Moving Day

Peter climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. The sub-basement led into a store room. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, full of plastic storage boxes, re-purposed plastic buckets and mysterious parcels. The air was full of spice and pungent smells. He hurried through, having no interest in the contents. A further flight led to a narrow corridor. At one end a flight of stairs led further up. At the other end a door stood closed. Half way along a door stood open, second-hand daylight filtering into the dark hallway. Peter made his way along the hall. Muted voices recited something too low for Peter to catch the meaning. He paused at the open door. The hushed chant stopped abruptly and three women snapped their heads to look at him. They stood around a chair, in which another woman sat, her face covered in green paste and her hands gripping the arms so tightly her knuckles were white.

Peter nodded at them and hurried on. As he opened the door the chanting started up again. He stepped out and blinked in the grey light. God, he had missed being underground. Even the overcast sky was too bright, too far above him.

The exit he had just used consisted of a non-descript door flanked by lines of doorbells. Various names in various scripts announced the residents to anyone who could read them. A shop front, its windows papered, had a sigil which meant nothing to him. Presumably it meant something to those who needed to know. He thought of the white-knuckled woman. Women with skin complaints, maybe?

He walked down the narrow street towards a main road. At the junction he made a note of the street - Grenfield Row -- then looked for his bearings. Whitechapel Road, so Brick Lane would be down there, so his flat would be... over there somewhere. The road was quiet, most non-fae heading towards the Petticoat Lane market. He crossed the road and hurried into the side streets.

He would kill for a drink. Maybe a bit of breakfast, but mostly a drink. Even a cup of tea. George, bless his cotton socks, didn't possess a kettle. He didn't possess anything, as far as Peter could discern, except for the bed, and that was now Peter's for the time being. He had magicked up a second bottle of water, but Peter passed the corner shops and cafes with envy, each one mocking his thirst and empty pockets.

At last he reached his digs, an ancient house converted into a fae doss-house by the simple expedient of putting up paper-thin partitions and dividing generous rooms into tiny cubicles. He reached his room without meeting anyone. He switched on the electric kettle then proceeded to stuff his meagre possessions into a plastic bin bag. He had finished packing before the kettle had boiled.

He surveyed the sum of his worth after how many years on this earth? The kettle clicked off as the lights went out. Great. The electricity meter had run out of money. It was symbolic. Of what, he wasn't sure, but it was deeply symbolic of something or other. He touched the side of the kettle. Good enough for a lukewarm cup of tea. He rinsed out his only mug, dropped in a tea bag and let it stew in the tepid water. He was going to have a cup of tea. He had been craving one since he woke up, and he was damned if the Fates would deny him one now, even if it was the world's most disgusting brew.

He dried the kettle out on a tea towel and dropped that into the bag. He took a sip of the tea and grimaced. But it was a point of principle now, so he gulped it down, rinsed and dried the mug and put that in the bag.

With one last glance around the flat he threw the bag over his shoulder and left. At the door he turned and shouted, "I'm off. And you can tell that thieving git of a landlord he can pull this week's rent out his arse!" No one cheered. No one did anything. He paused for a moment, then turned and stepped out into the street.

Back at Grenfield Row he let himself in through the street door with the key George had given him. The shop door halfway along the corridor was mercifully closed this time, but when he descended into the basement the three women were there, stood around a cardboard box. One of them slammed the lid shut and all three stared at him. He nodded a greeting again, walked across to the stairs and descended into the sub-basement.

"Honey, I'm home," he called out as he walked through the door, then stopped dead.

"Peter," said Creteus, rising from the bed where he had been sitting. "Welcome home."