Forgotten

It was a pretty muggy night. Nobody was on the street, except for a few drunkards and the occasional homeless bloke. But this didn’t bother Clarence. Anyone that stayed in the Bloody Eye Tavern wouldn’t be expected to care if the man next to him was gunned down. Clarence looked down at his pint. He always had a pint. It was his escape. His escape from work, his escape from money, his escape from folks he owed money to. It was all just a clever escape.

“Hit me again.” Said Clarence, a haze over his eyes, looking down at the bar top. The bar keeper was kind enough to oblige. And Clarence showed his thanks by gulping the post-kerosene fluid down. Clarence had nothing to do now. He’s had his fill of the dirty whiskey and the place was starting to wave up into his mind, like a bad sniff of snuff. Snuff. That was high on some folks charts. Not as high as before. Now it was Opium. All they wanted was Opium this and Opium that. Oh well, as long as no-one offered him any, it was okay.

Clarence left the tavern and walked down the slippery, muggy streets of London. It was a shoddy city. Had nothing to offer a man with nothing to give. Not the kind of city that forgives and forgets. No, this city remembers what you did and pays you back. Ten fold. And in this case, Clarence was heading home, a place he’d like to forget. He walked down the streets, looking at the black cars, with dark head-lights, staring into you, like black eyes, watching you move, ready to pounce.

The dark alleys of London, well known for there murders but even more, their stench. They looked like gateways to Small slits in time, waiting to take you in and drop you down a gorge. Life was a gorge. A long drop that never ended when you wanted it to, but turned out a few feet smaller then you had hoped.

Clarence rounded the corner up to his flat. His office that just happened to have a bed and toilet. It was a horrible little joint. He walked up the stairs to the small building. 475 South Maple Ridge Ave. His own little flat. He reached the door. There it was, written out in cheap gold lettering that was already ripping off.

Clarence Warell, Private Investigator
No. 14
No. 14. What a room number. Four-teen. Clarence unlocked the door and opened it up. He wanted to feel at home, but he was never at home. Wanderers don’t have homes.

The room was small. Had a desk looking at the door, covered in papers, blue prints, mug shots, clues and whiskey bottles. Incase he had to escape. Behind the desk were two huge windows, looking out over London, the city that never forgives. The floor of the room was covered in papers and old clothing. To his left was a door, led to his reading room. The privy. And on the right a door that led to a closet that had a bed in it for some reason. He went to the closet. Inside was a small bed, a small bed-side table, a table lamp, an alarm clock and a few photos on the walls. Clarence took off his boots and threw them into his office room, then came his trench coat, revealing his holster. It carried Ol’ Faithful, his revolver. It was better then nothing. He took that off, then his tie and smelly button down shirt. Then his pants and socks. He laid down on his bed, relaxing.

“Sleep…” whispered Clarence. It sounded so good. So he decided to indulge himself this evening. He needed something. An escape.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next morning hurt his head. It wasn’t the hangover. It was the knock at the door. The loud knocking. Clarence got up and sighed to himself “Stupid people…knocking at the…HOLD ON A MINUTE!” called out Clarence to silence the echoing booming. “Bugger ‘em…bugger ‘em all” muttered Clarence as he threw on some pants and walked to the door. Behind the door was Wallace, his close friend. He had met him in the Bloody Eye actually. Clarence hit him in the nose and Wallace knocked him in the jaw. They were friends ever since.

“Oi! G’morn!” said Wallace, pushing his way in and tossing a newspaper on the office table. “How ya sleep?” said Wallace, as loud as he could. He could see the hangover Clarence had. It was so obvious. In fact, it was in the kitchen making a coffe. “Wonderful to see you…Wallace…at…what time is it?” asked Clarence. “Roughly one o’clock” said Wallace. “And you woke me up thi-“.

“In the afternoon.” interrupted Wallace. Another man may have cursed his hangover. But Clarence was glad he missed the morning. Nothing to do anyhow. It was a waste of time. Only thing it brought was the newspaper. And that only rarely helped. He needed work. Not some useless tidbit of information that Mrs. Willinson’s cat is missing

“Remember Father Steven? Down by the church at Cambrige Rd.?” said Wallace, with a hint of a story in his throat. “Yes…?” said Clarence. “Yea…well…he was almost shot. Bullets all over the damn place. Windows broke. It’s a mad house…” muttered out Wallace, like he didn’t much mind.

“That so?” said Clarence, already dressing up. “What the hell are you doing?” asked Wallace. “I’m gunna check it out tonight.” Said Clarence.
“Don’t do it!” said Wallace.
“Why not?” asked Clarence, checking his revolver.
“It might not be safe, what if they try and finish off the job?” stuttered out Wallace.
“Why would they? I wanna know.” Said Clarence.
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Said Wallace. Clarence walked to the door and tossed Wallace some keys. “Lock up after yourself.” Outside, as Clarence walked to the Bloody Eye, the window opened up and out called Wallace.
“Your gunna get killed!”
Clarence only shouted back up: “Hey, what ever happens
, Happens”

Clarence blew himself out at the bar, taking a few pints and just watching the walls, listening to the soft sound of the jazz and bebop coming out of the juke box. Time passed like slowly. Like a bad dream. It finally struck six o’clock. Clarence left and headed for the church.

