Leaving Green Sleeves

Chapter five

In which Dung does something incredibly stupid

Borgin opened the door and frowned when he smelled the beer on Dung's breath. Without speaking he led Dung into the dining room of his flat behind the shop. It was an ancient, hall-like room with oak panel and cobwebs covering the dark corners, and right now smelling deliciously of dinner. The room was dimly lit, with an impressive chandelier in the ceiling. The stern and serious portraits on the wall followed Dung with their eyes and whispered amongst themselves.

"You're late."

Dung stared at the chandelier, remembering how much it had impressed him as a child. Mesmerised, he had been, imagining the crystals to be diamonds and watching how the glass prisms had turned each rare beam of light into rainbows on the dark walls. He'd even nicked one of the prisms once, and kept it in his pocket as a good luck charm. After a few minutes, he noticed Borgin staring at him.

"Beg pardon, got caught up," Dung replied and sat down in his chair, which made a pitiful creaking sound in protest. The walk hadn't sobered him up, quite the contrary; he made an effort trying to sound sober and clear, with little success. "'Sup, Stu?"

"I would appreciate it if you were sober the next time you come for dinner." Borgin's voice was cold, and his lips drawn into a thin line as he placed a potato on his plate.

Tired and irritable, Dung sighed before getting up from the chair. Throwing the napkin back on the table, he turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Borgin asked incredulously as he looked up, the frown deepening.

"To my room, since you don't want me here," Dung snapped back, slurring worse than ever.

"For Merlin's sake, man, act your age and sit down!" Borgin barked back in irritation, before forcing a smile on his face. "We have lamb chops," he added in a milder voice, as if to excuse himself for the little display of temper.

Scowling, Dung lowered his body down on the chair again, then decided he was too tired to put up a resistance. In spite of the nice smell, he couldn't muster any enthusiasm about the meal - all he wanted was to bury his face in a soft, cool pillow and sleep for a week.

He looked at the small chops on the antique - and definitely valuable - china plate before him. "I hate lamb chops," he replied in that passive-aggressive tone of voice he knew would drive Borgin mad. "Got any bacon?"

"No," Borgin stated firmly and started to cut the meat on his plate.

Dung placed a few potatoes on his plate and started mashing them together with the gravy, not minding the disapproving looks from the landlord. Borgin came from an ancient family of wizards and had always been a picky bastard, getting chills down his spine when seeing people eating with their knives or forgetting which fork to use with the salad. Even now, as the Alley was about to fall to pieces around him, he dressed for dinner; maroon dinner robes in expensive thick velvet over a shirt so shining white it could be used in a Muggle commercial for washing powder. Outside his shop he seemed so perfectly lost that Dung couldn't bear teasing him for it; somehow Borgin was the shop and the shop was Borgin, separating the two was out of the question. How he'd ended up in the Alley in the first place Dung had never found out.

After taking a sceptical sniff at one of the chops, Dung decided to try one, and while he ate Borgin kept sending him curious glances. Several times he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again with a hum and a nod. Dung observed him in silence, quietly enjoying the sight of the man, near bursting from all the questions he wanted to ask.

"You got any beer?" Dung asked and finished the last of the potatoes before taking out one of the few remaining cigarettes and lighting it with his wand. Borgin made a discreet cough, even though the smoke hadn't even reached his side of the table yet.

"No, but I've got wine," Borgin replied and placed knife and fork down on his plate. Borgin got up from his chair and found a bottle in the oak cupboard in the corner. After opening the bottle, he poured Dung a glass. "Not that you really need more alcohol right now..."

"'S all right, I'm not picky with what I drink," Dung grinned at him and finished the glass before Borgin had even put the bottle down.

Frowning, Borgin gave him another glass. "This is a 1945 Bordeaux, Mr. Fletcher. Hundreds of Muggles defied war and famine just to create this excellent wine. No, it's not wine; it's liquid art, and I suggest you take your time to discover the bouquet of this masterpiece... Or perhaps just throw it down your throat," he added in a tired voice when he saw Dung doing exactly that.

"Thanks for the food," Dung said and put the glass down. "Think I'll go to my room now."

"Yes, of course," Borgin said, a vacant expression on his face as he sat down and poured a glass to himself. "We'll talk tomorrow, then."

Dung gave him a last glance as he walked out the door, and saw the little man sitting beside his impressive oak dinner table, playing with the wineglass in his hand. Surrounded by tasteful furniture and art, impeccable clothes and precious wine he looked lonely, and for a moment Dung felt bad for leaving him there. But he was no company tonight, too many thoughts in his head and too much drink in his belly.

