Lost Alone Along A Long Road.

1.

Blood never really looks red under the sodium orange glow of the street lights. It bears a darker hue which was why Nathan Kirk thought it was something else. The elaborate pattern painted onto pavement bared little in common with the scrawling graffiti upon the rusted shutters of disused chemist's. There was a circle perimeter around the main body of work which appeared as a thick horizontal line bisecting the circle. This thick line had smaller elegant squiggles which waved and looped over and under the horizontal, back and forth, almost akin to the Celtic knot design but less symmetrical. Whomever had created the strange painting had not stuck around to hear any critiques of it, the street Nathan stood on was empty, of people, of cars, of successful businesses. While examining the pattern he had not noticed the street was bereft of sound, but it soon became uneasily apparent. No hissing echoes of night, no rapid concussive thuds of boy racers in distant cars, no trickling of water in the drains or pipes, even the normally omnipresent buzz of the electrical wires was missing. This lack of sound was too uncanny for him to endure, his skin crawled, rippled with an icy cold brought on by fear. Nathan decided it was a good time to leave, to find his way off this street and onto one of the main thoroughfares that sliced through the city centre like appendectomy scars.

He'd taken a wrong turn when leaving the Black Mare, well not exactly taken. He'd been drunk and bursting for a piss and snuck down an alleyway to relieve himself of the six or so pints of lager he'd drank while watching the Euro cup final. Somehow he'd managed to end up on this street as he backed out the alley. The road was long, straight and seemingly endless. Two parallel lines of red brick tenements stretching to infinite. All the bottom floor shops were shuttered, all the close doors sealed off with iron panels, all the windows of those homes above, dark and curtainless but Nathan could swear there were people in them, watching him. He fancied he could see the occasional shadow move. With a sense of increasing trepidation he began to walk along the cracked pavement trying to find the name of the street or the name of some shop he might have recognised but soon he realised he had never even heard the names of most of the places. Barghest's, Dunnie's, Shellycoat's, Gyre-Carling's, names which meant nothing to him yet seemed oddly familiar and curiously frightful. Perhaps it was all the rusted shutters, the mad incoherent graffiti scrawled across them but Nathan decided not to continue looking, slid his eyes forward and walked on down the road.

It was a long while before he realised that the street really did seem to go on forever. He must have walked several miles by his calculations and yet there had been no change, no alleyways, crossroads, no open shops, not even a light from an upstairs window. Nothing but his own footsteps cutting through the eerie, unwholesome silence. Yet through all of this there was still the creeping feeling that he was being observed, maybe even followed considering the distance he'd travelled. This set his nerves to tremble and saturate him with a rising feeling of dread. He continued, quickening his pace, not daring to look round, fearing that he would turn to face some hideous thing dredged up from the nightmares of some demented and malevolent entity. He could almost imagine it, breathing on his shoulders, a hot, wet stench mere inches from his skull.

Best keep moving, he thought, there had to be some change, somewhere he could cross off this bleak and ghostly road. Miles and hours passed, the dread gave way to despair, to exhaustion. He slogged on, his mind becoming fogged, barely aware of his surroundings. His legs became like rubber and somewhere, at some point, he had collapsed into sleep.

Awaking in pain, Nathan found himself at ground level on the hard pavement, a small sticky pool of drying blood and saliva adhering his right cheek against the cracked slabs. His arm, neck and shoulders throbbed but not as much as his nose and forehead, which he hastily touched to feel a sharp burst of agony. Nathan suspected he'd fallen face first. All of this was nothing compared to the embarrassment he felt for getting drunk and collapsing unconscious on the street. The cherry on this particular cake was that his hangover was also awful. Picking himself up with a groan he looked up at the starless sky and was thankful that he had not, at least, slept all night on the street like some vagrant. It was not until he tried to get his bearings and identify his location that he realised, once again, where he was.

