The Streetcomber

Mark Winthrop was lazy, but this only begins to describe his personality. Not only was he lazy, he was a good for nothing freeloader. He was unemployed and spent his days prowling the streets, checking payphones for lost change, gutters for dropped coins and notes and bus stations for forgotten luggage. From time to time when he got lucky he would find a misplaced handbag or when his luck was really up, some poor souls lost mobile phone. If he did get lucky enough for this happy event to occur, he would add the nearby police stations to his daily route, looking for lost property notices, and advertisements for lost mobile phones, ones offering rewards of course. If the reward was substantial enough, he would return it, but that was a rare occurrence. More often than not he would sell it to some popularity dependent teenager with a face scarred and pockmarked by acne. He had been raised a Catholic though and still held on (albeit very loosely) to the values he had been thought growing up. Because of this he would, although not very often, return the phone even at a loss, "To save my wretched soul," as he so devoutly put it. I guess you could put it simply and call him a scavenger, but then again scavengers have at least some sense of pride, and this was something Mark was severely lacking in. He had no problem scrounging off the misfortunes of either a rich man or a poor man. Rich or poor it didn't matter to him, he was an equal opportunity freeloader. Neither did he have a problem making a pimply adolescent pay two hundred pounds for a phone retailing in the shop for one hundred and fifty. As long as he was making money he was happy. As he said, "In the end that's all that matters, right?" He cared for nothing and nobody apart from himself and his money, which to tell the truth, he really didn't have that much of.
He lived in a rundown apartment block; one of those old places that was probably more suited to habitation by rats rather than people. But even though there were no plumbing or wash facilities in his apartment, he was clean, very clean. He had had the luck one-day to find a membership card to a gym five minutes from his apartment. It was one of those long membership deal ones and it was valid for another eight years. He showed up at the gym at eight-thirty every morning. First he would take a quick run on the treadmill, and on the days he felt more energetic, he would work with some weights. Not very heavy ones admittedly, but just heavy enough to keep his scrawny five foot six build in something resembling a shape. This would all take place before he took his daily shower, which he held to more religiously than his religion. Then he would grab a hot coffee and a few bagels from a cheap café at the corner, which he frequented, before embarking on his day's scavenging.
"I love life," he often mused to himself as he strode up and down the streets, "I have the best job in the world. I have no boss to nag me, I make my own hours and I keep everything I earn (find)." But besides these obvious benefits, there was another reason that hung in the background, A mere shadow, which hung behind all else, but which was probably the most important reason to why he loved his job so much. The only reason he would never admit to himself. He liked or even moreso, he loved to observe. Walking down the city streets he felt like a god. He saw and noticed everyone, but they never seemed to pay much attention to him. He prided himself on the way he predicted (with almost unerring accuracy) peoples personalities. He laughed behind the backs of businessmen dressed in expensive suits and carrying exquisite leather briefcases, especially the ones in which he read the signs of a social and domestic life on the verge of collapse. He loved to see the middle-aged housewives he knew to be veteran gossips, engaged in their own personal scandals, which they were so desperate to hide. He loved to laugh at the misfortunes of those more fortunate than himself. He loathed the well-to-do people he passed everyday. He would sneer at them behind their backs and call them, "Pompous, stuck-up, self righteous pieces of dog crap." He stayed away from the more colourful curses he maintained in his vocabulary, the ones that he kept but never used. He often praised himself for sticking to his Catholic upbringing no matter how loosely he held onto his values. He was quite the hypocrite though and for every time he cursed the well-off business people, he secretly wished that he had their money and power. He would say," Maybe if I had money and was rich, I'd try harder to find someway to like them." But of course, why should he waste the time when he didn't have their money. He didn't hate them because they were rich; he hated them because he envied them. He lusted after what they had, their leather-lined Mercedes, their penthouse apartments, their swollen wallets and their foreign bank accounts. He envied and lusted after the life that he didn't have, but would have given anything for. After all, "In the end that's all that matters, right?"
