Passing Tides Ch. 01-05

For a while I continue this stare and then, one word at a time, I delete my reply and with a few effortless taps at the screen I instead respond.

'Nine o'clock, don't let this evening disappoint me.'

-Chapter 4-

The sun is now a far-off glow which creeps through the glass of my bedroom window and casts an almost iridescent light upon me. Time is not my ally as I patrol around my small room scouting out clothes to wear. A pair of black thigh high socks, a long khaki green pinafore dress with a long sleeved white shirt beneath, an odd mixture which when inspected in the mirror seemed to resonate 'I just woke' so at least my hair matched the uniform; for me fashion has never been a stressful affair.

Outside of my room comes the gentle rumblings of disgruntled voices, I stare at the heavy antique door leading to the hallway and try to make out the conversation, Plisskin and Dannii are arguing this much is a certainty.

As I reach for the round brass handle and set out onto the hallway Plisskin leaves the bathroom in a swirl of steam from the shower then sits himself on top step of the stairs.

"We had a visitor today knocking at the front door, looking for you."

"We did?" I reply, a still image of Nathaniel flashes before me.

"Yeah. A handsome man, looked wealthy; said he wanted to run away with you?"

I realise the setup as teasing one another is not uncommon and so I raise an eyebrow.

"I told him you were busy."

He smirks and begins furiously rubbing his head with a towel sending droplets of shower water in all directions.

He stays sat, smiling to himself while drying off; as I pass him on the stairs I place a hand on his shoulder. While Plisskin is certainly not an unattractive man his weight is low and his eyes forever appear lost in thought; he reminds me of a lean rabbit.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs I catch a last glance, his thin frame moving in the near neon orange light cast in through the twilight window. He pauses realising my spying eyes are upon him and sends me a smile, though it is clear he feels a little awkward as he places the towel around his shoulders; covering his chest.

I grab my green neck scarf and coat from the cast iron hooks by the front door and step out into the arrival of evening. Shutting the door behind me I rummage around in my pockets and withdraw the small grey arrow key to our house which is also connected to another important key, I lock the door and step silently onto the main footpath.

The walk to the outskirts of town is a long and lonesome journey, I pass through cobble rows of dated houses, by fields of empty farmland and gradually find that I am in a strange land that is certainly not unfamiliar yet remains rarely explored; the edge of my universe.

Throughout this voyage I have seen the sky bend to the will of cosmic forces, shifting it from many blazing shades of orange and into a dark void littered with specks of glittering stars.

Finally after nearly an hour and a half of walking this shapeshifting world I find myself in the presence of my destination.

The White Hart hotel is pale monolith which resides on the outskirts of our little village, a relic which serves as a reminder to the once booming tourism trade. In recent years most people that visited are looking to buy property and escape from the hustle and bustle of modern life, a few years respite from responsibility.

In the darkness and distance it is hard to make out the architecture, rather than an outline against the horizon all that can be seen is the white glow from the occupied rooms and the lights which illuminate them. From where I walk the building instead looks like an unfamiliar constellation of stars which grows larger and larger as I step closer and closer.

As I finally approach the building I soon find myself in front of two door men, smartly dress and near perfect opposites, the first of which stands around 6ft and is a wall of a man, his suit jacket fits to the touch and the broadness of body from shoulder to shoulder gives him an intimidating persona.

His head hair is crew cut, his beard is styled and both are as dark as a thief's pocket.

It would be more accurate to describe the second male not as a doorman but as 'Doorboy', at a potential 5ft his navy pinstripe suit hangs upon him unceremoniously and is a clear indicator as to who is the alpha male and who the beta. Even in the arrival of night time and its shadows the Doorboy's unkempt hair is quite visibly a shade of red bolder than my own, his prepubescent face structure gives him the appearance of a young teenager. His height, age, frame and masculinity is dwarfed further by his neighbouring comrade.

As I walk through the darkness my eyes fail to see the concrete path serpentine and my feet soon crunch upon the shingle which runs alongside, the sound of the small stones grinding catches the couples attention thus the tall man leans towards his sidekick and without taking his gaze off of me, mutters something to him.

