Preston is not a very pretty city. It's also a hive of activity of Salamanders, fire elementals, they're everywhere and I have no idea why. Perhaps the very fact that I felt vulnerable and exposed to the multitude of red and yellow hued glowing individuals that seemed to occupy every coffee shop, supermarket and pub tainted my perception of what is probably a very interesting and vibrant city.
The phone with Patrick yesterday left me numb for a while, so much so that I failed to ask Pat about sorting me out with somewhere to lay my head and lie low for a while. It appears that something connected with my involvement with the Flower's Barrow project debacle has resurfaced and is making the supernatural community very agitated. I have no idea what it is and neither does Patrick. I finally managed to get back through to Pat late last night and thankfully caught the last train to Preston where he had a friend, a peculiar young chap with no real glow but a dark outline, who owed him a few favours. Gareth didn't live far from the station, in the same vicinity as the seedy bars and off-licenses I mentioned yesterday. The dark shadows hovered and flitted around all who frequented these establishments, I closed my eyes to them. Gareth said little but somehow still managed to appear content, upbeat and cheerful. He was short and slight with dark lank, greasy hair that reminded me of the lead singer from Suede. He was expecting me and lost no time in showing me to the spare room in his very small flat, when I say room I should say cupboard with a bed. I joined him in the open plan room that served as lounge, kitchen and diner. He sat drinking Jim Beam from a litre bottle watching 'Flog it' on his sky plus and eating quavers from a very unsanitary looking plastic bowl. He ignored me. As it was late I gave up my attempts in engaging him in conversation and retired to bed.
This morning he wasn't around so I helped myself to tea and toast before wandering out into the streets for a bit of a mooch and a think; what had I done to warrant a witch hunt? The milling throng in the Fishergate shopping centre contained more than the usual number of glowing supernatural beings, all yellow or red. Granted I had not been aware of the existence of this otherworld for decades of my life, now,when my eyes had been opened, I was a mere novice and as such couldn't be sure if what I now experienced was normal or not. AFter walking aimlessly through the city centre I ended up, as I usually do in a back street cafeteria eating fried pork products, the black pudding was especially good. Thankfully there were no otherworlders here, indeed there were very few people here. I was mopping up my beans with the final slice of bread when Gareth appeared. He sat down without a word, handed me his mobile phone then turned to look out of the window. I looked at the display, it showed a number, a call was in progress. Gingerly I placed the phone to my ear.
'Hello?' I started tentatively.
'Tom?' The familiar voice enquired.
'Yes, is that you Pat?' I knew it was.
'Look. I know more, it's not clear but...' he hesitated, 'someone doesn't like you and wants you dead.' He continued. 'Go back to Gareth's and I'll sort something out for tomorrow. You really are in the fucking shit mate.'
I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing. 'Just go with Gareth, he's...' again the pause, 'different from what you're used to.' With that the phone went dead. I realised that I still had a soggy slice of bread in my hand, I handed the phone back to Gareth and bit into the bread. He said nothing but his dark border swelled for an instant and his eyes blazed. Without a word he stood and left, I instinctively followed, dropping a fiver at the counter as I passed.
It's getting late now and I am sitting watching 'Dickenson's real deal' on Sky plus and sharing bourbon from the bottle with my host. Progress I guess but I really need to know more from Patrick.
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