It had been a terrible day for Mark Winthrop. It had started terribly and had reached its lowest point as he lost consciousness in the dark side street. He had woken up at eight o'clock as on any other day, except on this morning he had a blinding headache, which only disappeared, after he had chugged down five aspirin. He had then gone to his gym for his workout and shower, only to find that a pipe had burst there during the night. The premises had been severely flooded and was closed for repairs. Mark was disgusted. Feeling rather dirty, he headed towards the cheap café for his usual morning coffee. He found that it had been closed due to a family bereavement. He kicked a crumpled can up against the door in frustration, turned sharply on his heels and started out rather dejectedly on his day's work. To say that his day was slow would be quite an understatement. It was completely and utterly fruitless. He hadn't found so much as a penny by the time he had decided to finish up around six o'clock. The fruitlessness of his day had caused him to go further afield than usual. Currently he was in a district filled with expensive restaurants, an hour away from his apartment, where he had no intention of satisfying his growing appetite. He was absolutely starving. He knew that at this time of the day, especially with the fading light, that it would be far safer to sick to the mainstreets. Even though he could get back in about half an hour if he took a side street, his growing hunger over-ruled his logic and all of his good judgment. And he ended up taking that shortcut down a dark side street, which smelled of rotting vegetables. At this point with his empty pockets, bar a few pounds from the previous day and his gym membership card, and his stomach that felt like a vacuum, he didn't believe that his day could get any worse. Even when he was shoved up against a wall and had a knife pressed to his ribcage, he couldn't bring himself to believe that it had gotten worse. He leaned limply against the wall, while the mugger rifled his pockets and stole his last couple of pounds and his gym card. He still couldn't believe it, when his assailant drew back his fist and drove it into the bridge of his nose. He felt a brief flash of pain as the bridge of his nose broke. Stars flashed before his eyes. His vision blurred and then blackened before he finally passed out. He still did not believe that his day had managed to get worse.
He awoke to a strange smell that vaguely reminded him of rotten eggs. He laughed to himself; it reminded him of a description he had once heard of hell. He stopped laughing however as he began to regain his senses. He was uncomfortably hot and sweaty. He was feeling rather stuffy and there was a dull pain throbbing in his nose. He struggled to open his eyes, but failed. His eyelids seemed strangely heavy, and every time he tried to open them he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The kind of feeling you get when you're alone in a dark room and begin to feel paranoid. "Damn I feel paranoid," he thought to himself before resorting to his usual semi-rational thought pattern, the one that allowed him not to think about anything that disturbed him. "Well I guess considering the circumstances I have a right to feel a bit jittery." Then in his usual self- imposed amnesia, he forgot all about his paranoia. "I wonder if that S.O.B. took my gym card? Damn I need a shower. My nose feels dirty," he pondered over this last thought for a second, then raised his hand to his nose. He felt the tackiness from the semi-dried blood. His eyes jolted open. A flash of pain flew like a spear through his head as he touched the broken bridge of his nose. The first thing he saw was his hand, dotted with drops of congealed blood. "Must be from my nose," he thought, surprised at his strange satisfaction for this indifferent little observation. A sense that soon faded as his earlier paranoia suddenly flooded back.
