Kit #2
“Yes,” I said, leaving out the fact that it was a US number I wanted to call.
I picked up the phone, went to dial Lacy’s number, and…
“Dammit. I don’t remember her number.” I racked my brain, but it wasn’t there.
I knew it at one point, because Lacy knew it, but it turned out, I did not remember anything she didn’t tell or show me in her memory.
Any of the little details I picked up from possessing her, phone number, address, parents’ names, were gone.
I hung the phone back up. “I guess not. I can’t remember any phone numbers. ”
She pulled the phone back toward herself with a frown. “All right, well, I’ll go ahead and phone the ambulance, then.”
“No!” I cleared my throat. “Uh, no thank you. No need. I’m fine. Fingers and toes all normal colors and no weird pain spots or anything.”
The woman puffed out her lip, looking like she knew she should fight against me, argue protocol, but didn’t have the energy. “Well, why don’t you give me your name? I’m sure there are people looking for you.”
I said, “Ton—” before stopping short. I corrected myself, “Christopher Mitchell.” My human name. I shook my head. “If I could get to Eastbourne, I’m sure I could figure something out.”
The woman peered at me. “You won’t have any cash on you, will you now? I can lend you some for a bus ticket.”
I shook my head, even though that was exactly what I wanted. “No, no, I can’t ask you for that.”
The woman shrugged. “You’ve had a tough morning.
It’s the least I can do.” She pulled out ten pounds and handed it my way.
“Next bus will be at ten o’clock. May as well settle yourself in.
” She reached into her desk to pull out a protein bar and a small bottle of water.
“Here you are. Get a little energy into you.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the snack and water. “I think I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right. I do love this place.”
The woman smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? If you have any questions or happen to come up with someone to ring, I’ll be here.”
I gave one last thank-you and left through the front door.
I walked back to the cliffs and took a seat so I could stare out at the ocean.
The clock on the wall of the office said it was 6:48 a.m., so I had plenty of time to spare until the bus arrived.
I breathed in the salty air, and for the first time in twenty or five hundred years, depending on how you looked at it, I felt true peace.
The bus arrived hours later, and I climbed aboard with no idea what I would do once I arrived in Eastbourne, I just knew it was the closest city.
London would be better. I knew I had connections in London.
Hallett resided primarily in London. What I wanted to ask for was for him to jump me back to Lacy, but I did not want him to know I was now human.
He was generally trustworthy, but he was still a demon.
I knew he could acquire a fake passport for me, but that would require money.
Once I got off the bus, I began to wander.
I strode past an art shop and had an idea.
I didn’t want to shoplift, but I had only five pounds left, and that would not be enough.
I strolled in, said hello to the shopkeeper, then found a pack of watercolor paper and a kid’s set of watercolors.
I shoved them in my pants and discovered they were easily hidden by my oversized shirt.
I found a nicer paintbrush for three pounds and purchased that, saying farewell to the shopkeeper as I left.
I set myself up near the beach and pulled out my supplies.
I started to paint everything I saw around me.
Watercolor was not my preferred art medium, but it worked for a pastel coastal town such as this.
Once I finished, I would lay the paintings out to dry.
After I had a few complete, I also painted a sign advertising the paintings for twenty pounds.
It wouldn’t earn me enough for the passport, but it would be enough for the train ride and some cash to spare.
People would glance at the artwork, but I wasn’t receiving any bites until a group of young tourists came around and started ooo-ing and ah-ing at the paintings.
I sold four paintings, making eighty pounds, which would be enough.
I packed up my supplies and climbed a steep hill to the train station, where I bought a ticket in cash from a man in the booth.
I boarded the train and was soon off to London. Easy enough.
But as I pulled into London Victoria station, I knew the trek was about to become very difficult.
While I knew from whom I could acquire a fake passport, I didn’t know how to find him.
And I was starting to get tired. Exhausted, in fact.
The day was nearly over, the sky growing dark.
I considered the money I still had, a little less than sixty pounds.
This could pay for a one-night stay at some hotel with eighteen beds to a room.
But it also needed to pay for food. I wasn’t starving, but that was right now.
Hunger was a feeling I had honestly forgotten about, but now it was looming like a monster waiting to attack.
I exited the station and started asking around to see if anyone knew of any hostels in the area.
I gathered a mental list then went and checked them out one by one, searching for availability.
After checking five hostels, I finally found one with an open bed for thirty pounds a night.
Perfect. I went to the bed, settled on the top bunk in a room stuffed with ten other bunks, and crashed immediately, sleeping through the night and well into the morning.
I awoke to someone poking me in the shoulder.
“Hmmm?” I mumbled, turning over in bed and cranking open one eye to see a short, bald man standing by my bunk. I recognized him from the front desk.
