The Laws of Attraction - The Blind Banker

The Blind Banker

That picture was taken two years ago today.  I was walking through London— along the south bank of the Thames between the Globe Theatre and the London Eye, for anyone interested it the geographics — and just happened across it.  Naturally, I immediately recognized it, and I have never flipped out more in my life.

Such a small moment, I know, but it's gotta be one of the coolest things to happen to me.

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     Leanna awoke suddenly, with a gasp.

     Unlike a couple days ago when she'd drifted into consciousness, reality had come crashing in on her.

     She registered her headache immediately; it presented itself eagerly with a sharp thudding against her skull.  A tight pressure filled her head.  The second thing she noticed was the nausea fizzling in her stomach.  Leanna slumped back with a groan.

     That's when she felt the restrains.  Her hands were tied together, her body bound to the chair she was sitting in.  She struggled against them, only to realize that her feet were tied to the chair, as well.

     She winced as she opened her eyes — whatever hole-in-the-wall they were being kept in didn't have much light, but still enough to make her headache protest.  It looked like some sort of tunnel, the curvature and brickwork reminiscent of the tube.  There was a light at the end of it, far off, and a warm haze permeating the space around her from a few small barrel fires.  And, a short distance ahead of her, looming like a tangible shadow, was something very large concealed under a black sheet.

     "A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket..."

     The soft voice of a woman, ringing with a delicate Asian accent, echoed through the dark.  Leanna had to strain to see her figure before she slowly emerged into the dim firelight.  She walked very slowly toward her, until Leanna could make out her smile.  It didn't take more than a moment for Leanna to recognize her as the woman from the circus.

     "Leanna?"

     She turned her head quickly at the sound of her name — a regrettably painful gesture — to make eye contact with John.  He was tied up in a chair to her left, a small stream of blood down the far side of his face.  The sight of it alerted Leanna to the wet warmth in a similar spot on her own head, her hair sticking to her temple.

     On the far side of John was Sarah, tied up like them, and gagged.  Leanna didn't know whether to feel afraid for her, or relieved that she wasn't gagged, herself.

     "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes."

     The woman was standing directly in front of them when she spoke again, causing Leanna to make another painful movement of her head as she looked back at her.  She was staring down her nose at John, mouth sustaining a wicked grin.

     "Wh–what?" Leanna stuttered.

     "I... I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

     "Forgive me if I do not take your word for it."  Her grin turned into a cruel smile as she reached her hand into John's jacket.  It reemerged with his wallet.  She casually rifled through it.  

     "Debit card, name of S. Holmes."

     John replied wearily, "Yes, that's not actually mine.  He lent that to me."

     "And a cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

     "Yeah, he gave me that to look after."