Standing directly across from him, there was a tall man silhouetted in the dull red glow of a fire exit sign. "That must belong to that swanky Italian restaurant," he thought, amazed that he was so sure of this fact. He wasn't omnipotent but he had an extremely acute sense of smell, which had somehow managed to pick out the faint smell of pasta and rich sauces amid the aromatic confusion of rotting vegetables and the odd egg-like smell. He smiled inwardly as he realised that this was the root of his observation. His sense had developed into an instinct. He swelled his chest at this new realisation. He quickly fell back to earth however, as he remembered the stranger standing over him. A sense of foreboding seemed to surround the mysterious figure. "At least he's not my mugger," Mark was once again surprised at the sureness with which he made this observation. This time he had nothing to credit his sureness to. His semi-rational escape route of thought kicked in again. "He's not my mugger because usually muggers don't stay around to apologeise," ordinarily he would have laughed at this little witticism, but to him it sounded more like logic than humour, and besides the sense of foreboding was growing. He wouldn't admit it to himself yet, but he was terrified of the dark stranger. A fact that compounded his surprise as the figure held out his hand and made as if to help him up. Mark sat still, confused, for a few seconds before, against his better judgment, he reluctantly took the strangers hand. Something about the gesture didn't feel right however, not right at all. It wasn't as if he was been offered help to get up, more like he was being led into getting up. He really didn't feel like moving at all. He was feeling rather light headed and a headache was beginning to throb over his left eye. He would have been perfectly happy to have sat there until the throbbing had faded, but something about the stranger told him that it would be better if he took his hand. When Mark had reached his feet the stranger spoke for the first time. "Come on inside, you're a mess, we'd better clean you up," he spoke in an accent that had a slight Italian twist to it, but something about it did not seem right to Mark, it almost sounded fake, whether it was the voice or the accent he couldn't tell. The stranger turned and opened the door behind him, the one that led into the Italian restaurant. He gestured to Mark to follow him, but on seeing his hesitation; he took him by the arm and led him inside. Mark staggered reluctantly after the man towards the bright electric light inside. He was still wondering to himself in some faraway part of his mind if it was all just a nightmare and if he would just wake up and everything would be okay again. His rational side dismissed this even though part of him still held onto this little piece of hope. As he passed through the door into the light, the bright fluorescent lighting temporarily blinded his eyes that were still sensitive. "Please God," he whispered to himself, "Please tell me this is a nightmare." But he got no answer.
He was led through a series of corridors, still blinded by the bright light. His nose was throbbing dully and he winced from the sharp pain pulsing over his left eye. The man stopped and fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked a paneled door with the strangest looking key that Mark had ever seen, and Mark was an expert on keys. He averaged over one a day on his wanderings but he had never seen one quite like this. It was just a small thin rod with spikes protruding from one side. Mark didn't have time to ponder over the strange key however, as the man ushered him quickly into the room. The man closed the door behind them as soon as Mark was through and locked it again. Mark's heart sank. "No way out now," he thought grimly. The man turned from the door and for the first time Mark really observed him. "Kind of strange it took me so long," he thought again rather puzzled. Usually the first thing he would do when he saw a person was to take note of their appearance. But oddly enough he had neglected to do this. The man was about six foot two. He had black hair that was very neatly cut and had an extremely tight hairline. He wore an expensive looking black suit with a deep scarlet shirt, devoid of a tie. He had a watch chain hanging from his left jacket pocket. His face puzzled Mark however, it looked neither young nor old and wasn't just in the middle either. It seemed almost ageless, so much so that Mark couldn't even hazard a guess at his age, which was probably a good thing. Then the man's eye's caught Mark's attention. Mark couldn't pin a colour on them any more than he could pin an age on the stranger. It wasn't that they were magically changing colours or anything, but in a way they just seemed blank, almost colourless. The stranger's eyes moved slightly and caught Mark's dead on. Mark shuddered, and felt as if his heart had been put in deep freeze. He glanced away quickly, not caring what the other man thought.
When he looked at the man he was shocked to find that he had been so unobservant, he had been shocked the first time, when he had realised that he had not actually looked at the man properly. But this time his shock was greater as he thought that he hadn't even done a proper job of it, "Must be the bad day getting to me," he told himself rather unconvincingly. The man was wearing a tie, the same rich colour as his shirt. "Maybe I missed it because it's the same colour as his shirt," he told himself, again unconvincingly. "No the tie wasn't there before," a voice whispered in the back of his head, "You know that it wasn't." But he ignored the voice, preferring his own flawed logic instead. The man no longer had a watch chain hanging from his left jacket pocket. Instead he had a golden brooch pinned to the pocket. Mark looked closer and saw that it was in the shape of a goat's hoof. "Odd," he thought to himself. "No not odd, expected," the voice in the back of his mind whispered again. He briefly considered telling it shut up, but then wondered if that meant that he was going crazy, and that was one thing that he didn't want. He had always thought himself a very sane and rational thinker, and after losing nearly everything he had, he didn't want to lose his sanity as well. He turned his attention back to the man. A cold calculating expression was on his face, as if he was judging Mark. Mark imagined that the man was able to see into his very soul, maybe even his thoughts. A slight smile played on his lips in a way that seemed to yell amusement. This made Mark wonder even more if the stranger had in some way heard him arguing with the voice in the back of his head. "Nah," he dismissed again. The voice in his head spoke up again, this time angrily. "Don't listen to me then, I only tried to help. You're on your own now. May God have bless your soul," the voice echoed angrily in his head for a few more seconds, and then it went quiet. Mark was left alone with his thoughts again. Then he realised, God had answered his prayer, and he had just forsaken God. "I'm damned,'' he thought. He didn't see, but the strangers smile flickered into a savage grin for a split second as if to say, "You don't know the half of it." Then it returned to the previous calculating grin, that felt somehow sinister to Mark, who was by now scared out of his wits by the silent stranger.
