MUDDY WATERS

Not The Type For Friends

Last time:
››'Hre isn'th. Hre corrpsed. Shouldn'th yhou luck outh morre fohrr yhourr peopull?' she piped up but closed her mouth, when Billy lifted his hand. She even let go of the sweatshirt. He plugged the coffee from her grip and jerked his chin at him. 'Walk wif me?'‹‹

He swallowed hard and nodded, taking a last fleeting look around. The shop keeper scratched his unshaven cheek with the disruptor, exchanging something grim with Billy Wiggins, who swung open his initials and shoved him out on the street.

They walked down 9-123 ('Queen E15'). Billy produced a small yellow bag from his bell-bottomed trouser pockets and opened it with his teeth. He emptied the fine powder into the paper cup. 'Wan' some?'

He startled and shook his head no.

A shrug. Billy used 'The Tempest' to stub out his cigarette and left it there as a bookmark, before he turned to the laced drink. 'Y'down' remember nofin', Shezz?'

'Anything,' he corrected, before he could stop himself. Billy laughed, but his eyes remained stone-like. 'N-no,' he added quickly, meekly averting his, 'I don't remember anything.'

Billy sniffed unhappily. 'Yeah, though' so. Ya corpsed. Ovadosed. Ya sai' somfin' was goin' down. I reckoned ya migh' floa'.'

'Float?' He remembered the graffiti. The ribbons.

'Yer soul,' Billy said. 'It's a Vulcan fing. Die, fer shor'.'

'Oh.' He considered this. 'What exactly did I tell you?'

'Ya was very exci'et.' Billy adjusted his beanie. 'Somfin' abou' facin' demons. Ya dug up some evidence tha' changed ev'ryfin'. Dang'rous stuff...'

'Do you know anything about it?'

' Nah, y'was all uptigh' abou'et ... sai'et was be'ah tha' way ... wif vem bein' after ya.'

'Them?'

'Star Flee', no?'

His heart took a dive for his knees. 'So it wasn't real,' he muttered. 'You said I overdosed and that's why ... I was hallucinating ... I'm just some drug addict loser, aren't I?'

An explosion of laughter. 'I down' know wha' yer on the ou'side, Shezz, bu' in'ere y'aren' a loser. Y'was my second before ya qui'.'

'Second what?'

'In biz'ness.'

'Drugs?'

'Yeah.'

'And I quit?'

Billy took another sip of his coffee, winking. 'Job an' habit. Reckon ya go' a be'ah offah.'

'Outside the district?'

'Must've. Yah turne' down Moran s'well.'

He hesitated. A dull throb was grasping from his temples to his eyes. 'But how?'

'I down' know, do I? I haven' been born priv'leged.'

'But I have?' He gradually began to feel like a particularly dim-witted echo.

Billy nodded. 'Yah didn' like i', ou'side. Too rigid. Too slow, ya sai'. The Distric's no' all bad, y'know. Vey say there's no hope fer'us, so vey give us a lil leeway. And you liked tha'. Freedom o' fought an' shit. And then one day ya disappear, and when yer back ya qui'n ev'yfin'. Nevah seen no one qui' Spiri' before.'

He scrunched up his nose.

'Remember somefin'?'

He jerked his head impatiently, rubbing his temple. 'It's a hard drug, is all. Why do I know that and not that I've taken it?'

The sound of slurping gulps.

'Is it ... is it going to come back?'

'I'm no' a shrink.'

'Has anyone ever--'

'Nah.'

He nodded. The street narrowed in unison with his windpipe. They had left the main road. 'Where are we going?'

'Ter my car. Y'gave me yer mobile. We're ge'in' i'. Had me film a nowt ter yer dad in case ... y'know ...'

'We're friends, then? You know me well?'

Billy threw him another glance. A crooked smirk split his face. People who smile too much are not to be trusted. What?

'I down' know abou' friends. Down' fink yer the type. Yer an enigma, 'olmes, 'at's wha' yer all abou'. But ya aksed me a favour an' I' was an honour.'

He held his breath. 'Holmes, that's my name?'

Billy nodded. He pocketed the empty paper cup. Only now he noticed that the asphalt was strangely void of trash.

They had reached his car, an ancient grey pre-shuttle. Dents blossomed on the metal like an eccentric piece of art. A guitar and a phaser rifle hugged against each other on the backseat. A hairy spider scuttled along the hat shelf. Billy opened the front door, releasing a cloud of dog and smoke and charred leather, and stuck his head into the Pandora's box. He unearthed something from under the driver seat, blew on it, polished the display with the tail of his sweater and handed it over.

'Yer Sherlock'olmes. Shezz in The Distric'. I can give ya a ride ter the norf-bordah. Then yer on yer'own.'

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Thanks lots to MartyCameron for helping me translate Billy's accent on the page.

Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Live long and prosper!🖖