IV - Prologue

The night was dawning upon them, he thought.

Coughing slightly, he dragged his heavy footsteps into a small pub before him. It was the Kichelson & Korley’s, a bar he frequented on nights like these.

K&K’s was lit brightly tonight, and he hated it. The brightness speared intrusively into his retina, and his head ached, trying to shield itself from the aggression.

He walked to the bar counter while there were still black spots dancing in his vision and managed to get himself an orange juice. He wouldn’t take alcohol. He sat in a window seat near the left wall and scrubbed half uncomfortably at his moustache. He lighted a cigarette and had barely enjoyed it before he realised in annoyance that it was burning his moustache. He quickly patted at his moustache with the sleeve of his trench coat and stubbed his cigarette in remorse, eyeing the unused half of the cigarette.

The two ends of the belt of his tan trench coat were undone and hanging loosely on the ground. He was irritated even further and started to brood in his seat. He didn’t know what he was brooding over – perhaps it was the weather. He never liked downcast days.

Rainy days were great – he loved the sound of the rain on the ground, giving his mind noise to think. Sunny days were acceptable. He could wash, hang and dry his clothes easily. But downcast days? He hated them because he would always feel the clouds pressing down on his figure and heart as well as the city.

He curled his lips in distaste, finishing the remains of his orange juice in one gulp. Years before, he had felt quite ridiculous trying to down a draft of orange juice like vodka, but he had grown accustomed to his own doubts and criticism and could pour his drink into his gullet shamelessly.

Even while night settled in and the clouds faded in with the background, Cassian could feel the clouds still pressing down, pressing down.

He coughed again out of sheer discomfort. Turning swiftly and sharply, he walked distastefully away from K&Ks as a group of rowdy youngsters, screaming and laughing, drew near. He hated their noise.

Back in his apartment, Cassian Graves felt the digging of hunger in his stomach.

He tore off the fake moustache he was wearing. It had only been a tool to hide himself from whatever business he would have attracted tonight in case D.I. Stuart was looking for him. It itched uncomfortably even when it was gone, and Cassian swore solemnly that he would never put it on again. He scratched at his stubble and coughed.

On his way home, the hunger had been nothing but a quiet cloud in his stomach, pressing down upon the stomach acid and agitating it. During his ascent to the third floor, it had started to push up, trying to get through his oesophagus. Now, it was threatening to spill from his throat. He gagged suddenly, but it was not foreign to him. He held a hand to his stomach and condemned it with his thumb, digging it into his stomach and imagining it would reach the low-pressure chamber of his stomach that the cloud had created, and by breaching it, let in the air so that it would recover.

He berated himself for not eating dinner, but he could hardly have eaten in today’s mood. He felt his body’s urge for nourishment, but his stomach and throat demanded cleanliness. To reach a compromise, he took out a pack of biscuits and a small pot of yogurt. Curling up on his sofa sideways, he dipped each brown biscuit into the thick liquid and soon finished the biscuits, but there were still some yogurts left. Disgruntled and feeling slightly ashamed because of this, he finished his yogurt, put the spoon inside the jar, put the lid on again, and threw the plastic jar and spoon into the garbage can spitefully. With a loud crash, all was still again.

He took a quick bath, rubbing his hair ferociously with a towel, then had to resort to a blow-dryer to finish the job. His hair was getting too long, and black strands were starting to block his eyes occasionally. He noted to himself that he would get a haircut tomorrow, like he had been doing for the past week.

His skin was dry, and he smelt pleasant. He wrapped himself into his thick blankets triumphantly, then remembered that his phone was in the living room. Swearing through his teeth, he kicked his slippers on and retrieved the gadget, putting it on the bedside table to wake him up at seven a.m. the next morning.

It was unfortunate that his good sleep did not last till then.