"Mark Winthrop!" the stranger exclaimed loudly and for a brief second Mark thought that he resembled a ringmaster at the circus. "Streetcomber Extraordinaire!" Mark foolishly swelled his chest at this. He had never really thought about putting a name on his chosen profession, but now that he thought about it "Streetcomber" was a pretty accurate description. On top of that he also really liked the word "Extraordinaire". His pride however was short lived as the stranger continued to list out his merits, "The Lowest of the Low, Scavenger of Scavengers, Stalker of Ill-luck and Conman of the Masses!" Mark had always ignored this unpleasant part of his personality and the fact that this was the true nature of his job, but now as the stranger was speaking, he realised that he had only been fooling himself. His chest deflated and he felt about three inches tall. "There goes my chance at Heaven, I'm damned for sure," he thought not noticing the widening grin on the strangers face. "I see that you're not too happy with my little observations," the stranger remarked, now grinning wickedly. "No one ever really is, so don't feel too bad." But somehow this didn't comfort Mark. The stranger went on, "You're a mess, you're sweaty, dirty, and bloody and your nose is all out of joint," he paused here seeming to take immense satisfaction in his pun. Mark wasn't too impressed though and another spear of pain jabbed at his nose. His knees bucked and he slid to the floor. His head was feeling very light again and the throbbing over his left eye had intensified. This time however, the man made no move to help him. Instead he stood over Mark sneering at him in disgust, "Look at you, cowering like a dog, you disgust me," he paused just long enough to shoot a wad of spit at Mark's forehead. It rolled thickly down between his eyes, but Mark made no effort to wipe it away, "But you know what? I pity you, you pathetic wretch." And suddenly his hand shot forward and grabbed hold of Mark's misshapen nose. Mark thought that he probably didn't want this man's pity, just as the man gave his nose a sharp twist. Mark winced in expectation of pain that never came. He looked up at the man in a mixture if shock, disbelief and for some reason, gratitude. He raised his hand to his nose.
The dull pain that had been present in his nose since he had regained consciousness was gone. He ran his hand over the bridge of his nose, that had been formerly been bent out of shape. He found that it had been somehow cured. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself in his amazement, forgetting his Catholic upbringing. He was too absorbed in his nose to notice the grin fade off the stranger's face and twist into a grimace of pain at Mark's exclamation of the Lord's name. That name had never ceased to send shivers down his spine. "How .did you do that?" Mark stuttered trying to contain his excitement and his growing fear. The stranger had regained his composure and just grinned back at him. A deathly silence hung in the air between the two men. Mark was sitting bemused, with his back against the leg of a table, and the stranger was towering, menacingly over him. Mark's ears deprived of sound, increased in sensitivity, trying to grasp at any sound that they could, the blood pumping in his head, his chattering teeth, anything. Mark even imagined he could hear his watch ticking, until he remembered that his watch had a digital display. Mark could feel the stranger's eyes burning into the back of his head, like bars of hot iron. At last the stranger broke the silence. His voice seemed to boom, nearly deafening Mark with his heightening sense of hearing. "I can give you anything that you want Mark, I healed your nose, and I took your luck away today. I know just what you want Mark, and I can give it to you. Money, power, and the chance to finally show those snotty businessmen who's the boss. All you have to do for me is one little favour, a trifle compared to the riches that you will receive." Mark, who had kept his head down throughout the silence, and listened to the first part of the stranger's speech with confusion, cocked his ears at the mention of money and power, the only things he had ever admitted to wanting. But the third thing, the chance to crush those stuck-up S.O.B's, awoke a sense of lust and desire that shocked him with its magnitude. "All that for a little trifle of a favour, looks like you haven't lost your touch after all, Mark, old boy. I might even be able to retire after this," he thought smugly to himself, his original shock at the lust he was feeling faded as that same lust grew and overpowered his logic. "What is this little favour?" he asked the stranger trying to sound composed but his voice was trembling in excitement. "You are in possession of something that I desire, my friend," the stranger answered, his eyes sparkling with their own greed. "Just name it," Mark replied no longer even trying to hide his lust. "It's not much, it's not really anything and besides I won't be claiming it until you pass away." "You mean part of my inheritance?" "Yes in a way." "Just name it and you can have it." "Ah, very good sir, I want your soul."