Doorboy nods and steps out to greet me, we meet half way and for a moment stand together in an awkward stillness.

"Good evening." I say, slaying the silence if only for a moment.

"It is."

Replies a soft voice "we are host many events here tonight at the White Hart, which party do you belong to?"

My mind scrambles into action and for reasons unknown my hands begin searching my pockets as if they intend to find an object or answer that doesn't exist.

"Invitation?" I reply "A message, text, from a friend..." my body starts to heat as worry begins to nibble at me.

"Text?" The Doorboy murmurs, confused. He reaches into his jacket pocket and opens a small black notebook, after flicking through its pages he looks at me and pauses.

"I'm sorry." He says after some time "a moment please." With that he turns and walks back to his bolder counterpart.

With a mixture of dumbfound-ness and worry that my evening is drawing to a swift end I wait; then wait. After a couple of moments standing in the dark some twenty feet away from the door I wish to enter the duo stop their talking, the alpha beckons me over so I straighten my posture and approach.

"A fine evening indeed." Alpha says in rich and weathered tone. It is hard even at this proximity to place an age upon this man, while his skin is smooth and lacking imperfections his voice sounds wounded and raw; as if he'd recently finished consuming a cup of gravel. Perhaps at a wild guess he could be in his later thirties, a man which cares for his appearance but not for his health.

My estimations proven to be not too far from the mark as he reaches into his chest pocket and with white cotton gloves on withdraws two cigarettes of a design I am unfamiliar with, a golden coloured filter and purple rod. He places one into his grinning mouth and extends an arm, offering me the other, I accept although I do not smoke.

Lighting his smoke Alpha speaks again.

"Hear you didn't make the grade, you seemed out of place in that..." his eyes scan me "...attire?"

I feel a sense of embarrassment as I'm unsure how to take is remark.

"Dad, you're doing it again!" pipes up a little voice coming from the direction of the titan's flank.

"Still yourself." He replies, without looking towards the redheaded boy at his side.

Uncontrollably a small smile begins to form in the corners of my mouth at the notion of this little shrew being the son of the wall before me. My eyes dart between the two and I fail to see any resemblance at all; the grin continues to grow despite my futile attempts to extinguish it.

I am suddenly brought to my senses as gust of night air passes by and is accompanied swiftly by a few light spits of rain.

"I don't understand, I'm sorry..." I begin ""I was invited here, for nine o'clock by a man called Nathaniel, he..."

"Ha! Man?" Alpha interrupts, he takes a long drag on his ornate looking cigarette and exhales the smoke sideways as not to breathe it upon me. "The boy is home, yes." his expression suddenly shifts to a look of sternness "And I suppose you are also here for the birthday girl, am I correct?"

"Birthday girl?" My head fills will a heavy fog as my situation I find myself in only becomes more confusing, I breathe a light sigh and try again, "Nathaniel is home? Do you know him?"

The Doorboy interrupts abruptly, catching me of guard.

"I know Mr Morland very well, his father owns The White Hart, although he rarely receives any visitors."

Morland, the surname strikes a note with me though I cannot recall where I have heard its tones before.

"Do you know Ms Hale and Ms Capelli?" Doorboy seems excited by the potential connections being made and is about to continue but he is cut short by his father.

"Enough, Arlie! Leave the young lady be." he sidesteps and with his cigarette in hand casts out his arm invite me inside, casting an eye from me to the boy and back again then finishes with a final message.

"Through the first hall way, you will find a large stair case with an elevator beside it. Use either to access the third floor. From there you will see a set of red double doors which lead up to the fifth and final floor, this area is usually out of bounds but I'll let the powers that be know you are coming; please make yourself at home until then."

With this, as if rehearsed, the two before me take a pace backwards allowing me to enter the building, I thank them both for their help and step inside.

