DECEMBER 4, 1952
London lost its colors that day, the smog had engrossed it. The smog for the past few days was slowly starting to asphyxiate its citizens like a python firming its grip over its prey. Papers called it the 'great smog'.
I loathed at that title. Something that suffocated about 4000 people to their death and crumbled the nation's economy to the ground was never supposed to be titled ' GREAT'. I folded my paper and moved out of the cafe. The smog had turned everyone blind; all i could see were layers and layers of it, nothing more. I checked my hand watch, it showed 6.30. It meant i had only 10 minutes to make it to the Riverson alley, 10 minutes to make Glades wake up from his sleep and another 10 minutes to board the bus that went to ST.MARY'S hospital.
I made it there under 7 mins. A homeless man was burning trash inside a rusted old oil barrel. He kept his palm over the dying embers of flame to warm himself. I rushed myself up through the stairs to his apartment, the paint had worn out of his doors, the walls needed some plastering and there was no electricity in the building. But this was heaven for a small time crook and a pickpocket like Glades. It had multiple exits and offered sufficient methods of transportation available right under its nose. Glades had personally picked up this place so that if someone tried to get hold of him, he could just disappear into the thin air.
I drummed on his door. 'Glades wake up your making us late mate' I said. 'Just give me a minute' he replied. It took a minute for me to understand what he said, his Irish accent was hard for my ears to receive and harder for my brain to process.
'I will be waiting downstairs'
'okhay'.
The old man was kind enough to share his fire with me. I moved my palms over it, rubbed over my cheeks & took out the paper again to find out what else was happening in the city of London. The paper was filled with the news of smog everywhere. Many lost their jobs, many lost their families, and many their souls. London was witnessing the largest peace time disaster of this century. Inside there were some minor columns about some failed MI5 mission, how politicians made a complete mess of handling the smog situation, and a how German Mafia lord was breeding crime in the streets of London. It interested me, and i went on to read the entire article, as it was about the same line of work that i followed, and in this line of work you always have to remain updated. the article explained how a man who called himself the 'LUFT' was taking on the city. I found the article more glorifying the guy rather than articulating the facts, and lost interest in it.
The old man didn't find anything to sustain the heat. I tossed the newspaper into the barrel; it lighted up the fire so did his face. A minute became thirteen, but Glades wasn't out of his apartment, I climbed back, this time his door was partially open . I had an urge to open it completely and see his place but that would be impolite. I heard the minute hand of my watch running circles. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew the time was running out, but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under the breath. 'ten, nine, eight , seven ..' when i reached one i started counting in reverse again 'two , three ..' he opened the door on the count of seven.
' lets go mate' he grinned.
We paced through the mundane streets to the bus station.
' why are you making haste mate '
I smelled whiskey in his breath, that's what made him sleep again i assumed. I didn't answer his question but paced up my walk. He came up to my side slides his hands to my shoulder and clasped it, like friends do to each other when one was cross with the other one. I was of course cross with him but i was not his friend either. In fact i hated him, and surely his feelings for me were mutual.