What the stranger said didn't register in Mark's mind for about thirty seconds, but then it hit him hard. He jolted upwards, all composure and excitement now gone; even his lust had faded. "Who are you?" he asked his voice trembling. The stranger grinned even wider still. "I have been called many names, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, but that doesn't really matter does it, friend," He pronounced "friend" viciously; his grin was now pure evil. Mark backed up rapidly, tripping over a chair and landing heavily on his back. He tried to get back up to his feet but all his strength had deserted him. "There's no need to be afraid, you said it yourself, you're damned. You have forsaken your God, and after all the things that you have done in your life, there's no way that you can possibly atone." The stranger's voice had once again assumed its composed, matter-of-fact tone. "No, there's still a way," the voice was back in Mark's head again, but weaker now, and he didn't hear it over the pounding of the blood rushing to his head. "Mark wouldn't you rather live the rest of your life happy, no more streetcombing, no more guttertrawling." Mark had much-preferred streetcombing to guttertrawling, but guttertrawling seemed to hit the mark more soundly, making him wince. "Look at you now, you wretch, you're filthy, stinking and have absolutely nothing, but, you could have everything, everything you have ever wanted," he pronounced "everything" with a flourish. "But my torment, and to tell the truth I've never really been much of a fan of fire," Mark replied stupidly, he didn't even know why he had said this, and he regretted it. "You fool!" the stranger yelled, "You have no idea, there is no fire," the stranger seemed to be growing in his rage, "I took away your luck once, I can do it again, and believe me, nothing would please me more. I offered you all your dreams on a platter, refuse if you will, but remember, Hell isn't just reserved for the dead." The stranger turned and took out his key. He went to the door and unlocked it. He paused for a second as if waiting for Mark to reconsider, then made as if to leave. "Wait," Mark croaked weakly, "I acc.I accept," he struggled briefly with his Catholic upbringing, but his lust, as well as his fear, had killed off the last of his logic. The stranger grinned to himself before he turned to Mark. "Very well the deal is made," and the stranger just vanished. There was no flash or smoke like in the movies, but there was something more to the man standing there one second and simply not the next. Just vanishing was far more unnerving, far more unnerving. It made the whole scenario feel more dreamlike, but more nightmarish would be closer to the mark. Mark took to his feet, his legs still feeling like jelly. He rushed out into the corridor and made his way back out to the street. He made straight for his apartment stopping only twice on his way.
His quick eyes spotted it lying in a gutter, a lottery ticket. He picked it up and shoved it into his pocket, more out of habit than anything else. And as he passed the newsagents next to his apartment block, he went in and picked up the winning numbers. Once again more out of habit than logical thought. His logic centers were still non-existent after his earlier shocks. The person behind the counter had given him a strange look as he left the shop. Mark wondered why. He had forgotten in his terror that his face was still covered in dirt and grime. "Rude bitch," he thought, no longer caring if he swore or not, "I have just sold my soul to the devil, so does religion really matter." He hurried up to his apartment and slammed the door behind him, turned the lock, bolted it. Barricaded it with a chair and for good measure, he also pushed his small dining table up against it. He sank to the ground beside the door. Remembering the lottery ticket in his pocket, he took it out and checked it against the draw. He did this more out of curiosity than anything else. But as soon as he had finished checking the ticket, all his logic began to flood back. "I won," he whispered to himself, "I've just won twenty million pounds." Then he fainted.
