by Amy Cross
“What is it?” he asks finally. “What exactly are you going to drag me across London to see? Or rather, to not see.”
“I can't describe it,” Robinson replies with a smile. “No man could. It's quite simply beyond words. I'm afraid you shall simply have to look upon it with your own two eyes.”
III
“We're nearly there!” Robinson calls out, his voice filling the night air as he stumbles through the mud. “Keep up, boy! You're lagging terribly!”
Davey mutters something under his breath as he struggles across the desolate landscape. They're several miles from the center of London now, and a few minutes ago Robinson insisted on descending a set of stone steps and traipsing through the sludge at the edge of the river. The stench is unbearable, and already Davey has spotted two distinct sets of human bones that seem to have been discarded down here. Then again, he knows better than to be surprised. The Thames runs right through the heart of London, and it's only natural that people toss things into the water in an attempt to have them forgotten forever.
“Come on!” Robinson shouts, and he's even further ahead now. “It's right around here, I promise!”
“I'm sure,” Davey says, but he's getting a little breathless now and his legs are starting to ache.
Am I getting less fit? he wonders to himself. I need to be stronger than this.
Stopping for a moment to rest, he can't help but glance over his shoulder. The lights of the city are far away now, barely managing to cast a faint smudge against the horizon. Davey has never particularly enjoyed the city, but at least there's some comfort in its familiar streets, and in the hustle of civilization. Out here in the middle of nowhere, with the only sound coming from the waters of the Thames lapping gently at the edge of the mud, Davey feels so much out in the open. He glances around, as if filled with some folk memory of having once been hunted.
“I found it!” Robinson yells. “Davey! Hurry! It's here!”
“I'm sure it is, old man,” Davey mutters. “I'm sure it is.”
He spends the next twenty minutes struggling to reach the spot where Robinson has stopped, his progress slowed desperately by the mud that makes each step an effort. The entire endeavor – made worse by his belief that it's all in vain – leaves his legs positively burning with pain, but finally he manages to catch up to his old friend, who he finds down on his hands and knees. There's something instantly saddening about the sight of Robinson – still dressed in pauper's clothes, and sickly thin from his time behind bars – scrabbling in the mud as if he expects to find some kind of discarded treasure.
“I saw it,” Robinson explains, sounding more frantic than ever. “Just for a moment, but it was here. It shone so bright, Davey. It's the most magnificent treasure ever!”
“Funny,” Davey replies, “I never knew mud was worth anything.”
“Not the mud! The treasure!”
“If you saw it, why did you let it sink?”
“It was only there for a moment!” He pushes his hands deeper into the mud. “I saw it shining!”
“I doubt it was anything,” Davey replies, as he cranes his neck to get a better view. All he sees, however, is the old man's arms sinking elbow deep as he struggles to find whatever he saw. “Look at this place, it's nothing but mud and rubbish. Why would anything valuable be out here, Robinson? Answer me that. People don't just leave valuable items out for people like us to find. Anything of worth would be in a museum, or at the palace, or -”
“I felt it!”
Davey sighs.
“Help me, Davey! Help me!”
“I'm trying to help you, by making you understand that this is all just in your mind. You're an old man now, Robinson. You can't keep racing around like this.”
“Help me!”
“Robinson -”
“There it is again!” he shouts excitedly. “I felt it with the tips of my fingers, Davey!”
“I'm sure it was just more mud.”
Robinson mumbles something, but the words get stuck together on his lips and tumble away without being heard. He doesn't even seem to notice; instead of repeating himself, he sinks his hands ever-deeper into the mud, this time causing thick bubbles to come belching to the surface. He's up to his elbows now, and a new, sweeter stench has been disturbed from the depths. Pools of water briefly form, only to be quickly pushed aside and re-mixed with the thick, gray mud.
Davey watches, trying to work out how long this pointless ritual will last, and how exactly he can convey to Robinson that's it has to end.
“Help me!” Robinson gasps finally, suddenly freezing as if he's scared to move another inch. “I can feel it! I don't want it to sink away again, I might not be able to find it. Davey, put your hands in very carefully and help me!”
“Robinson -”
“Do it, boy!”
Davey hesitates, before slowly getting down onto his knees. He winces as he feels cold, muddy water soaking through the fabric of his trousers, but he supposes that in an hour or two's time he can find somewhere to dry off. Realizing that he needs to indulge Robinson one final time, so that he can properly end things, he does as he's told. He begins to slip his hands into the mud, even though he abhors the sensation.
“Careful!” Robinson hisses. “Slow, boy! Slow!”
Now it's Davey's turn not to answer. He focuses on pushing his hands deeper and deeper, until finally he feels Robinson's fingers.
“Just below there,” Robinson whispers. “Hurry. But be slow!”
Davey rolls his eyes as he slips his hands further down. And then, just as he's about to pull out, he realizes he can feel something hard in the mud, something that's resting against Robinson's own hands.
“Do you feel it?” Robinson asks.
“I feel... something.”
“That's it! That's what I'm after!”
“And what exactly do you suppose it to be!”
“A key!”