“Sir? It’s past check-out time. You only booked one night. We either need you to pay for another night, or you need to leave.”
I didn’t have another thirty pounds.
I sat up, clearing my throat. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll leave.”
After I gathered myself and put on those goddamn toe shoes to vacate the hostel, I spent the day asking around for small jobs where I could earn some more cash or for anyone who knew of Hallett.
With no luck on either front, I spent the next two nights on a bench in Hyde Park. At least this bench had a view of the water. However, pigeons awoke me both mornings with begs for the crumbs beneath my bench.
On my fourth day of being human, with only ten pounds left to my name, I started painting again. Now in London, I upped the price to thirty pounds and sold six paintings in all, earning me 180 pounds.
As the sky began to grow dark, I pocketed the cash. This was earning me something, but not enough. Not quickly enough. I needed a way to quadruple my earnings.
Wait, I had an idea. Poker. I was good at poker. If I played a good game, then I would have enough for both the passport and the flight home.
With the money I had, I found a different hostel that was only twenty pounds and booked a couple nights there. I took a long shower once I checked in. Then, wrapped in a towel I rented from the front desk, I washed my clothing in the sink with hand soap. Wow, I missed wearing underwear.
The next day, once my clothing was mostly dry, I shoplifted a few more items—another T-shirt, black this time, and a few pairs of boxer briefs. I hated to do it, but I needed to save my money.
I needed to find a poker game. Hallett used to talk about the games he would play in London. If I could find these games, I could find Hallett as well. However, I had no idea where to start looking.
After another morning of trailing the city, searching for clues, I dropped down on a bench and put my head in my hands.
Back in my human body with my human brain, my memory sucked.
As a demon, it felt like I could hold an endless amount of information.
Hallett had once told me specifically where these games were held.
I muttered to myself, “A little underground flat in…”
In where? Croydon? No, no. I knocked my knuckles on my forehead, trying to rattle the information out.
“…in Camden.”
Camden. An underground flat in Camden, normally on the third Thursday of the month.
To a passerby, I asked, “What’s the date?”
“Nineteen May,” they offered.
“And the day of the week?” I called after them as they attempted to keep walking.
“Tuesday!” they called back.
I did quick math in my head. Damn, this version of me was lucky. The third Thursday of the month was two days away.
I caught a bus to Camden immediately and started asking around, everyone I could find, about the game. Eventually, a beefy man with a thick black mustache, instead of saying no, said, “What’s it to you?”
My body sagged in relief. “Hallett told me about it, but I wasn’t sure how to contact him.”
“Hallett, huh?” The man shook his head and gave me the address and time. “Be careful, kid.”
Right. That was something I had to do now. Be careful. I couldn’t afford to be careful. Not while I had to get back to Lacy.
Two nights later, I showed up at the poker game. Hallett was not there, but dropping his name gave me access. I walked away with a thousand pounds, an invite to a separate poker game three nights from then, and an address for my friend.
I went straight away, not bothering to think about the time. I pounded on the door of his flat. With an audible grumble, the door swung open to reveal Hallett, just as green and angry as he always was.
“What do you want, kid?”
My lip curled. People kept calling me kid. “I need a passport. I know you make them.”
Hallett looked me up and down. “Go to the embassy. They’ll sort you out.”
He started to close the door, but I stuck a foot in, thanking the lord that I bothered to lift a pair of loafers and was not still wearing the toe shoes when it slammed against my foot. “Problem with that plan. I’m legally dead. It would bring up far too many questions.”
The door opened again. “Interesting. How did you find me?”
I figured the truth, or at least as close as I could come to it, was the best bet. “Tonkitgrol.”
Hallett’s eyebrows rose. “You know Tonkitgrol?”
“Intimately.”
Hallett shook his head and gestured me in. “Go stand against the blank wall. I need to take your picture.”
I did as he said, and Hallett snapped the picture.
“Name for the passport?”
“Christopher Patrick Mitchell.”
I spent the next five days dicking around London, waiting for my passport. I went to the other poker game I was invited to and walked away with another five hundred pounds. That should be enough.
My clothing was dirty, so I stole some that smelled slightly better from the lost and found at the hostel. Green corduroy pants and a black-and-yellow striped shirt. The height of fashion.
When I could finally pick up my passport, Hallett held it out to me but snatched it back before I could take it.
“I tried to reach out to Tonkitgrol, ask him about you. Nothing. No one has seen him in two weeks.”
I stiffened but played it cool. “How odd.”
“Indeed.” He handed over the passport and added slyly, “You seem familiar.”
“Perhaps we knew one another in a former life.”
The corner of Hallett’s mouth curved. “Perhaps.”