In deep thoughts he walked out through the door in the hall of Borgin's flat, into the stairway up to the first floor. Soon he was standing in his room, where he shed his Muggle overcoat and walked over to the window. Some fresh night air might do him good. He stood there for a while, leaning on the windowsill and resting his weary head against his arms while looking over the Alley - the setting sun painted the walls in a golden tint. Only a few people scurried around down there. The whole place seemed peaceful this evening.

There was a sigh of disapproval from the corner of the room, and Dung turned around to see whom it was. There was no one, except the mirror above a chest of drawers. "I thought we agreed on the drinking," the mirror said in a complaining voice.

"We didn't," Dung muttered as he slipped out of his clothes and sat down on the bed. "Now shut your face, I'm gonna sleep."

"I don't have a face," the mirror argued. "The only thing I show you are yourself. And frankly, mister, you could use a good shave."

"Typical, innit?" Dung mumbled and pulled the thick blanket over his head. "Why do I always end up with petulant mirrors?"

****

Something woke him up. In his tired haze he could not point his finger to what it was. A sound perhaps, or a feeling of something threatening in the corners of his room. He rubbed his eyes and stared out into the massive darkness that surrounded him. There was nothing to see - he could make out the black outline of the coat-stand by the door and the chair by the foot of his bed. Nothing moved. The room itself slept, and the notion calmed his nerves somewhat.

He rolled over in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. Something was wrong; his senses told him so even though his mind rejected the idea. But the danger was not in his room, he understood that now, the room was safe and he was safe inside it.

Outside.

It was too quiet; Knockturn Alley was never quiet like this. There were always some sounds reaching out from the street, a drinking song or an argument between the night dwellers, music seeping out from an opened window. Now there was nothing, and a heavy silence hung over the place like a wet blanket. Then he remembered Wilkes. Of course, with Wilkes dead, there would be silence - in respect for the old man, people stayed inside this night. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

Sleep wouldn't come. The people might be inside, but there should've been other sounds; the noise from one of the usual dogs going through the dustbins, the sound of the numerous cats fighting, crows cawing on the roofs. But there was nothing. It started to grate on his nerves, and he found himself wishing for something, anything, to break the uncanny silence.

It was eerily familiar to him, though. Thirty-six years earlier he'd been lying in his bed in a house further down the Alley, listening out into the empty void just as he did now. Shivering in his bed, the nine-year-old Dung had been too scared to go out to the lavatories in the back yard, too scared to even put his feet on the floor. Maybe the evil outside somehow had managed to find the way into his room, seeped in from under the door and curled up under his bed. And if he put a foot on the floor, it would reach out and grab him, drag him under...

The same fear held him now, and angry at his own childish folly he sat up in bed and reached for his wand on the bedside table. "Lumos," he said firmly, a bit louder than he had meant to. The light crept back into the room, and he lit the gas lamp on the little table. Slowly, the flickering warmth found its way into the dark corners, as if the room itself was reluctant to wake up and peered back at him with drowsy eyes.

For a while he just sat there with his head in his hands, fighting the nausea that suddenly attacked him. He had to stop drinking - he needed to take a break. At least a couple of weeks, he told himself, not wanting to step out on the cold floor and walk over to the sink in the far corner of the room. But he had to; he was so thirsty his throat felt like it was on fire. Unwillingly, he threw the blanket off and felt the chilly air on his bare skin. He bent over to look down on the floor. There was nothing there of course, and swallowing heavily he put his right foot on the floor, half expecting to be tickled by some unseen dark creature.

Irritated with himself he crossed the floor and poured himself a glass of water from the jar standing on a chest of drawers, and let out a moan of relief as the healing liquid put out the fire inside him. He glanced at the mirror, and a complete stranger examined him back. Dung stared at the serious face - he looked worn out, old.

"Merlin, what's happening to me?" he croaked. "And you keep your mouth shut," he hissed at the mirror when he heard it was preparing another of its witty retorts. Surprisingly enough, the mirror remained quiet.

After a few minutes he felt better and returned to his bed on shaky feet, carrying the full glass in his hand. As he slipped down between the sheets, his eyes caught the sight of movement in the heavy curtain. For a second it startled him, and he grabbed the wand. Then he remembered that he had opened it only a few hours before, and with a sigh of impatience he walked over to close it. He always slept with an open window, but tonight something inside him told him to keep it locked. Pushing the curtain back, he took a quick look outside only to be met by the desolate sight of the Alley. The new moon offered little light and it was difficult making out anything from the shadows, but the street seemed empty.