The interior is modern by, tall ceilings, pale walls, bright artificial lighting and large abstract paintings framed behind class. As I walk though this minimalistic hallway my shoes click upon the hard tiles which provides the room with a further sense of loneliness, I soon reach two heavy doors and as I open them I see before me a large set of stairs, carpeted with brass railings running from bottom to top and as promised a silver fronted elevator resides to the right of it. I soon find myself within the chrome box and gradually climbing upwards coming to a jolted stop on the third floor, a gentle chime resonates and the two panel doors of the lift open revealing a very contrasting sight. The room I now find myself in bears no resemblance to the modern entrance of The White Hart, I instead my feet are greeted by solid dark wooden floorboards and my eyes are drawn towards humble paintings hung on simple walls, rather than feeling that I was high above the ground and deep within a modern structure this floor feels like I've instead paid a visit to a grand yet quiet country house; this brought me a small amount of comfort.

Leaving this lobby area I step through the only open door and into a long rectangular space which reminds me of photographs and film footage I have seen of upper class lounge bars within train carriages, there are 5 round tables with ornate chairs drawn to them, a series of small wooden framed windows revealing the town below and a long bar which had behind it copious amounts of bottles, some tall and grand others short and modest in appearance; all making that wall alive with colour. The room is silent except from the gentle pattering of rain upon the window, it seems that since stepping inside the weather has taken a turn for the worst.

I walk up to the bar, remove my coat and then empty the contents of its pockets upon the polished wooden surface. A plastic credit card which had anchored me to this life I am accustomed to, several pound coins, two keys linked together by a warped paperclip (the keys to Passing Tides) and finally a purple cigarette.

With the clanking of my miscellaneous treasures a young man of some familiarity enters from my peripheral vision and walks around to the serving side of the counter; he stands before me.

The man is wearing a bartender's uniform that is a near perfect copy of the one that Plisskin dons for work; in such a small community it is likely they are in fact from the same store.

He bears such a striking resemblance to Arlie the Doorboy but I am quick to notice the one feature that would divide them, I feel guilty on impact as it is most likely the whole world is quick to notice his distinct attribute.

Blush red scar tissue rises up from the collar of his shirt and branches across the left side of his face, it seems to hold his head like a caressing hand; judging by the texture it is likely to be that of a burn either by heat or chemical.

"Ma apologies." he fixes the fern coloured tie loosely around his neck 'Not that of'en we get patrons up on dis floor."

With an almighty crunch he rotates his neck, rolls his shoulders back and then flicks the tip of his nose with his thumb, a trait common with fighters.

"Ya must've been summoned, you ain't 'ere for no function or soiree, not dat it's any of ma business suppose." He fixes me a frown as if staring off into the distance, then smiles bearing his teeth "No, it ain't none of business in da least, is it."

While his autumn red hair, delicate body type and pale skin is near identical to Doorboy he is by no means related by initial first impressions, an outsider may presume that this oddball has been residing in this room alone for quiet sometime. Despite his eccentricities and scaring he is neither an unapproachable figure nor unattractive but he certainly is company to be tailored for a select few.

"Wot can I fix ya? That is to say, wot drink takes ya fancy? Name it, we've got it or I'll make it."

He places an elbow on the table and leans in close to my ear and my eyes catch a close view of his scars. My heart hurts for him.

"An' you listen."

He shuffles a little closer and whispers "Dis first drink ain't gonna cost ya a penny, you 'ear me? Fink nuffing of it."

He straightens himself and dusts off his uniform, although I see no marks so I can only assume he does it for show.

Any member of my family or close circle of friends would be quick to point out that I have never been inclined to drink nor interested in alcohols intoxicating properties, regardless my eyes begin scouting out the bar for a choice to make. None of the drinks available seem remotely familiar to me and some of these bizarre bottles seem more akin to magic potions than fit for social consumption. Enough time passes that I begin to feel uncomfortable with my novice nightlife skills and I feel like I'm killing time in order to give my somewhat predictable answer of 'I don't really drink'.

I feel it almost immediately, the heat in my face tells me that my face is turning beetroot with embarrassment.

The barman does not react in the anticipated manner, and instead reaches below the counter and without looking withdraws a small decorative glass then proceeds to fill it with water from a soda tap.

Feeling slightly speechless at his lack of objecting to my choice so I instead nod my head his direction, pick up the glass, take a sip then place it back on the counter with a quiet thud.