The long tarmac and architectural monotony stretched on and on and Nathan once again plummeted into despair. Had he slept moments or hours? Day was nowhere near arrival by the looks of it, nor was any sign of exterior life, just the dull empty silence. He refused to accept the situation knowing that the city was not that big, he had to find an out somewhere, all he needed to do was keep walking. He'd been drunk, he concluded, had imagined the street was some kind of straight-line labyrinth, if he kept walking he'd find somewhere off it, or someone who could help him. If he hadn't been such a technophobe he'd have picked up the mobile phone his wife had given him, if he had had that on his person he could have called her, or a taxi, or even an ambulance, he was sure his nose was broken. Nathan trotted on.

After the longest while, he noticed something on the other side of the road in the distance. A small greyish heap that appeared to be moving as he got closer. As the distance continued to shorten he realised it was a figure, someone else, someone who had also seemingly collapsed on the street. He quickened his pace hoping that this stranger could provide him with some answers. What he found was a tramp, with wild eyes and hair and a long beard like that of an old testament prophet. The heap of a man was ancient, stinking and his clothes were almost tatters. His feet were bare and calloused. Worst of all the old man's skin wriggled as if there were things squirming around in his sub-dermal tissues. Upon spotting Nathan he laughed, not a laugh of relief nor a pleasant chuckle but a full bodied cackle of insanity. Struggling to raise himself to his feet the old vagrant pointed at Nathan and then drooling said something that was part mumble part nonsense.

“Turnroon' gaun yer heid back doon. No again no again.” Something like that, as far as Nathan could tell.

Nathan suspected it was pointless trying to reason with the man but tried anyway. “D'you know whit street this is, mate?”

“Aye, siswan.” nodded the old tramp.

It was exactly as Nathan had thought, useless. “Aye, fair enough auld yin, I'll leave ye be.”

“Aye, aye.” Began the tramp before starting to cry. “Naw, naw, it's no fair, no oan me, nor you.”

Nathan slowly began backing away, he had his own problems and there was nothing he could do to help. The old man sniffled and then stared at Nathan for a second before lunging towards him. His hands grasped around Nathan's throat, his spindly fingers dug tight, as if attempting to strangle Nathan but he was too weak, far far too weak. With a modicum of struggle, Nathan pushed the tramp away who wobbled and then toppled back down onto the ground.

“Fuck aff. Jesus.” Nathan cried. He wondered if he should put the boot in, but decided against it, the miserable wreck was already sobbing on the ground muttering to himself

“Snae use, snae use” the tramp muttered, looking at the pavement.

Nathan had to agree and so left the old man and continued up the road, or down it, he had no idea which way he was really going.

2.

He did not know how long he'd walked, nor how many hours he'd wept or slept, nor how many days should have passed. He did not know hunger or thirst, only an aching weariness, a sense of defeat which he refused to submit to. He kept walking and walking and walking. Nathan proceeded down the road in a state of half awareness, the shuttered shops and dark windows of the tenements were so familiar to his sight that they no longer provided him with any information which was relevant to his situation. His mind began to project itself onto his perceptions, tricks of vision or sound were common, hallucinations, waking dreams of people he knew walking beside him, skittering cats toppling bin lids just out of sight, even the noise of cars. Even these self created phantasms grew mundane and easily ignorable, Nathan walked through that world almost as empty inside as it was outside. It was being in that state which made him nearly miss the alleyway, nearly.

At first he thought it just another wish fulfilment dredged up by his imagination, another urban mirage to be dismissed, albeit a rather brutal and dismaying one but no matter how he tried to dismiss it the alley between Scathach's Emporium and Badb's Butchers remained. It was so unexpected, so real that he could not quite believe it. It's existence brought with it a fear he had not expected in all the time he'd wished for a route out of the straight unchanging maze he'd been trapped in. Trepidation deterred his joy, stopped him from laughing and running down it. It was a long dark valley of building and bins, curving off so he could not see the other end. Nathan stood staring at the alley, wondering if this was his route to freedom of some worse version of his apparently endless fate. For a long time he stood, staring at that dark lane, pondering his next move, scared to go down it, terrified not to take the step. His inaction was not without great mental effort as he tried to calculate the millions of dreadful and glorious what ifs running through his mind. Eventually, hesitantly he walked off the road and into the dark alley.

