Guttersnipe
Chapter I – The Timepiece
In a way, Regan wasn’t lost at all.
It was just her mind had not caught up with her feet yet. She didn't mind the disorientation, it happened often enough; worrying about it was pointless. It was impossible to be lost if one had no destination.
And that was how Regan came to Bethel.
It was a sunny day for October, not too hot that the heat permeated every pore and cell so that movement was made impossible; no, there was a slight breeze with just a whiff of winter that broke through the muggy haze. Cicadas and grasshoppers chirped loquaciously and Regan had to bat away a few curious bugs as they made to land on her exposed neck just above the upturned collar of her coffee-brown leather coat.
Regan meandered down the deserted carriageway pausing to stop and read the battered mile marker— Bethel, the Capital of…
Just what Bethel was the capital of Regan had no idea. It had been virtually unknown to her before this.
Continuing on, she set her sights on the metropolis itself, a large walled city reminiscent of medieval castle towns. It rose colossal out of the arid plains, the only settlement of any kind for leagues around. The surrounding landscape was littered with rocks, and the dead limbs and trunks of trees. There were two roads out of Bethel, the one she was currently on, and another that twisted to the West, which ran parallel to the Great Southern Railway. The station not far from the West Gate was a derelict building, having been exposed to the elements. The stone of Bethel was shinning in comparison, and the sun glinted off the citadel in a way that made it seem other-worldly, even with the protection of sunglasses Regan turned away.
That was when she saw the man.
He was concealed by a large boulder, his outstretched arm the only definite piece visible from the road. Regan, curious, ambled over, and set down her rucksack to inspect. As she advanced closer, she realized to her slight disgust, that the man was dead. Laying face down in the oxidized earth he reeked, and the air around was infused with the bitter tang of a body rotting. Flies hovered around him, gorged on blood, their slight buzzing echoing in the air.
Carefully, Regan rolled the heavy set, bloated man over, wary of coming in contact with his skin. His hair was streaked with white and silver and his knuckles were swollen, though his fingernails were trimmed expertly, clean of dirt or blood. He was dressed finely in a grey suit made of expensive material, as well as a linen shirt, silk vest and tie; his shoes were made of dark leather. His expression was contorted in terror.
She deftly untied the man’s silk indigo cravat and draped it over his face. Kneeling beside him, she meticulously began fingering through his clothes. She laid each item out on the dirt as she found them. A book of poems: Wordsworth, a palm sized notebook: blank, and an empty wallet; nothing of particular interest. Stuffing her hand down one of the front pockets her fingers scraped against something. Regan clasped the object and tugged it out.
In her hand was a golden pocket-watch.
It glistened in the sun as she took a closer look at it. Popping the latch, she watched with satisfaction as the gears clicked and spun—tick tock, tick tock. Even the chain was still attached.
Flipping it over, she found that it was engraved. A stitch in time saves nine. Curious Regan searched the piece for any other engravings or names. Nothing. Just the words: A stitch in time saves nine.
The phrase seemed familiar but she shrugged off the nagging feeling.
Pleased with her find, Regan pocketed the watch, and stretched upright. Peering down at the dead body, and then back at the road, she prodded it with her boot tip until the man was out of sight behind the boulder. The purple cravat shimmered in the sun, and she plucked it from the dead man’s face, before retracing her steps back to the road.
It was dark, and the thief paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the sewer. With quiescent movements he prowled down the passage, though twice he stayed to glance behind him. But he had no need to worry he was alone. He smirked, his eyes full of wild delight. No longer would he scour through filthy tunnels, and invade stranger’s houses just for meal. No, the Man had promised; promised that after this his services would no longer be needed. He would be free of this whole mess with enough money to buy his own country estate.
As he passed through a sharp bend in the tunnel, shafts of light penetrated the gloom from above. He continued until the light was on him as he stood under a grate. Reaching up, he grabbed it with both hands and started to move it. The metal rasped against the stone. He hesitated then, listening for any moment above, and when he heard none, he continued on. When the passage was clear, the thief heaved himself upwards.
Now in a brightened hallway, he picked up the grate, and feeling the cold metal in his hands placed it back.
Suddenly there were voices, and the thief froze, his eyes franticly searching for a place to hide. He was at the end of a corridor, the only ways out were through the grate or in the direction of the men.
The voices were getting louder, and as a last resort reached for the knife on his belt. The chattering voices carried on, and the thief vaguely thought he recognized one.
“I don’t see how it will pass. No matter how you dress the doll up, it’s still the same doll, broken limbs and all.”
“Just give it time.”
“Time, time is only an illusion my good man.”
“And lunch-time doubly so.”
“Must you always make everything into a joke?”
They were clearer now reverberating off the stone, and the thief braced himself ready for a fight.
“Well, I must be off, duty calls. Good day.”
“And to you, say hello to the missus for me.”
“Of course, she’ll be thrilled.”
Footsteps seemed to be heading farther away from him. Then the whistling started, and he heard the steady beat of the man’s heels clicking on the stones advancing on him.
The thief readied himself, but visibly relaxed when a familiar form strolled towards him. The man was thin, and tall, but gracefully so with a thatch of golden hair. He wore a pressed, black and white pinstripe suit, and carried a mahogany cane with an expertly carved ivory handle. He smiled upon seeing the thief.
“No trouble I gather.” His voice was erudite and smooth.
“No Sah, no trouble.”
“Good. Now, you understand what I must ask of you now— we are almost at the end you and I. You do understand what you must do?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And you are sure, there will be no— complications.”
“I’m your man, sah, I’m your man.”
“Splendid.” The man smiled amiably, before drawing out a pouch of coins.
The thief now conscious of his undress tried to wipe the dirt from his hands.
“To progress,” the man declared empting the small draw-string bag into the thief’s hand. The coins glittered in the bright hallway.
The thief grinned, admiring the play of shadows and light on them, “Right you are sah— to progress.”
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