Subsistence

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The moon turned pink and hung in the air for an hour that, to most, went unmarked.

It didn’t happen for everyone. And for those whom it did, it was not always a good omen. That at least was the experience of Will Hartly.

It had been a long night on the bottle for him when it had happened. At the stroke of midnight he watched the ripples of the oily canal calm and smooth until the scummy surface was only pocked by occasional bubbles. Those too, came to a stop.

Will looked up and saw the sky was no longer black, but pink, starlit in red and robed in purple furs. His jaw slackened and he looked around. When the man in the suit appeared beside him, he thought the whisky at last had taken his senses.

As well it might be, for he remembered nothing else.

He had arrived at work the next day, nursing a private hangover, which he had become expert at concealing. Deciding to get on with his day, he dismissed his vague recollections of the evening before as the price exacted for the gift of the fermented grain.

But the next evening at midnight it happened again. Will had wanted to turn in. Had hoped he’d worked himself into an exhaustion that would pull him into sleep without chemical assistance. He was exhausted, but sleepless.

There was no drink in the house. A vain attempt at keeping the promise he’d made to himself. The promise he’d broken every day that week. Twenty-four hour off-licenses were God’s way of saying he loved drunks. Will made his nightly pilgrimage beneath a pink sky with twinkling red stars.

He observed the curious heavens to Abdul, the cashier, but received only his customary disinterest. Will supposed a healthy dismissal of the surrounding alcoholics was a necessary callous an off-license owner had to develop. It was hardly as though he was a pusher.

What sin falls on the purveyor of vice if his wares are offered without coercion? Will wondered, as he meandered from one side of the street to the other. He paused beneath a tree which stuck out of a square foot of brown earth, sarcastically defiant of the concrete surrounding it.

Evergreen, Will mused. The thought was funny to him and he grinned as he unscrewed the tin cap from his whisky and necked the acrid, amber liquid.

Coming up for air, he looked ahead and saw he was not alone in the peachy moonlight. There was a girl walking toward him. He frowned. She was no older than sixteen. Too young for this time of night and this neighbourhood, he thought. She walked arms crossed and with curious purpose. In the light of the sky Will saw that she was swarthy, her lips painted dark and her eyes artfully shadowed. She wore a short puffer coat a shorter skirt and leggings the same colour as her skin. Will stared, dumb and unashamed. The girl did not break stride and did not cross the street. She didn’t appear to see Will at all.

However, as she drew level, she stuck out an arm and placed something in Will’s free hand and offered him a smile. Only a second did she linger, and then she walked on, around the corner and away. Will blinked slowly. Once. Then twice. He looked down at what the girl had given him. It was scrap of torn paper. On it were written the words.

“Girls. Fresh. Eager.” It was followed by a phone number.

Will looked around, suddenly queasy. A feeling, for once, unrelated to the bottle in his hand. He looked down the street, following the way the girl had gone. She had smelled of cigarettes and perfume applied liberally in lieu of soap. Will felt himself slide against the tree until he sat with one foot extended in front of him and the other flat on the ground. He leaned the armed burdened with whisky on the knee of that leg. The one clutching the dreadful note fell to the floor beside him. Will looked heavenwards at the purple-decked sky. He wondered if this night and the last were a sign to stop. At last, a real one.

He took a pull of whisky.

The pink moon was full this evening. It appeared to shine down on the world and bathed the place in a light that was not quite warm. From looking directly into the night sky, Will dropped his head to look straight on. At the opposite end of the street, on the corner that led to the graveyard, Will saw the suited man again. At this distance, besides his shape, the only thing else Will could tell about him, was that he was smiling.