Almost immediately he felt claustrophobic, the buildings seemed taller in that narrow darkness, more oppressive, as if they might topple over. Through the dark and damp alleyway he progressed, slowly and cautiously. The metal bins against the walls gave way to dumpsters overflowing with rubbish and mountainous heaps of black bags until both sides of the alley were so filled with clutter it almost blocked his path. He had to be careful with his footing as he stepped over the stinking litter filled mess but soon he had to pull the bins and bags out of the way to continue. The work got harder the further he got in to the alley, some of the bags burst spewing odd unidentifiable matter out over him. The stuff stank like rotting death and several times he felt like vomiting as the stench assailed him, seeping through his clothes, burying itself deep in the fibres and making him writhe in disgust as the cold reeking dampness touched his skin. Despite this he continued wading through the filthy dump. The rubbish kept multiplying until it walled off his path. A tall pile of black bags lay in front of him and Nathan finally decided he'd had enough. He turned to go back onto the street rather than keep going but as he did he noticed there was nowhere to turn back to. The alleyway behind him had gone, replaced with a dark brick wall, mere inches from him. Nathan roared, rage exploded from him, a frustrated anger akin to madness. Cursing and swearing he tore at the black bags which had dammed his pathway, kicking them and throwing the foul contents behind him with such force that they spattered the wall with slimy and stinking matter.

His temporary insanity subsided hours later when he was finally through. He stood on terra-firma once more, panting and breathing and bearing witness to the street in the distance. After composing himself he ran, desperately towards it, praying he was out, that he was free and soon he had exited the black filthy alleyway only to find himself, once again, on the shuttered endless street. Nathan collapsed to his knees and sobbed, pleading to whatever godly, demonic or supernatural force that had decided to torment him, to let him go. He wailed, begged and hearing no response cried himself into an exhausted sleep.

He refused to move the next day, and the day after that. By his reckoning he sat for over a week in that same spot, never hungry, never thirsty only resolved to not continue with whatever torture was being bestowed upon him. He suspected for a while that something would happen if he did not play the game, but nothing did. Eventually he stood up and once again started walking, without thought of escape, merely to do something.

His clothes became crusty and itchy, his feet blistered and the soles of his shoes worn. Every inch of him seemed to be in pain or in annoyance, his hair grew longer, his beard too still he would not stop. The determination was gone, all that was left was the will to walk, for no purpose other than itself. Other filth ridden alleyways would, from time to time, present themselves but somehow they always led back to the street and he would become more dishevelled, more foul smelling. He lost count of days, weeks and months, sleep only punctuated the one single unending night. Somewhere along the line he forgot he had ever had a life outside walking this street, forgot his wife and family, his past, everything about who he was had been left behind. Still he continued, what else was he going to do?

He finally concluded that he was in Hell, that he had done something so unspeakable that eternal damnation was his reward. This bleak assumption was made all the worse one night when, after travelling in the same direction for years he came to a set of shops he thought he recognised. Barghest's, Dunnie's, Shellycoat's, Gyre-Carling's. Had he imagined this? Had he somehow turned back upon himself by accident? Had he come round full circle? Was there a pattern to all of this, one he'd missed? Nathan continued down the road, this time, paying more attention to his surrounding than he had in years. The incomprehensible graffiti on the shuttered seemed to gleam with potential meaning, he became convinced that all of this was a puzzle to be solved. His flapping ruined shoes were a hindrance to his quickening pace and so he finally kicked them off. He ignored the squirming itching under his skin and the rotten encrustations on his flesh and for the first time in countless nights became aware that he was being watched. He had always been, but had gotten so used to it, like the rest of the street, that it had faded from his senses. Nathan began to get excited, even giggled when he begin to think that perhaps he was lost in a maze after all.

3.