“It feels... round. Smooth.”
“Not all keys look the same.”
“But -”
“If something unlocks something else, it's a key. And this particular item will unlock our future, Davey boy.”
“If you say so,” Davey replies, as he eases his fingertips beneath the object. “So what now? Are we going to raise it up?”
“We are indeed, but the task won't be easy. One slip, and we'll lose it, perhaps never to recover it again. We must -”
“On the count of three, then,” Davey says, hoping to get the onerous task over with as swiftly as possible.
“Try to -”
“One. Two.”
“Davey, we must -”
“Three!”
Without giving Robinson a chance to protest again, Davey grips the object – which seems to be about the size of two clenched fists – and pulls hard. The weight of the mud prevents him from making immediate progress, but soon he feels the item starting to rise up toward the surface.
“Careful!” Robinson shouts, clearly panicked. “You'll lose it!”
“I won't!” Davey snarls through gritted teeth, even as he feels his grip loosening. “Just get out of my way, old man, and let me do this!”
Robinson mutters and grumbles, but Davey shifts around and pushes him out of the way. Still struggling with the object, which seems unusually heavy now, Davey momentarily feels himself losing his grip. After a moment, however, he manages to adjust his fingers and almost immediately he's able to lift the object close to the surface. He adjusts his fingers again, taking a much firmer hold of the object, and then he readies himself for the final effort. He knows that if he fails now, Robinson will launch into one of his terrible flaps, so he makes absolutely sure that he's prepared and then – finally – he heaves and pulls with all his strength.
The object resists for a moment, before suddenly coming loose with such force that Davey falls back and lands hard in the mud. At the same time, he lets go of the object, and he sees something flash over his head as it flies through th
e air.
Nearby, Robinson lets out a startled cry and rushes past.
Davey groans as cold water soaks through the back of his shirt. He can hear Robinson gasping and stuttering, but for a moment Davey merely stares at the night sky. The calmness of the stars has a certain appeal, pulling him away from the clamor of London, but after a few seconds he realizes he can hear Robinson's mutterings and grumbles getting louder and more frenzied.
Slowly, then, Davey turns and sees that Robinson is several meters away. The old man's back is terribly hunched, almost completely rounded as he squats and examines whatever object emerged from the mud.
“Well, then?” Davey says, still a little out of breath as he gets to his feet. He begins to brush himself down, before realizing that there's no point. “Was it worth all this effort?”
He steps up behind Robinson, who makes no attempt to answer.
“It's late,” he continues, “and it's cold, and I'm soaking wet.” He's trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, to humor the old man, but exhaustion is starting to shorten his temper. “Can we at least retire to somewhere warm, so that you can finish debating this seemingly endless topic?”
He waits.
“Robinson?”
This time, still receiving no answer, he steps around and crouches down, at which point he finally sees the truth about the object that Robinson is so desperately and frantically examining.
“It's a rock,” he points out.
Robinson mumbles something.
“It's a rock!” Davey says again, as he reaches out to try to take the object. Robinson resists, of course, but Davey – in a fit of anger – forces the object out of his hands.
“That's mine!” Robinson snaps.
“It's a rock!” Davey yells, holding it up and making sure that it's just out of Robinson's reach. “It's a big, shiny, smooth rock! Do you know how many rocks there are in London? Millions! And there are plenty in the heart of the city, without coming all the way out here to search in the mud!”
“You're not looking at it properly!” Robinson hisses, trying again and again to take the rock, until Davey finally stands and takes a step back. “Give it to me! It's special! You have to understand!”
Still trying to ignore his anger, Davey looks around for a moment, and finally he spots another rock poking out from the mud. Heading over, he pulls this second rock out of the ground and taking a moment to wipe it clean, and then he turns just in time to see that Robinson is stumbling in his direction.
“Give it back!” the old man gasps.
“Fine,” Davey replies, holding both rocks out toward him. “Which one is it?”
Robinson reaches for the rock in his left hand, before hesitating. He looks at the other rock, then at the first, and the indecision is clear in his eyes.
“You don't even know,” Davey says with barely disguised derision. “Robinson, this is yet another of your foolish, pointless chases. For as long as I've known you, you've been doing things like this, and you've never found anything of value. Not once. And I've heard stories about your past, about the time long before I met you. Before I was even born. Men talk about you in taverns and coffee shops. They say you've always been like this. Is that true, Robinson? Have you wasted your whole life on these empty searches?”
“Give it back!”
“Your whole life, Robinson! What are you, anyway? Eighty now? And what have you got to show for it? Nothing!”
“Give it to me!”
“Which one!”
“The one I found!”
“Which one is that?”
Again, Robinson reaches first for one rock, then for the other, and then he freezes as he tries to work out which is which.
“It's all nonsense,” Davey continues, with a hint of tears in his eyes. “I'm sorry to be the one to point this out to you, but you have to see sense! This rock is a metaphor for your entire life, Robinson. It's a joke. It's a dead end. It's a... It's a rock!”
