Dark Dream

Dark Dreams, Part 1: Davo & Spud - Hello World

We didn't start the fire It was always burning since the world's been turning

by Billy Joel

Davo settled down to the relative warmth of the multistory car park.

Only a mild chill crept through into his sleeping bag from the thick cardboard and concrete beneath.

He hardly knew it, though. The cheap wine and cider sent a warm glow, whether real or imagined, through his aching body.

He felt like a king and was almost happy when his fragile peace was broken.

"What you lookin' at!?" The voice was grating and full of worms.

"Fuck off!" Davo hissed, his mind slowly and reluctantly coming out of its memory-induced stupor to deal with the new but familiar threat. He brought a hunting knife out of his sleeping bag, just enough to make the blade and part of his hand visible. "I ain't lookin' at nothin'."

It worked.

Spud eyed up the cold, sharp steel, gave a grunt, spat in his general direction, and turned his attention back to the open bottle that he held, as if it somehow held the mysteries of the universe.

Davo wondered what future Spud perceived in the crystal ball of his chosen beverage.

Not much, he bet.

No better than the present or past. Worst, maybe.

Lady Luck seldom passed their way of late. Though both still hoped she'd call around just one more time. To say hello, if nothing else. To remind them that they're at least still human, like the people they saw passing by on the streets every day.

The fragile truce could dissolve at any given minute; such was their way.

They'd had good times together, many moons ago, but had since fallen out of favour with each other. They'd not fallen out over a woman, but over the less feminine shape of a bottle of Frosty Jack, a cheap white cider whose name gave rise to a Jack Dawson Titanic joke whenever conversation ran dry.

Jack's heroic sacrifice in the freezing Atlantic made their lives seem a little more on track by comparison.

Tonight, Spud drank White Lightning, another white cider that reminded Davo of liquid gas; such was its chemical taste. It was the absolute dregs and always put Spud in a bad mood.

He didn't like the thought of beating the shit out of his once good friend, but he was slowly coming round to the idea.

The spark of murderous intent was growing within him, and he often had to walk away for fear of what he might do. Spud, having won on points, would jeer at him and grow in bravado. The further he got from him, the louder the insults.

It's a shame it had come to this, he thought, as he put his knife back in his sleeping bag. The chance of a quiet night slowly receded.

His beard itched; everything itched.

His sense of warmth had turned to desolation and restlessness.

He looked again at Spud's frail, stooped form as he nursed his precious, and Davo felt a growing sense of pity for him. For both of them.

The threads of their lives intertwined on a level only a few would understand.

For some reason, they'd both been tense tonight. A storm's a-coming, he thought, as he sniffed at the air like a bloodhound, his eyes darting into every dark pocket, expecting to see red demonic eyes peer back at him from their depths.

A chill ran down his spine, and he decided he needed the feeling of friendship to distract himself from the change all around. Looking over at his once-dear friend, he felt that the world was like an hourglass, with its last few grains tumbling through.

"Do you have a drop to spare?"

"Sure," Spud said, without turning around; he casually lifted the bottle off the floor and tossed it his way, as if giving up on any prospect of a future.

Davo climbed out of his bag, leaving his protective knife behind. Perhaps they could patch up their differences while the others were away. It would serve them both well to get on better.

In the whole wide world, they had none else but themselves.