There was purpose, of a sort, to his wanderings now. He began to take note of the odd grafitti symbols, recalled them when the alleyways looped round and he passed them once more or when he came out further than when he had started. Inside his mind he began to construct a map of symbols and alleys, of shop names and streetlights, before long he had, in his own head, a version of the street itself. Straight though it was, it was also round. He uncovered this by walking past all the alleyways and eventually returning to the point at which he had started. This took him the better part of half a dozen years by his calculations but at least he finally knew. The alleyways always appeared and disappeared between the same shops, bisecting the unreal street somehow through a dimension he could not ascertain, but it was there, somewhere. He himself was a mess, his wild hair and beard itched and his skin stank and writhed but he knew someday soon he would find the exit, it was only a matter of time. He redoubled his efforts by walking to the arbitrary beginning point he had noted for himself and then walking back the way he came, just to see if anything changed. Again this took him what seemed like years, sleeping and walking, sleeping and walking, never hungry, never thirsty.

It was going along the road this way that led him to a stark and bleak revelation. One night while he was sitting on the road contemplating the complex multi-dimensional topology of the road and alleyways he spotted in the distance a small dark figure approaching him. This naturally terrified him, especially since he had spent the greater part of his adult life alone on the road. He worried that this interloper may be the hidden watcher he had sensed all this time and felt his muscles tighten and his stomach churn as the figure sped up as it came closer. He imagined some horrible psychopath, some demon, what he did not imagine was a young man, shockingly familiar and yet apparently from another life. He raised himself to his feet as best he could, his ancient muscles did not make it easy. He tried to explain as best he could but his speech had long since atrophied through lack of use. Still he tried.

“Turnroon' gaun yer heid back doon. No again no again.” He pleaded with the young man.

He knew what the lad was going to say, had said it himself a lifetime ago, to an old tramp just like he was now. “D'you know whit street this is, mate?”

How could he explain? How could he even attempt to make himself understood? It was pointless.

“Aye, siswan” He nodded.

The younger version of himself rolled his eyes. “Aye, fair enough auld yin, I'll leave ye be.”

Nathan finally understood. It was a closed loop in both space and time. He'd been trapped in something impossible.

“Aye, aye.” he said, starting to cry. “Naw, naw, it's no fair, no oan me, nor you.”

Nor was it, he'd been lost here for decades, nowhere to go, no-one to talk to, just round and round in circles. It wasn't fair, it was the worst thing in the world. He wanted to save himself from the torment, to have it end before it begun. There was only one way. He reached forward, attempting to strangle his youthful doppelganger. The younger man was far too strong and pushed him away with ease. “Fuck aff. Jesus.”

“Snae use, snae use” Nathan sighed, looking at the pavement. His fate was sealed. He had done this before, was doing it now and would do it in the future. He was part of the whole scheme of this road. Had he always been here? He wondered about the outside world, the world of his family and friends, how much time had passed in that world, the same amount, mere seconds, centuries? He wondered what iteration of this he was, surely not the first, since he had met his older self, the self he was now, so long ago. Did such things even make sense to consider in this place? The young version of himself walked off. Nathan was thankful for that. It occurred to him as he began walking again that perhaps it was not a closed loop, perhaps he would find the way out now that his younger self had found the way in.

His head swam with wonderings. He was not built for such philosophical questions and found that considering them made him feel dizzy, but worse, utterly insignificant, a meaningless lump of flesh orbiting a construction with no centre that he could find, and no way in or out. As he continued he knew he had to exorcise the thoughts, get it all out, down on paper somewhere, if he was not to go utterly insane. There was no paper though, no pen on pencil with which to write. So the thoughts crippled his mind, made him feel useless, like a broken component of a clock.

In the end it was all too much for him to bear and so he tore at the flesh around his emaciated stomach until the blood trickled from it, instantly he felt some release of pressure. He stuck his withered and shaking forefinger into the wound until it was slick with blood and on his knees began to draw the shape of the world he'd been bound in. First' a large circle representing the road then a line through to represent the hidden dimension through it, then the loops and curves of the filthy alleyways. It reminded him of a Celtic knot. When he was finished and still bleeding to death in the gutter, he marvelled that under the sodium orange lights of the street-lamps his map of the world did not look like it was painted in blood at all. It had a darker hue.