Ink Portals

Soul searching

37

Some six months had passed since the ordeal down in the catacombs. Arthur and Abby drifted around Europe, living a backpackers' life. They cycled and sometimes hiked, making their way down to the south of France, then they decided to take a detour and go visit some of the picturesque villages in Italy.

All the while Arthur was plying his new-found trade. Every now and then a raven would pick a pocket here and there, to pay for their next train or boat ticket. And so they paid their way across Europe. Arthur made a strict point of meditating daily - he knew he would lose his mind if he didn't. He let the spirits roam whenever they were in a secluded area, away from prying eyes; a field behind a quiet farmhouse, or a deserted hiking path would become Yoshi and the ravens' playground for a while, until he and Abby moved on to the next town.

They visited every monument, every museum they had ever seen in a magazine and dreamed of seeing in person. But after months spent traveling it started to feel like they should be getting back, but to where exactly they didn't quite know yet.

One afternoon, after roaming aimlessly for months, Arthur and Abby found themselves in London on a cloudy British day.

"This is it," Arthur said, leaning up against a roll-up garage door in a self-storage compound. They were somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The barely-readable address scribbled on Pierre's key holder had led them there. After more than six months of telling himself he wouldn't except anything from Pierre, Arthur's curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.

He took out the key and wiped away some lint that had accumulated on it from clothing in his backpack. He looked at Abby, as if questioning his own decision to have come there.

"Go on," Abby said. "I'm dying to see what's inside there."

Arthur pushed the key into the lock and turned it, it stuck a little bit, he had to jiggle it and try again. Then the lock clicked open on the second try.

"You ready?" he said, turning around to face her.

"Hell yeah, we came all this way, let's see it," she said, dropping her backpack next to the scooter they were renting.

Arthur reached down and pulled up the door, it whirred up exposing a grey tarp, draped over a shape that could only be some kind of car.

Arthur shook his head and said: "I wonder what kind of heap Pierre left under there?"

"You think he has good taste in cars?" Abby said, walking up curiously to the mystery vehicle.

"Let's find out," Arthur said.

He grabbed the front of the tarp and pulled it off, then stood there speechless with his mouth open.

"Wow," Abby said, stepping into the garage, taking cover from the drizzling rain that had started pattering outside.

The car's bright yellow paint-job greatly contrasted the gloomy weather outside.

"It can't be. It's Jack's..." Arthur said. He broke off turning to Abby with his hands in his hair. "It's Jack's old Diablo."

"Really?" Abby said, taking a second glance, "How did Pierre get it?"

"Jack sold it to a guy overseas years ago," he said, crouching down in front of the Lamborghini, as if he still couldn't believe it was really there. "Turns out that guy was Pierre."

Abby bent over and ran her hand over the car's hood. She could feel a couple of minute stone chips under her fingertips. The headlamps were slightly faded, likely from years of highway fumes.

"Looks like he drove it a lot," she said.

Arthur nodded then noticed a trickle-charger on a shelf nearby. It was plugged into a wall socket to keep the battery from dying. He unclipped the wires from the battery and re-connected them to the car, then closed the rear engine compartment.

Arthur went to the driver's side and lifted up the door handle. It was unlocked. The door clicked open and slid upwards. The soft hissing sound was so familiar, Arthur felt like he was seventeen years old again, standing in his dad's garage on a hot California day. It was like he could smell the freshly cut grass; Jack usually mowed the lawn before they took their Sunday drive. They would drive from Malibu up to Santa Cruz and back for the day; usually stopping along the way for a soda and a hotdog.

Arthur looked over at Abby. She wiped away a tear before crossing her arms with a slight smile. Arthur got in behind the wheel and looked around the cabin; it was just like he remembered it. He almost expected to hear Jack's voice next to him, complaining about the California traffic.

The key was in the ignition. Arthur turned it halfway and the car pinged, making lights on the dashboard come to life. Then he turned it all the way. The starter whined for a second or two before a throaty idle banged into life, reverberating inside the tiny storage unit. The smell of exhaust fumes drifted past the open door. Arthur leaned over and opened the passenger door for Abby. She tossed their backpacks into the foot well and slid into the seat beside him. Then they sat there for what felt like ages, just staring through the windshield at the rain coming down outside - just staring, no talking - while the engine idled monotonously in the background.

Arthur put his hands on the steering wheel, an object that Jack had used so many times, and said: "I miss him so much."

"Me too," Abby said, putting a hand on his knee.

Abby found a tissue in her bag and wiped away her own tears. She sniffed and wiped her nose, then said: "So, where do we go from here?"

"Don't know, really. What do you reckon Jack would've wanted to do if he was here?" Arthur said.

"I think he would've wanted you to live with this path you've chosen," Abby said and took out the leather racing gloves from her backpack. She had kept them all along. "This is what you wanted, right?"

Arthur took the gloves and put them on his hands, then said: "It's like Jack said that day in the garden: there are no right or wrong choices - there are only consequences."

Abby frowned, "I'll let you figure that one out for yourself."

The yellow Lamborghini rolled out into the rain, grumbling down the street.

They didn't even take the scooter back to the rental place.

Fuck the scooter.

The End.