Ring of The Bells, Bang of a Gun

DISCLAIMER: THIS SHORT STORY SUCKS! My school required for it to be a maximum of three pages, and so had. Even rushing. I am posting this to see if anyone would like a longer, more detailed version of this story posted! What do you think?)

       It was wintertime in London, the fresh smell of pine and fresh fruitcake inching it's way through the streets and beckoning passerby's near. A young boy sits on a street corner, news papers neatly assembled under him to protect him from the cold, messy ground. Flute in hand, he begins to play Christmas songs. The notes smoothly escaping the crude wooden flute, those who walk past rushing to get away from the poor boy. A small dog perched next to him, yapping at those who don't stop. Until one did. 20 whole pounds sterling drop into a small hat the boy had next to him. Amazed, the boy looks up to see a young man of his age, 15. He had been in clean clothes, obviously of the upper class. The dark skinned child keeping a warm smile on his oval face, much unlike others who had taken the time to listen.

     "I quite enjoy your playing." The boy smiles, kneeling down to the flute-player, the music then stopping suddenly. "Why, it's Varian St.John! Doesn't his family own the St.John Arms company?" Whispers a young woman to her friend, viewing the scene. "Why would a child of such wealth be talking to that monstrosity? Has he not heard the rumors?" Norbert Rigby, the young flute-player on that dirty street corner, had been quite the spectacle amongst London citizens. He appeared suddenly in the bustling city with a small, black, snaggle-toothed shih tzu named Quasimodo and the infamous Rigby family by his side. Chopin and Eleanor Rigby were the people who took poor Norbert in when he was just a parentless tot, but that didn't exactly make them good people in London's eyes. They were well known scammers and frequent gamblers, the lowest of the low in London society. Despite Norbert's attempts at being friendly with those around him, he was usually outcast by others.

     Now Varian St.John, he was considered an angel. His family was top in England's gun production, providing firearms to those fighting to protect Britain and well known allies of Queen Elizabeth II herself. They were rich beyond belief and owned a rather large castle-like mansion in downtown London. Why he was talking to such a strange boy? Nobody knew, but Norberts nervous greeting in response seemed to entertain the boy. "Walk with me?" Varian asks, pointing ahead. Norbert found this strange, but he complied. Standing up and strolling with the tall boy. Quasimodo following with quick steps.  "I've heard you play before, on the street corner. You are rather skilled, has no one yet come to you with an offer?" Varian casually speaks to the stranger, Norbert shakes his head "I'm afraid I am not well liked here..." he replies, his voice hoarse and dry. "I like you, that must mean others can as well" Varian comments, Norbert shakes his head. "You do not know me. How could you possibly find someone you don't know intriguing?" The snowfall had begun, and a silence fell between the two boys. Caroler's singing the only thing to be heard. Before Varian could muster a reply, they are stopped by a tall thin figure.

     "You, boy." The figure says, the raspy voice of a harsh older female belonging to it. "What are you doing with peasant folk?" She wags a long brittle finger at Varian, who sighs. "Madame Sinclair, was it my father who sent you?" He asks, the woman laughs hoarsely. "But. Of course! Tis' few days before Christmas Eve. Not a time to boondoggle." "Yet it's a time for my father to be dealing with you and your slaves on allowing you firearms to punish those you wrongfully accuse?" Varian replies sharply. Madame Sinclair scowls, grabbing Varian by the ear "come along boy! And you, peasant...you and your devil hound are to follow. I want Sir St.John to see who has been corrupting his son." "Oh no madame, I fear I must return to my family. You see-"  Norbert is interrupted by his own ear being grabbed. Guess there's no going back now.

    The large mansion seemed much more intimidating than expected under the circumstances Norbert was suffering. The stone Gargoyles stare down at him from the rooftops, seeming to be in a position to strike.  Yet after Varian getting a stern talking to and Norbert getting confused looks from maids, all seemed well. Madame Sinclair demanded a punishment, but Sir St.John simply said that Varian wouldn't be let out. Norbert didn't mind this at first, it was none of his business. But soon he realized that small conversation had gotten him interested in the young man. What was his reasoning for speaking to him? Norbert found this strange. A boy of such high status talking to a poor, strange child like himself. Christmas is the season of giving, after all. Had be been given a new friend?

     Every few nights, Norbert would sneak away from his small flat where Chopin and Eleanore were snoring just to see if Varian was out. Every night a fail, and one night even numbing into Madame Sinclair herself. She had looked down at him, angrily telling him to stay away from Varian. Norbert had no clue as to what Madame Sinclair's motivation was, but knew she had something she was scheming. Somewhere behind those dark brown eyes, he saw in her a scheme brewing.

     Did Norbert listen to her? No, he was far too curious of a child for that. And so every day he started walking down the streets of London to find the one person in the city willing to speak with him. But he never came.

     "Get your papers here! Get your papers! Only son of the wealthy St.John Arms company dead! Breaking!" A paperboy bellows.. Norbert, upon hearing 'St. John', with a few pounds got himself a copy of the recent news. Staring in disbelief at the article.

     'London is in mourning today as beloved Varian St.John is declared dead today by authorities. "We found the poor boy to be mangled on the ground just below his high up room. Due to his condition, it seems his body is not to be shown. We deeply apologize for such inconvenience and feel sorrow for Sir Marcus St.John and his family." says Tanya Sinclair, the chief of authorities here in London. Varian was just 15, a young man with a bright future. The horrifying possibility of this death being intended by the boy a shock to friends, family, and the city he was growing up in.' Norbert stared in disbelief at the article. The fact that Varian was now gone shocking him, and the fact that Madame Sinclair considered it an inconvenience made his blood boil. It was almost as if a single bit of contact could melt the snow that grazed his pale skin. But then he felt oh so sad. The only chance he had at having a friend being swept away from him at that very moment, or had it been?

     The St.John mansion once again loomed over Norbert. He knocked on the large doors, and strangely enough Sir St.John himself was the one to open the door. He looked a mess, but Norbert didn't pay and mind to it. "Hello Sir. I apologize for my sudden visit, but I have s hunch that I must discuss with you." This was all too sudden and all too not well held up. The disappearance, them not showing the body to anyone. It was all too convenient. Varian couldn't be dead. He wouldn't go out the way. Madame Sinclair must not be being truthful.

     Upon finding Varian, Norbert had been in a strange underground system of caves and came to a strong door. Norbert, a natural at thieving (not to be judged, if he had not stolen Varian would never have had a chance.) and it turns out something fishy was going on. Madame Sinclair had been faking in order to get money, and it seemed she made a foolish error in having nit picked off Norbert when she could. Because now a battered and beaten a Varian was free, and Sir.St John was ending the contract with her and sending her off to prison where she belonged.

    Varian and Norbert sat next to each other, Quasimodo resting on Norbert's lap. "Hey..er..." Varian began. Had he never caught the name of the red headed boy before him..? "Norbert." The boy smiles. "Yes, Norbert." Varian puts a hand on his shoulder, smiling "thank you."

     It was a white Christmas. And let's say the Rigby's did not expect the be invited to the St.John manor. But upon arriving, they had understood. Their son was finally known as a hero.