He watches her all the way. Every step. He wants her to look back so he can see her face one last time, and prays she doesn’t. She seems resolute, seems to know what has to be done. It doesn’t help the weight in his chest, or the lump in his throat.
Music spills out when she opens the door. It sounds warm in there. Happy. He hopes to God she’s happy.
And then she closes the door, and is gone in a flash of light.
For a moment, he just stares at the door. Then he looks down at the numbers in his gloved hand. 6620. He doesn’t know what having them will mean, but…yeah, he’s glad he does. Maybe next time, it won’t hurt so much. Maybe having them will bring him a step closer to resolution, whatever that is. Who knows?
There’s a sound from the street behind him. Keats is still there. Laughing that laugh of his now, but the bastard’s still mental, still beaten. If this can be called a win for anyone.
He pushes the thought of her down, hardens his face and turns. Some blokes just don’t know when to shut up.
‘All alone.’ Keats lurches towards him. Not a pretty sight. Whatever’s operating the limbs isn’t doing a very good job of it. ‘No one to care. Awwww. Diddums.’
He just stands. Waits. The mocking doesn’t twist like it did. There’s no one here to see, this time. Keats snarls like an animal, losing it, spitting his hate but Gene does nothing but grab the lapels of his coat, and drag him up close. This thing isn’t worth another split knuckle over. The Gene Genie won the day (didn’t he?), and he can afford to be magnanimous. So he just shoves him away, and watches as he stumbles, rights himself, and starts to laugh again. Laugh, and sing.
He’s walking away. Gene could almost roll his eyes, except…yeah, they probably will. And it won’t be any fun then, either. Keats stops, and breathes deep. They look at each other down twenty yards of street, bathed in streetlight, and the unearthly glow of The Railway Arms.
‘All alone, Gene. See ya!
…wouldn’t want to be ya.’
And he’s laughing again, howling into the stillness. When he spins away, the limp is gone, the crack in the voice is fixed. Off to torment the poor souls (Viv) in his funhouse somewhere, no doubt. The echo of his cackling dies away. Gene just stands in the street, arms by his side. He won. He did. They’re safe, and at peace and…gone.
Keats just told the truth, for once in his life.
He doesn’t move until the only light in the road comes from the street lamps overhead. Only then does he look over his shoulder. The pub is gone, leaving boarded up shop fronts in its place. And that’s that. There’s nothing to do but start walking. He reaches inside his coat for a cigarette, and takes one last look at the numbers before dropping them into his pocket. He can’t think about what they mean. Later. He’ll think about it later.
He should go to his house. Or a pub. A different pub, that is. He lets his feet take him in the direction of home instead, pounding the beat of Fenchurch East on the way back to the station. There’s a tingling in the back of his mind, telling him that maybe this day isn’t done. When you fall off the horse, you’re supposed to get right back in the saddle, aren’t you?
He doesn’t want to get back in the saddle. He wants to sit and fix the details of her kiss into his memory, burn it there so he’ll never forget it again. But there’s a job to do first.
( I was needed, and I was there.)
And he can’t let her put him off his stride. He’s the Gene Genie, and everything else will have to wait.
no subject
Music spills out when she opens the door. It sounds warm in there. Happy. He hopes to God she’s happy.
And then she closes the door, and is gone in a flash of light.
For a moment, he just stares at the door. Then he looks down at the numbers in his gloved hand. 6620. He doesn’t know what having them will mean, but…yeah, he’s glad he does. Maybe next time, it won’t hurt so much. Maybe having them will bring him a step closer to resolution, whatever that is. Who knows?
There’s a sound from the street behind him. Keats is still there. Laughing that laugh of his now, but the bastard’s still mental, still beaten. If this can be called a win for anyone.
He pushes the thought of her down, hardens his face and turns. Some blokes just don’t know when to shut up.
‘All alone.’ Keats lurches towards him. Not a pretty sight. Whatever’s operating the limbs isn’t doing a very good job of it. ‘No one to care. Awwww. Diddums.’
He just stands. Waits. The mocking doesn’t twist like it did. There’s no one here to see, this time. Keats snarls like an animal, losing it, spitting his hate but Gene does nothing but grab the lapels of his coat, and drag him up close. This thing isn’t worth another split knuckle over. The Gene Genie won the day (didn’t he?), and he can afford to be magnanimous. So he just shoves him away, and watches as he stumbles, rights himself, and starts to laugh again. Laugh, and sing.
‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when….’
He’s walking away. Gene could almost roll his eyes, except…yeah, they probably will. And it won’t be any fun then, either. Keats stops, and breathes deep. They look at each other down twenty yards of street, bathed in streetlight, and the unearthly glow of The Railway Arms.
‘All alone, Gene. See ya!
…wouldn’t want to be ya.’
And he’s laughing again, howling into the stillness. When he spins away, the limp is gone, the crack in the voice is fixed. Off to torment the poor souls (Viv) in his funhouse somewhere, no doubt. The echo of his cackling dies away. Gene just stands in the street, arms by his side. He won. He did. They’re safe, and at peace and…gone.
Keats just told the truth, for once in his life.
He doesn’t move until the only light in the road comes from the street lamps overhead. Only then does he look over his shoulder. The pub is gone, leaving boarded up shop fronts in its place. And that’s that. There’s nothing to do but start walking. He reaches inside his coat for a cigarette, and takes one last look at the numbers before dropping them into his pocket. He can’t think about what they mean. Later. He’ll think about it later.
He should go to his house. Or a pub. A different pub, that is. He lets his feet take him in the direction of home instead, pounding the beat of Fenchurch East on the way back to the station. There’s a tingling in the back of his mind, telling him that maybe this day isn’t done. When you fall off the horse, you’re supposed to get right back in the saddle, aren’t you?
He doesn’t want to get back in the saddle. He wants to sit and fix the details of her kiss into his memory, burn it there so he’ll never forget it again. But there’s a job to do first.
And he can’t let her put him off his stride. He’s the Gene Genie, and everything else will have to wait.