Resurrection

Chapter 18: The Dying Father

The wandering gipsy bandwagon had made a semi-permanent pit-stop at Bishopsgate st, allowing Lazlo to thrive in his native habitat. Upon my entry into this lavish reincarnation of the grand bazaar I noticed most of the entourage had gone missing, yet they left their leavings behind for everyone to see: Dvds, video cameras, boxes, containers, newspapers everywhere; life as hoarders would seem appropriate if not for the fact that these people would sell everything within the week. Fringe dwellers, outsiders, the last exiles, these people had made a living pursuing petty crimes like fraud, mugging and selling cheap knock-off items. The place was not becoming of better tidings, openly showcasing room after room of the typical squatter's cliché': Festering rubbish in every corner, mould, deep cracks in each wall, water spots under a leaking ceiling and the wafting odour of the unknown.

The system, though all authoritative and consuming, can be subverted through several types of organised crime. I needed a chance to escape the strictures of Adam's dogged life in order to pursue higher aspirations. Destination unknown would still require a fake passport, i.d. and the means to blend in.

I couldn't help but notice my little helper was crashed out on the lounge, drooling over a stack of cushions and rugs. I could only hope the clothes were not worn by this slightly evolved monkey all week long. A few quick slaps across the face roused this little gypsy from his slumber.

"Hey! What the fuck?"

He wasn't reacting favourably amid the chaos of his chosen lifestyle, drag lines skirted his arms like a highway to hell.

At last, a hint of recognition washed over his face.

"Hey, it's the Aussie." He exclaimed with more enthusiasm than a hungover haze was worth.

"The one with the balls." I replied.

"Exactly."

"Why would you wake me up at such an hour?" He grizzled.

"It's 3 p.m." I noted.

"What happens?"

"What do you mean, what happens?"

He scratched his head a bunch of times, winced and rubbed his eyes before replying.

"What happens during the daylight?: I don't think I've been up this early."

It was tough to keep a straight face.

" I thought you were a day-walker.. don't you shimmer in the light?"

(I have kept up with the times somewhat)

"There's that humour again...How did you find me?"

"Through Czaba."

"That douchebag. How is he?"

"Off his dial, he was crunching down the oxy's last I saw him."

"Fucking asshole's digging an early grave....So what can I do for you? Which service do you require?"

It wasn't long after his spiel, the quick change of money and we started the shift.

I could have hovered round and watched his dirty work at play but I wasn't up to 24 hours in the squalor. Instead I went people watching for another lengthy period of history before eventually returning. In less than a day, I had a new identity and the face beaming back to me belonged to a Mister Alexander Devonport. Chip inserted, Holograms and all the right looking information: This certainly looked the goods.

People may ask why I simply didn't tie up this loose end and leave Laszlo with a permanent timber coat on. What can I say? : 1. More bodies just leads to more questions and Scotland Yard fast on my heels. 2. The bohemians are happy to operate outside the law themselves so were very unlikely to speak to the law at any time (Could I trust them? No. But they had no love for the empire) and 3. I happened to actually like the guy.

Leaving the gipsy joker behind, I went to work on forging a new life; a whole new world of possibilities. The very thought of a magnanimous freedom was punching at my heart with the rush I could barely cling on to. An amazing joyous feeling of a nefarious warmth spread through my body like thick molasses. I was a beacon for opportunity. The lost aspirations of my former host were melting into the background. Adam's conscience was the dying father of paternal values. Without its constrictions, there was nothing left to stem the avalanche.