It was still a bad dream. Just a bad dream. It was all so clear however.

Clarence knew the other kids well and played in the yard with them, because Father Steven encouraged him to be a big boy. And now someone wanted him dead. Life was such a horrible dream. If only he could forget.

As Clarence rounded the corner, he saw his old home, the Saint Eve’s Church, almost completely destroyed. All the glass was everywhere. Bricks and debris. It was horrible.
“This looks horr-“ Clarence was cut off by a car driving by, full fire on the cathedral.

Clarence looked on in horror as the car stopped and several men got out, rushing in. More gun shots. The sound of running. Clarence rounded to the door and looked in. Just in time to see Father Steven gunned down by some goon. He fell life-less to the floor, dripping blood. Dripping reality.

Clarence drew his revolver and fired at the gun man who had killed the father. He fell down like a master-less marionette. Clarence dove behind the pews as the other men opened fire upon him. Shells fell and sparks flew. The room was abuzz with the shots fired. Clarence prepared himself and made a mad dash across the church isle, firing at the men on his left, connecting with all three of them. They dropped too.

Clarence dove behind the alter, near the body of the poor deceased Father Steven. Bullets rang out like crystal bells and lights flickered in the room. Clarence reloaded. He got the first man…three more. There were maybe five left if he remembered correctly. Clarence stood up and fired a few bullets at the nearest man, hitting him in the head and dropping him to the ground like a small rag doll. Clarence ran by, emptying the last few bullets in his chamber into some guys arm, making him drop his gun. But Clarence didn’t see the figure in the doorway, who fired at him.

It hit him like a slap across the face. A wake up call. Clarence clutched his sholder and fell to his side, scrambling to the pews, but was caught by his feet by someone’s hands. It was Wallace.

“I told you you’d get hurt, Clarence.” Said Wallace. Clarence glared at Wallace. “Why?” said Clarence.
“What better place to drop off weapons then some old church? Or drop off Opium, but old man Steven wasn’t too quick to leave. So we helped him out” said Wallace.

The speech gave Clarence enough time to unscrew the top of his whiskey flask in his coat pocket and fling some of the whiskey into Wallace’s eyes.

Wallace fell to the ground, clutching his eyes, shouting at the goons to open fire at Clarence once more. He dove outside and scrambled behind the old car and looked in. Explosives. TNT, Dynamite, Gun Powder. It was loaded. They were going to total the church and use it to drop off drugs and weapons and anything they wanted or needed. Clarence reached in and grabs one of the six grenades inside.

“Pretty expensive…not on my pension anyhow.” Said Clarence to himself. By now the bullets were twanging against the car, stripping off pain and shattering glass. Clarence ran from behind the car to the side of the church, to the back, to the playground.

Wallace and Clarence played everyday on the swing set, at the church playground. Now they were playing just once more. Only one of them would walk away.
Walk Placidly

Clarence ran up to the side entrance of the church, tested the knob. It was unlocked. Thank God. He never could really kick a door down. The door swung open. Clarence was given a split second. That was all it took. The unknowing goon took a bullet straight in the head. He never would have known.

Another bullet slammed into Clarence. Except not his right shoulder. His left. His arms were useless. He was done for. Clarence made a mad dash for the ladder in the back office room of the church. He darted in, slammed the door shut and tried desperately to climb the ladder. As he reached the top, the door slammed open. He got one glance. Wallace.

Clarence darted past the organ pipes and to the giant stain glass window of the Virgin Mary holding aloft Jesus Christ. He turned and waited. He waited for Wallace. He wanted to finish this like the old days.

High noon! Draw you cow poke!

Clarence watched Wallace walk over, gun down by his side. They walked to each other and nodded, then went back to back.

“Twenty paces” said Wallace.
“Then draw.” Said Clarence.

Clarence began to walk but something was wrong. One pair of foot steps. Clarence turned around and received a gun to the face, slapping him to face the stained-glass window. Clarence turned to Wallace and they both raised their guns and pulled back the hammers.

“You always did cheat.” said Clarence.
“Look where it got me.” Said Wallace.

Bang

Clarence didn’t move. He didn’t have to. The shot fired into his shoulder and blew him out the window, sending him falling. It was all like a bad dream. Clarence was glad he had pulled the pin a few seconds before. The grenade he had sat peacefully by Wallace’s feet.

Clarence fell in slow motion. The glass falling, sparkling in the moon light, and the first beginnings of snow. It had begun to snow. Just in time for Christmas too.

As Clarence fell, a tongue of fire flashed out and then expanded, filling his few, pushing the glass and him, faster down. The flames and fire enveloping the window pane.
Clarence fell. He was shot, he was cut, he was having a bad dream.

“Hmmm…” mumbled Clarence. He reached for the whiskey flask. It was gone. Blow away by the blast. It lay on the swing set. Clarence chuckled.

“I won’t need to forget anymore.” Said Clarence, wincing as he spoke. He poured reality all over. He poured reality all over the freshly fallen snow. Carving a river of reality. It flowed down the snow, to the playground and towards the whiskey flask, surround it. He let out his reality. There was no more to shed. No more bad dreams. No more to forget. Now we would forget all he wanted. And be forgotten.

Ozius

Ozius