Robinson hesitates, and then he takes a step back. There's a shocked, horrified look on his face, as if some deeper realization is finally starting to reach his mind. He tilts his head slightly, with his eyes still fixed on the rock, but now his mouth is slightly open as if he's trying desperately to think of something – anything – that he can say to prove Davey wrong.
“It's just a rock,” Davey says again. “It's a fine rock, but it's a rock. And it's certainly not worth coming all the way out here for.”
He waits, but Robinson slowly starts to bow his head. Now, as a cold wind blows along the riverbank, the old man suddenly looks so much more pathetic than before. It's as if his determination was the only thing holding him up, and now his thin ragged clothes cling to his frame as he begins to sway slightly. His white hair, which has begun to thin in so many places, blows aimlessly.
“I'll take you back to the city,” Davey says, “and help you find somewhere warm, somewhere you can rest. And then -”
“Give it to me!” Robinson snarls, suddenly lunging forward and grabbing one of the rocks.
Davey twists around and just about manages to hang on. He raises the rocks high and then, in a final act of desperation, he hurls them both as far as he can.
Immediately, Robinson scuttles off to get them.
Davey watches incredulously as the old man drops to his knees and pulls both rocks close.
“Forget it,” he mutters finally, as he realizes that his words are falling on deaf ears. “I'm going, Robinson. I'll catch pneumonia if I stay out here any longer. You can come with me, or you can stay here in the mud, but I'm going. Do you hear?”
He waits.
No answer.
“Fine.”
Turning, Davey begins to traipse away through the mud, heading toward the wall in the hope that he'll soon fin another set of stone steps. Each step feels so much more difficult than before, as if the mud post-midnight is getting thicker and heavier. Muttering to himself about the pointlessness of the entire night, he lets out a few curses as he almost falls, and then as he reaches the wall he sees that there are no steps nearby. Sighing, he turns to head back the way they came, but at the last moment he glances toward Robinson and sees that the old man has slumped down on the mud.
The two rocks sit alone, glinting in the moonlight.
“I'm not falling for it,” Davey says firmly, under his breath, before raising his voice. “I'm not falling for it!”
He waits, but the only sound comes from the gathering wind.
“Get up!” he shouts. “Do you hear me, Robinson? I'm going! I'm not wasting another moment out here!”
Again, he waits.
He wants so desperately to leave, but at the same time he can't help noticing how frail and pathetic Robinson looks. The old man isn't moving at all, and he seems to have collapsed onto his left side. Davey watches for some sign of life, but a growing sense of concern is starting to spread through his chest. He's felt like this before, of course, but this time something seems different. This time, out there in the moonlight, Robinson looks as if he's...
“This had better not be another trick,” Davey mutters, as he sets back off to check on his old friend. “I swear, Robinson, if this is some attempt to get the better of me, I'll throttle you myself!”
He spends the next few minutes making his way over toward Robinson. As he gets closer, however, he begins to realize that Robinson's eyes are wide open. By the time he reaches him and crouches down, Davey can see that Robinson isn't blinking, so after a moment he reaches out and presses two fingers against the side of the old man's neck.
He waits.
And waits.
Finally, as another cold blast blows along the river, Davey realizes that his friend is dead.
IV
The huge, hulking mansion house stands high against a starry sky. There are hundreds of windows, most of them dark, but a few toward the eastern wing still flicker with candlelight as Davey pulls his cart past the entrance and heads around toward the rear.<
br />
Once he's arrived, Davey sets the cart down and glances briefly at the load. A large dark sheet covers the body that he's been bringing through the London streets, and for a moment Davey can only stare at the fabric and think of Robinson's body beneath. He passed two cemeteries on the way and paused at both, feeling the urge to take his friend through the gate and begin preparations for a proper burial. Yet on both occasions he eventually carried on, winding his way through the cobbled passageways to complete a journey that he undertook several times every week.
After all, money's money, and a body's a body.
He steps over to the service door and pulls on the rope, and a bell briefly rings somewhere deep in the house.
Cupping his hands and blowing into them for warmth, Davey turns and makes his way back toward the cart. Again, he looks at the sheet and thinks of Robinson. The old man never spoke of his own death, of what he wanted done with his body. Would he have approved of a proper burial in a proper churchyard? Perhaps not. Still, Davey felt a twinge of guilt at the thought that he was most decidedly not doing the right thing.
Then again...
As the door opens behind him, Davey turns, and he tells himself that he has no choice. He needs the money and – besides – the body will be used for proper medical research. He has no time for superstition. He's simply doing what has to be done.
***
“I wasn't sure you'd still be up,” Davey says a short while later, as he glances at the money in his hand and then slips it into his pocket. “I'm not usually here so late.”
“I work until dawn, every night,” Mr. Hodges replies as he makes his way around the table, inspecting Robinson's naked corpse. “Some of us have the luxury of only a few hours each night in which to sleep.”
He stops and peers down at Robinson's face, and in particular at the dead, wide-open eyes.
“What killed him?” he asks after a moment. “I see nothing traumatic.”
“He was getting on,” Davey points out. “There aren't many who live as long as him.”
“Did you know him?”