No sooner had I placed my glass down the air was filled a kind of smooth and melancholy music, the bartender was typing into a keyboard connected to a monitor and with little detective work I come to the conclusion that he is in control of the harmonies and melodies of the room.

For around a quarter of an hour we share idle talk about the mundane lives we lead and other such important matters, I almost lose track of the reason I am here to begin with, although his accent is thick with imperfections and on first impressions we are from other sides of the track, I enjoy his company.

He tells me that his name is Peyton and he has recently returned to his family after a failed attempt to travel the world with friends, all this time I feel a guilt-ridden need to ask about his marks but resist. As I begin to tell him a warped story as to how I find myself on the reserved floor of The White Hart our conversation is cut short.

There is a sudden knocking at the door and we both turn our heads to see Alpha standing there, his body filling nearly the entire space that the door would usually inhabit.

"Sorry to interrupt you two, I have just heard word that Mr Morland will be joining you momentarily."

It feels very strange to hear well spoken English after spending time with Peyton and somehow the correct pronunciation of words almost feels alien to me.

"Son, you know how I feel about you slacking from your work responsibilities. We owe the Hart a great deal, remember that." Alpha utters with a fixed stare at Peyton, suddenly the jigsaw pieces in my mind click together.

Peyton straightens is posture and once more brushes down his uniform further removing the fictional scuffs.

"And ya know 'ow I feel about this Hart, don't ya? Be gone," he replies with a slight tone of sureness and arrogance about his voice.

"Careful now." his father replies, then he turns to me.

"Young lady, you pay no attention to the boy's gibberish. Enjoy your evening."

With this he turns away and walks out of sight, the sound of his heavy footsteps suggests that for reasons unknown he is taking the stairs and not the elevator.

I jump suddenly as a hand touches mine. I look down and see Peyton's hand is upon me, my eyes drift upwards and connect with his. There is seriousness inside his gaze.

"Na you listen to me as a will not say it twice nor thrice," his voice seems to close on me and the ambient music being played around the room seems to fade away to the background. "Don't ya do anythang ya don't agree with, ya understand. There's very little this world can force ya to do."

My heart rises in my chest as for a moment we would appear to be sharing the same thought and level of understanding.

"You're a free woman, ya come and go as ya please, ya not a pet, understand wot I'm saying? Know why it is a'm saying dis?"

There is silence. I am speechless.

He knows although I do not understand how.

There is yet another sharp knock at the door and for a second time my body jumps in surprise, I turn to see the same man I saw this morning.

The man before me is the person that with assistance roamed about my body, pierced the entrance of me and carelessly groped roughly at my chest. His face is familiar but everything else is either a blurry memory or absolute mystery.

Adjacent to me I hear a voice that unbeknownst I would not hear again for quite some time and even then, when I would next hear it I would not be the same person.

"Nah you remember wot I said, 'ear me? I'll keep ya coat by this bar so you come collect it when ya need it. A'm 'ere all evening."

I walk over to greet Nathaniel, there is no harm in saying hello and I feel safe with Peyton nearby, for now.

-Chapter 5-

Over an hour has now passed since my arrival at the White Hart and in such a comparatively short amount of time so very much has happened, so much in fact that to try and recall those events in any order makes my head spin. I think back over my adventure thus far.

I met Nathaniel and we talked, which is to say that he spoke to me and with an overwhelming sense of both fear and embarrassment I listened; occasionally giving meek responses.

Meek. An adjective meaning quiet, gentle, and easily imposed on; submissive.

During this talk Nathaniel acts as if we have known each other for many years but in truth I am certain he doesn't even know my name. So strange to find yourself in a space with a person that has shared such an outlandish moment in your life and yet they cannot utter your name at a minimum; I find this deeply unsettling.

We walk as we talk and as quickly as I was undone over the table in the Passing Tides he soon has me exactly where I suspect he wants me, alone in what is possibly a guest room.

The room's design is almost stereotypical of the modern hotel, it is undoubtedly a pleasant chamber but lacks personality and has an almost soulless sentiment to it.