Drawn Together

"–a fit!  A seizure!  There must be some kind of police report!"

"Sir, any such information would be confidential.  But there has been no report of anyone having a 'fit' or 'seizure' this morning.  Now, please step aside!"

"No, no.  I'm sorry."  Paul backed away, suddenly aware that the queue behind him was becoming a small, angry crowd.  A policeman stood nearby, radio held to his lips.  Someone coughed, "Nutter," as he staggered away from the kiosk and up towards the London streets.

He scanned the crowd surging into the station, hoping to see the shock of red hair and the deep brown of the jacket.  A hand gripped his left forearm.

"Is he here?  Did you find him?"  A man, maybe fifty, stared at Paul with pleading, mud-colored eyes.  The close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and hangdog features sparked Paul's memory: it was the man with the belt.  The would-be Underground hero.

"No.  He's gone."

Tears welled in the man's eyes.  "Oh Jesus.  It was just my fingertips at first and now… oh God!"  Paul noticed the man's right hand was thrust into his overcoat.  A greasy stain was spreading from the pocket.

No hysterics, Paul thought.  Not now.  "Listen to me.  What's your name?"

He sputtered, "Carl."

"Carl, I'm Paul.  Follow me."  They stepped into a nearby alleyway.  "Now, show me what's happened."

Slowly, Carl withdrew the hand from his coat pocket.  It was black as onyx and glistened.  The surface rippled, first forming wavelets, then thousands of pinpricks, then was smooth as glass.  There was a smell of ozone like the air before a thunderstorm.  It made Paul's teeth ache.  He stepped back, feeling lightheaded.  

Carl sniffled and said, "And you?"  Obliging, Paul lifted his shirt.  The mass had spread up his ribcage and into his armpit, swirled around his navel and down below his waistband.

"Jeeee-sus!"  Carl extended the black hand toward the colors.  Something about it made Paul feel sick and terrified.

"Don't –"

Before him, an ancient body, crouched, surrounded by a corona of light.  Eyes blazing.  Below, a chasm – black, endlessly black. The left hand extended down into darkness below, circumscribing all within some kind of tool.  A compass, like he'd had in primary school.

It was a picture… a painting in a book well-loved by Paul's father.  William Blake.  Europe: A Prophecy.

Somehow, Paul was aware that he – no, they were looking through the redheaded man's eyes.  

A voice, deep and impossibly cruel, whispered in his ear.

"Is he seeing?  Is he listening?"

"They are."

"Oh?  Two then?  Interesting, but no matter.  Come and learn, Pilgrims.  Come and learn."

Now he was staring at a sign.  A coat of arms.  Four lions on a red shield.  He made out three words as the vision began to break apart.

Cambridge.  Fitzwilliam.  Museum.

"– touch it!"

The two men were once again staring at each other in the alleyway.  The black hand resting on Paul's ribs.

From the street, someone yelled, "Gits!"