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PF-019: Lassitude by Newton Webb
"Lacitude" by Newton Webb. 1987, Soho, London. The scotch swirled in Alfie's glass. The single ice cube clinked from side to side as it slowly melted. "You know ice kills the aroma?" A gentleman dressed in a vibrant white suit slid through the heaving crowds and sat down beside him. It's only house scotch. Alfie's eyes never left his glass. It's a house scotch kind of day. His expression was at odds with the upbeat pop music blasting through the speakers in the cramped Soho bar. The man's eyes widened theatrically. I see. And do house scotch days happen often? Every day or so it seems lately. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. If you don't mind my inquiring, what causes these house scotch days? Love, money, or fear?" He peered at Alfie through the red lenses of a pair of round spectacles. Alfie put down his glass and scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Lacitude. Endless waves of lacitude. The medication only makes it worse." The man looked pointedly at the scotch. "I can see that. What is it you are avoiding doing?" "I'm a writer. Four years now." Alfie leaned back, cracking his spine and sniffing. "Oh, I meet a lot of writers. Might I have read any of your work?" Alfie scoffed. "Fat chance of that. I am still working on my debut." The man frowned. "For four years? What drafter you on?" Chapter 6. First draught. The bills are mounting. My savings dwindle. Yet I cannot for the life of me find the inspiration to write. Alfie gave a grim smile. So I play computer games instead. I don't even like the games. It's a slow, gray death." They sat in silence. Alfie finished his scotch. The man sat pensively. His hands steepled together. "Anyway," Alfie said. "It's been a pleasure." He waved at the barman, who was mixing a mojito. "Thank you." The barman waved back. The man smiled at him. "I do hope you choose life and find your way. You are, after all, on this earth for such a short time." Alfie snorted. "We are, don't you mean?" "What do you do, by the way?" I never asked. The man rose, gathering up a black cane topped with a silver skull. "I talk to people. It has been a pleasure, Alfie. I wish you all the best." He slipped through the crowds of people clamoring to get to the bar for a drink. "Home?" "Or another drink." It was dark outside, but the lights of Soho illuminated the heaving mass of people, all preparing for the clubs to open. Seeking a quieter bar, Alfie slipped into what he thought was Frith Street. He looked with confusion at the dead street. It was pitch black. The shops and bars were all boarded up. Alfie glanced back at Old Compton Street, from where the vibrant lights and sounds still spilled out. "I've walked every inch of Soho. How come I've never seen this street before?" Alfie looked down to the end, where it veered to the right. That must lead out into Frith Street, or Soho Square. The unnerving darkness provided a sense of peace. As dangerous as it felt, Alfie was grateful to escape the crowds, if only for a moment. He strode down the street, sidestepping to avoid an abandoned bottle. All these bins, and they still drop their rubbish, he thought angrily, though not angrily enough to actually pick up the bottle and put it in a bin. The sounds of Old Compton Street were dying away as he approached the turning. He sped up. The novelty of the quietness had worn off, and now the silence and the dead stillness only left him with a panicky sense of foreboding. He took a sharp intake of breath, and felt a chill run down his spine as he rushed around the corner to find. "Where the hell am I?" He saw another dead street stretching out in front of him. The blackness was only broken by the light of the pale sliver of moon above him. He looked for landmarks, the centre point tower, anything, but all he saw was the hollow dregs of a dead city and darkness surrounding him. Confused, he backpedaled a step, then spun round as he heard a sound behind him, a clinking, rasping sound. Alfie jumped. It might as well be a clarion bell in this desolate urban wasteland. He looked over his shoulder. Three short figures in hoodies and track suits were approaching him from down the street. One of them was dragging a chain along the concrete road. The one in the centre was swinging a baseball bat back and forth. The last of them pulled out a kitchen knife. As the moonlight played over its surface, it glittered menacingly. Alfie's heart pounded in his chest. He strode forwards, trying not to look as though he was panicking. As he moved ever deeper into the derelict cityscape, he glanced back. The figures were maintaining their distance, but they still followed him with a predatory gate. His breath fogged in the cold night air. There was a loud metallic bang as the knife-wielding figure leapt with unexpected athleticism onto a large bin. His trainers slamming down onto the heavy lid. He sat, silently, on his haunches, regarding Alfie. His head tilted at an angle. That was enough for Alfie. He burst into a sprint. He aimed for the tea junction ahead of him. Soho was tiny. He was bound to emerge into the safety of the crowd soon enough. It didn't take long for his breath to turn ragged, as great gouts of steam erupted from his lungs. Too much time at his desk had reduced his once healthy physique to that of a broken sedentary creature. Alfie didn't dare look behind him. He focused on the street ahead. It wasn't far. He could see his goal. He veered right. He knew he had entered from Old Compton Street so he had to be running parallel to it. Coughing and spluttering, he turned the corner to see more of this urban hellscape stretching forwards. He stumbled onwards, but his energy was spent and despair gripped him. His beleaguered breath tasted of copper. He glanced behind him to see the menacing figures the same distance away, but still moving forwards, approaching him calmly, confident that he would never escape. Alfie rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out his wallet, keys, phone, even a used tissue. Everything he had, he laid out on the street in front of him. There, just take it. I don't want any trouble. The figures continued to approach him with deadly intent, and Alfie continued to back away, all the time watching them closely, his hands shaking with fear. The central figure casually kicked Alfie's offering into the curb as the three thugs maintained their slow and threatening gate. Tears pricked Alfie's eyes. What the fuck do you want? The figure with the knife mimicked slicing his throat. They were only meters away now. There was a clatter behind him, as the retreating figure of Alfie managed to kick over an empty bottle in his haste. He spun round and snatched it up, shattering the flat end on the curb. "Just fuck off," he shouted. "Just fuck off. I want to live." He advanced towards them as they spread out around him. "I want to live. I want to live." A hand rested on his shoulder. Archie jumped in terror, then turned to find himself looking straight into the eyes of the man from the bar. He was looking through his spectacles at the figures in front of them. Under his inscrutable gaze, the three hooded forms fell back and melted away into the darkness. "I think you are going to be all right now," he gestured with the silver skull on the end of his cane. Alfie's eyes followed the skull and felt relief wash over him as he saw the brightly lit entrance to Old Compton Street and heard the commotion of the crowds once again. "How did I miss that? Run along now. You don't belong here. You never did." Alfie didn't hesitate. He raced towards the music and the hectic pulse of Soho, immersing himself in the beating heart of the city. He spurned the bars and headed straight for the underground, seeking the safety of home. His laptop sat in front of him. The blank page that had proved to be such an imposing obstacle to him had gone, and the words "Chapter 7" had appeared. The keyboard clattered as his fingers struggled to keep up with his mind. Alfie lived.