No, it was not. There was a movement in the shadows beneath him, the sort you felt more than heard; someone was out in the night, hiding in the darkness by the wall. Shuddering, he pulled the window closer, closed the curtain and returned to the bed once more. After turning the light off, he covered himself with the warm blankets, but could not persuade his body to calm down. It was like it was working on overdrive, not taking orders from him anymore.

Slowly he drifted into an uneasy sleep, dreaming the most vivid dreams. He could not grasp them, just flickering images of faces and places and a long corridor framed by grey walls, illuminated by cold moonlight.

He woke up from a scream, and with eyes wild he stared out into the darkness. He froze in the big bed, unable to move even if he had wanted to, but now silence ruled. Had he heard it, or was it simply a figment of his imagination? In the no man's land between sleep and awakening he was not sure anymore, and his head was aching from listening so hard.

He stood up again and walked over to the window, and slowly pushed it open. The cool air hit him in the face as he gazed over the Alley, seemingly just as empty as it had been an hour earlier. He was about to close it once more when a soft sob reached him from the ground below. Someone was talking, and even though he could not distinguish the words the meaning was clear to him. It was a male voice, low and hard, and sobbing answers from a woman begging. Begging for what? Love, or money? Her life?

Dung wanted to close the window, wanted to tell himself that this was none of his business, to hide in his warm bed and wait for the light of the morning, but for some reason it was harder than ever. Dung never interfered, simply because he knew only too well that it would make little difference to the other person and only trouble for himself - but something in the woman's voice upset him. He wanted the voice both to stay quiet and to say more. Shaking his head, he finished the glass of water on his bedside table.

Slowly he paced the room, got himself another glass of water, stared into the mirror at the tattered and pathetic stranger standing there, all while keeping all his full attention on what was going on outside. Not one sound escaped him, from the hiss the man made when he spoke to the scraping sound of stone against leather, as one of them leaned against the wall of the building.

The woman let out a whimper that rose to a loud wail, and Dung could not stand to listen anymore but threw on his cloak and his shoes. Fully dressed, he sat back on the bed, clutching his wand in his hands while he listened to the eerie silence that had followed her cry, begging whatever deity that might be listening to make them go away. "Don't meddle, Dung," he muttered into the semidarkness of the room, as if he was trying to persuade himself to stay out of this. "This hasn't got anything to do with you. It's private, it is, don't make a fool of yourself..."

Another complaining cry came through the window, and quickly he got up from the bed and walked out in the corridor. Swearing and cursing he took the stairs three steps at the time, and soon the night air made his coat flap behind him as he turned the corner out to the Alley. With his heart pounding in his throat, he saw the shadows come alive as a person turned his head towards him. There was a flash of light in an eye and in teeth as the other man sneered at him.

"What the hell's going on?" Dung demanded with a voice that sounded surprisingly steady and firm.

The man straightened up, and too late Dung saw him raising his wandarm. "Interscindo," a low voice growled, and Dung only halfway managed to cast the defence charm he'd planned. A heavy blow hit him in the chest and made him fall on his back to the ground.

When he tried to get up he found it impossible, but managed to roll onto his side before giving up. He was surprised - he'd expected it to hurt, but he only felt completely powerless where he lay, and for some reason he no longer cared. His eyes fell on the shop where a pub would be built ten years later. The moon mirrored itself in the cold glass in the windows, casting the light into his eyes and making him squint.

Then came the sound of sand and grovel being trampled underfoot, and a pair of polished black boots emerged in front of his face. They didn't kick, didn't even move, and he grew tired of watching them - he wanted to see the shop, not the laces in his killer's boots. "You're blocking the view," Dung muttered with a fading voice.

Someone talked to him from far away, a cold voice. "Didn't your mother tell you not to interfere in other peoples business?" Then the boots started moving, and whoever walked away without waiting for a reply.

"No, she didn't," Dung whispered to the stones in the pavement.

There was another sound beside him, another pair of shoes. A hand with soft skin touched his own, another fumbled over his chest. "No use, lass, I don't even have a wallet," he mumbled slowly, and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the girl's hand, covered in blood.

All he wanted now was to sleep, with his face down in the filthy street where he grew up.