed into the cellar door-handles yesterday is still there. It’s wet and soggy (have I mentioned that it’s raining again today?) but I slip it out slowly, wondering if I have a death wish that I don’t know about, open the cellar doors and pick up the package I brought with me from home. I walk like a robot down the stairs, slowly, reluctantly, even though I’m entering this prison by choice. When I reach the fifth step down, I turn back and pull the doors closed. Almost all natural light suddenly disappears and when my eyes adjust, I see that once again, it looks like I’ve stepped into an ocean. Blue light glitters, flickers and swims across the walls and stairs of the cellar.

By now Sapphire Wings must know I’m here (unless he’s died) so there’s no turning back, unless I want to look like a coward.

Not that there’s anything bad about being a coward �“ and anyway, who would know…?

I suck in a deep breath, try to shake away my doubts and hurry down the rest of the stairs. I try to be as quiet as possible but it doesn’t help much. The stairs creak as I go down them, the wood on the floor squeaks as I walk across it, the trunk moans as I set the package I brought down on it. Up close, I can see that the trunk is made of some shiny dark wood (because it looks a darker blue than, say, the cardboard boxes). The metal hinges and locks and trunk-borders have vines and flowers carved into them. Sapphire Wings is leaning against one of the shorter sides of the trunk. I can see initials engraved above the trunk lock, but I can’t make them out.

The man still hasn’t moved.

Even though I can’t see his face or anything, it’s obvious that something is wrong with this man. Something about his back… it’s larger than normal and seems to stick out and look deformed. Like he’s a hunchback or something. He is sitting with his knees close to his body, his arms curled around his legs, his head down and hidden.

He must know I’m here; I’m standing so close now. My heart is beating is beating so fast that it’s become a steady stream of pain in my chest and my stomach is clenching tightly. I wish he would say something, yell at me even, I wait for it, but he doesn’t do anything.

Finally, after an infinity of waiting, I choke out, ‘I brought you something.’

No motion.

I wonder if I should touch his shoulder to see if he’s okay. I don’t do it though. I’d rather not trigger another mad-screaming fest.

I grab the package resting on the trunk and slide it towards Sapphire Wings. It’s a paper bag with a loaf of bread, some chicken soup Cedrick made for lunch yesterday and a slice of store-bought blueberry pie. I don’t know why I’ve brought him food. I just have. ‘F-food,’ I stutter. ‘For you.’

When he still doesn’t move or say anything, I start to back away. I leave the food with him and mumble a quick, ‘I’ll leave now,’ before racing out of the cellar as fast as my legs will carry me. I hurry over to the short-of-clean stained-glass window, get onto my knees and peer down into the room.

The dark shape leaning against the trunk is still unmoving. I bite the inside of my cheek and wonder if I’ve insulted him or something �“ when suddenly he moves. One of the arms curled around his legs reaches out, grabs the bag of food. He opens it, peers inside the paper parcel. I can see his unkempt hair, hanging down over his eyes. His fingers are long but strangely bent as he reaches into the bag and pulls out the food, the sliced loaf of bread in plastic wrap, the glass bowl of soup, the aluminum-foiled blueberry pie slice. He sets everything down in front of him. I think he’s just staring at it. He doesn’t move for a long time. I remember reading somewhere about how, after a long time without anything to eat, people start to feel nauseated by the mere sight of food. My heart clenches �“ I hope that isn’t the case. I wonder if I should just leave �“ maybe he can sense me watching him. Just then, he opens the bowl of soup. He puts it to his mouth and drinks; it’s gone in less than two seconds. He unwraps the bread, grabs three pieces at once and takes a massive bite out of them. Half the bread disappears as I watch, feeling shocked and slightly sick. Still in the middle of the bread, he pauses, shifts behind a box and retches violently, over and over, until most, if not all of the food, is no longer in his stomach. He’s not used to food.

I stand up. He’s trying to eat again, slowly this time, but I don’t care to see anymore. I stumble away from the cellar, out of Gibbets Alley. I feel like crying.

I’ve just witnessed the feeding-frenzy of a starving person. When was the last time he ate? Why is he living down there, without the basic necessities?

**

‘Will you talk to me?’

Operation Sapphire Wings, Day Two. I don’t know why I’m back again �“ I just am.

Yesterday, after leaving Gibbets Alley, I tried to forget about the starving man making home in a cellar �“ I didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want to remember what I’d seen. But just like the black-cloaked gliding creature I saw a couple of days ago, this too has a “car-crash-mentality” factor to it. Despite all my reservations, I can’t help returning. I’m drawn to this man like I am drawn to those mysterious floating demons. I brought him more food today. He has eaten now, and I’m sitting a few feet away from him, on a cardboard box.

Sapphire Wings is sitting in practically the same spot he was yesterday, in practically the same position, when, for the first time, he speaks. ‘If you are willing to listen.’

I’m stunned into a semi-coma: my jaw hanging, my eyes popping. Even in my shocked state, I register the hoarseness of his voice and I can’t help but think that Tray Sanders has not lived up to his title of class know-it-all, because there is no way that this man has lived down here for “only a few years”. His voice is that of an old man who has not spoken for an age. His back, deformed and difficult to look at because of the way it juts out, is bent and he slumps as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. The knuckles of his fingers are swollen, his fingers themselves looking twisted and broken.

I snap my jaw closed, swallow hard and say, ‘I’ll listen.’ I want to look at his eyes, or his face even, but his head is hanging, his face shaded by the long hair hanging over his forehead.

‘Will you?’ he says softly, and his hoarseness is less noticeable. The way he says it, his remark doesn’t sound like a question.

‘Who are you?’ I blurt out suddenly.

‘I am…’ He sounds unsure, but I can’t be sure because I can’t see his face for the curtain of hair he has grown. Finally he continues, ‘Me. Just me.’

‘Where did you come from? Don’t you have a family? Why do you live here?’

‘I had a family once. I live here because it is the only place I have left.’ He doesn’t answer the first question and I feel like repeating it, to see if he’ll answer it the second time around, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

‘You said you would listen.’

Oh. Yeah.

‘Right �“ right, I’m listening.’

He pauses and I have a feeling that he’s wondering where to begin. I wonder what he’s going to tell me �“ and why.

‘This story is about a world of magic, and… a man �“ I guess a hero… and the arrogance that people show once their safety is guaranteed,’ he begins, his tone one of utter disgust.

I snort derisively. I can sense without his saying so that he’s implying that the story is true. ‘A world of magic? You’re kidding, right?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he spits out harshly. ‘If you’re not prepared to listen then you can leave now!’

I still have my doubts but I settle for rolling my eyes, instead of saying anything. He can’t see me making faces can he?

Sapphire Wings coughs softly, almost as if he’s afraid that I’ll hear, and begins to explain. ‘A few years back a man was killed. His name was Lord Voldemort �“ a name he fashioned for himself, during his student-life.’

‘Is this the same man you mentioned before? The hero?’

‘No �“ no this man was a villain. He was a monster. The hero was the man who killed Voldemort, during a war,’ he says, and when he uses the word hero, he does so scathingly, as if the word is a curse.

‘What was his name? The hero’s?’ I ask, too curious to stop myself interrupting.

‘His name was Harry Potter.’