Beyond a litter and glass-strewn alley, two young men eyed Firdy and sucked their teeth. Their dog, a muscular Staffordshire Terrier, strained on its lead and barked. The man holding the lead yelled at the dog to shut up, while the other laughed and said:
“Good boy! No offence, mate.”
Firdy kept his head down. He had never been one for confrontations. He didn't have the heart for it, but people – and their dogs - took a dislike to his appearance. In the past, that had served as reason enough for people to spit in his direction, to call him a freak, to shove him from behind in the hope that he'd topple. That was why he only came out at night when he was able, with the spiders and the rats and the slugs.
He followed a one-way street that took a winding route downhill towards a row of unhappy tenements, differentiated only by the colours of their doors. The standard was brown and while some people had opted for new paint jobs, new windows, new knockers, this had evidently happened a long time ago. The sea air had done the buildings no good at all.
Each house had been converted into flats, with separate doors for upstairs and downstairs. Aside from their coastal location, individual access points had been a major factor in Firdy's decision to live here. Also important was that his flat had been unoccupied for at least a couple of years.
Pretty much in the middle of the row, Firdy shouldered open a red door and squeezed inside.
Nobody had challenged him when he moved in, although he had heard a couple of neighbours refer to him as 'the junkie'. He was quiet and he didn't have loud parties, unlike the people living beneath him. Those who had noticed him at all were probably aware that he was squatting, but, like him, nobody made a fuss about it.
A few others had shown an interest in squatting the place themselves. The first time it happened, Firdy had simply told them that it was taken and asked them to leave. They had. On the other occasion, he had summoned the Dog. They left too.
He had tried to think of the dog's death as collateral damage, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been personal, that Simon had enjoyed destroying something that belonged to him. Considering what would happen tonight, perhaps that was fair. He shouldn't begrudge him a small victory. But he did.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced at the living area on his way to the 'kitchen'. Against one wall was a sofa, basically a cheap wooden frame with tough, fibrous material stretched over it. He had seen these before, always in the cheapest rental properties. Despite its severe angles, it had turned out to be better for his back than the bed and it was just long enough, so he sometimes slept there instead of in the bedroom.
This is not going to be an issue anymore, he thought, looking at it for the last time.
He had set up a small, battery-powered television on a table made from bricks and a broken palette. Television hadn't afforded him much in the way of release though. It provided noise, but not distraction. It marked the hours, but didn’t rush them along. In the end, he’d only seen the worst traits of the worst kinds of people. Their willingness to be humiliated and tortured in return for popularity dismayed him. He had often asked himself what he would be prepared to do to be a part of a group. He was answering that question now and he admitted that it frightened him. He wasn't so different from them after all.
He sat down in the kitchen and pulled his ‘collected works’ from his jacket pocket. The book felt strange now that Simon had touched it. The magic of it had dissipated somewhat. He had considered the words a spell that would somehow set him free, but he didn't believe it anymore. Now it was only a journal.
The Third had made him and the Third would set him free. Not the book.
He flipped through the pages, his handwriting jumping out at him.
ALL DEAD
ONE BY ONE
CAN'T HIDE
IT'S OVER
He turned the pages until he reached the first blank one, thinking that it would be fitting to finally make a personal entry. Although he was an amalgamation of strange thoughts and ideas, the dreams and nightmares of people he had never met, a part of him was individual. Over the years, he had assembled abstract pieces, sharpened up hazy recollections and tested memories, and still there was a gap into which none of these things fit and that gap had named itself Firdy.
After tonight, he was unsure how much of him would be left. Perhaps there was only so much to go around. Maybe the soul was finite after all. The Third seemed to think so.
He picked up his pen to add his voice to the semi-permanent record. An anologue clock punctuated the seconds and then the minutes. The words had come easy when the thoughts had been someone else’s.
'I am Firdy,' he wrote and to his dismay the letters came out in long, spidery ribbons. He stared at the scribble, unable to go on. This mess was what happened when his hand and mind were unguided.
His fingers ached from squeezing the biro. He had anticipated a deluge, but a lifetime of guarding his thoughts had helped render him incapable of letting go.
Deep inside, on the surface, all around, The Third grew increasingly impatient. She was almost ready to take over and his free will was about to come to an end.
A couple of minutes more would have been useful.
It was like not being able to pee while standing at a urinal next to a taller man. If only he would go away.
He wondered whether The Third was that man.
Or Simon.
Maybe someone inside, or someone he had yet to meet, or someone he had yet to be.
FIRDY. IT'S TIME. I'M READY FOR THEM.
In a final bid to focus he projected himself into the future. He imagined himself walking out of the icy water, naked; new body, new mind. In that circumstance, he thought, in a week, a month, a year from now, if he found himself compelled to come here and pull up the floorboard near the socket in the bedroom, what would he want to know about his previous existence?
After a moment's thought, he tore a page from the book. And then another. Then another.
Nothing, he thought.
He ripped page after page from the book and then set to work on the individual pages, tearing them into halves. When it was done, his fingers felt as though they were on fire, but he took comfort in the knowledge that tomorrow he would have new hands, new arms, new memories; perhaps no more nightmares.
NOW, FIRDY. NOW. NOW. I'VE MADE EVERYTHING READY.
He felt the Third shift and was more aware than ever of his cargo in the van: Will, Naomi, Ian Moody and Jonathan. He felt the Cat, waiting, watching, wanting them. Most of all, he felt connected to Simon. It didn't frighten him anymore.
Despite their differences, every one of them shared an eagerness to move things on to the next stage, in one way or another.
He put his head around the bedroom door. Sheets of cardboard clung to the bay window. A broken bulb hung from the ceiling. Damp crept up and down the walls, meeting in the middle wherever it could.
There was nothing to take with him. Even the loose panel where he had been intending to leave his memoirs seemed nothing special now.
It was time to be reborn.
He skipped down the stairs, then paused at the front door. He took a deep breath, surprised by his hesitation, then walked out into the night for the last time, his head pounding.