When he awoke sunlight was streaming in through his grimy apartment window. He double checked his numbers, then triple checked them and then just out of fun and excitement he checked them over another ten times. Each time he felt the same thrill in his stomach. "I really won," he whispered to himself again, "I won!" he yelled out loud this time. He burst out in a hysterical fit of laughter, a product of the pure terror he had felt the previous day and the pure euphoria he now felt. When he recovered enough composure to think straight again, he left his apartment and went back to the newsagents to pick up a claim form for his prize. He hadn't had a chance to wash his dirty face yet and he sneered at the newsagent as she gave him yet another dirty look. Whether it was just a trick of the light or something more malevolent, when he sneered, the shopkeeper imagined him to look like a troll, "Yes," she thought, "He looks just like one of them trolls from that new movie, Lord of the Something or Other." She had already forgotten the name. She had also forgotten his face within ten minutes of him leaving the shop. She had been planning to give up dope for months now but for some reason or other she had never gotten around to it. Probably because she could never remember that she had quit.
When Mark arrived back at his apartment fifteen minutes later, his excitement was increased. He found an envelope stuffed into his letterbox, which hung rather precariously next to his apartment door. He opened it and read it quickly:

Paris, le 17 octobre

Monsieur Winthrop, Bay View Apartments, Liverpool, 1G8OLL, Angleterre.
Monsieur Depardieu,
Les Avocats Depardieu,
Paris,
France Cher Monsieur Winthrop,
I have the awkward and terrible obligation of informing you that your uncle, Monsieur Henry Winthrop, died last week. The doctors have declared his death as the result of a stress induced heart-attack. His will was read two days ago and I am obligated by the conditions, which your late uncle, so explicitly set out, to inform you that he has named you his sole heir. Your inheritance is as follows:

a) Your uncles 95% shareholdings in his Agency, Winthrop Accountants. b) His managerial position on the board of director, with an adviser appointed to aid you and to train you into the business side of the company until you are experienced enough to take over the role completely. c) Your uncle's entire assets, both monetary and property-wise. The combined estimate comes to just under 40 billion pounds sterling.

The conditions though which you shall receive this inheritance is as follows:
a) You must take the position left to you in the firm.
b) You must move to Paris to manage his estate.
c) You must undertake a business degree, which has been arranged from you
to take in the Sorbonne. Upon agreement to these above conditions, you shall come into your entire inheritance. Enclosed with this letter is a ticket, on the 9:30 flight from Heathrow, on the 22nd of the month. I shall be at The Charles de Gaulle to meet you off your flight. Once again my most sincere condolences,
Monsieur Pierre Depardieu.

When Mark finished reading the letter he sat stunned. Henry had been only three years older than Mark and they had been best friends all of their lives. Mark felt no grief now however, his lust was too great. Henry had been to college, when he had graduated he had set up his own accountancy agency. It had grown and expanded until it had become the biggest accountancy agency in Europe. Its base was now in Paris, where Henry had moved with his second wife, who was as well deceased. She had been run over in a horrific hit-and-run three years before. Henry had never really recovered from the shock and that was probably the reason why he had had the heart attack. All that nattered to Mark was that he was dead, and in his will he had left his ninety-five percent shareholdings in his agency. All that mattered was that Mark was now the manager/majority shareholder of the largest accountancy agency in Europe. He was also now a millionaire, but that was only from his lottery win. According to the solicitors letter Henry had been estimated at being worth forty billion by the time he had died. Mark felt himself fainting again, "This is happening too often," he thought before he lost consciousness again.

Two weeks later a man walked through the doors of Winthrop Accountants in Paris. He was clean- shaven and had an incredibly neat haircut. He was wearing a black, tightly pressed Italian suit with an immaculate white shirt and a black tie. He had a golden brooch in the shape of a goat's hoof, pinned to his left jacket pocket. The new manager of Winthrop Accountants had shown up for his first day of work.
Keith O' Sullivan
8-9-04