Chapter 5: Strange Walk

Leaving the institute's main building the same way he entered, Mark sluggishly walked onto the gravel path, oblivious to the people passing him. A crow flew past him, the fluttering of wings bringing him back to reality as a slight cold breeze swept through. Huffing, hot air showing in the winter chill, he continued until he reached the entrance archway.

His head thumped and pounded as he exited the campus grounds and stepped onto the public roads of Leicester City. The contrast in the university grounds' greenery and occasional wildlife to the dull grey hue of concrete, metal, and glass was stark. From a world flourishing in flora and fauna millennia ago, to the grey waste of modern-day humanity. Truly a view of humanity's reverberating ruination of nature and the inevitable progress of industry. He arrived at the silent and empty bus stop a minute later, glancing at the times.

Bus – Dane Hills – 25 minutes due to delays

'Ugh. You have got to be kidding me. Guess I'm walking then.'

Moving on from where he stopped, the thirty-minute journey home began. Hoping for nothing eventful to happen, eventful referring to someone trying to speak to him, he increased his pace. The ache was becoming unbearable as he desperately hoped to make it back before half past eleven. Realising it might be a good idea for some herbal tea or paracetamol, he grabbed his phone with a weakened grip. He messaged his stepmother for either of the two, hoping that one will work and remove the abhorrent headache.

Putting it back into his pocket, he received a message as his hand returned to the cold air. Presuming it to be Amelia, he grasped it again before glancing, realising it was Evan.

"Hey dude, hope you're feeling alright. If you are still good for the game tonight, Shaq's brother will be playing. Not sure if you've seen him play, but he's damn good."

Figuring it best to reply later, when he might be better, he left it on read before he put it back. That was until another message came through. He mentally cursed as he grumbled, slightly stumbling on the pavement. Checking the text, it was who he thought had originally replied, Amelia. It was short and sweet, saying she would get it done in a minute and asking whether he was ok. A heart-warming love-heart emoji finished it, Mark smiling at the gesture.

Mark sent off a short reply, telling her about his tremendous headache as he suddenly stopped, perplexed. Somehow, he was already two-thirds of the way home. He checked the nearby corner shops, confirming that he was where he thought he was.

'Strange... I swear it normally takes twenty minutes to get here.' Mark glanced at his phone, 'What the fuck? Five minutes? Am I... hallucinating? This is weird. Better hurry home before I get abducted by aliens or some odd shit happens.'

Relatively spooked, shivers creeping over his body, he sped up more than he already was, finally arriving at his home street. This occasion, in the usual time frame. Hoping that it was all just some strange coincidence or his phone was out of sync, he continued. He passed a few elderly neighbours coming and going from their houses, nothing surprising considering he lived in a more wealthy estate. It was common in 2113 that the most affluent in the west were generally old and retired, almost all earning a considerable pension from the state. At least, that's what he thought he knew.

As he reached the gate to enter the driveway of his home, he heard something. Like a whisper, a voice. Gravelly and unkind. Grated and coarse. As if a blackboard was being scraped upon by fingernails or metal torn by sharp claws.

"Boy." It spoke.

Startled, still oddly uncomfortable with his journey home, he faced his neighbour's gate. Cautiously walking to it, ready to run at any supernatural phenomenon or armed assailant, he peered through the metal bars. He let out a sigh of relief as his shoulders sagged, spotting his neighbour: An elderly black man who he vaguely recalled as being named Hakim or Hakeem. Realising he didn't know the man's first name but did know his last, Turner, he decided to use that instead, considering it was more polite this way.

"Did you call out to me, Mr Turner?" Mark asked curiously, "I'm not sure if I misheard or not."

"Yes, boy. I did." Turner ghastly laughed, "Pardon my voice. All the years of fags and weed have done my throat it. Well... the throat infection doesn't help."

"That's not great to hear... well, how can I help?"

"I'd like to ask for some assistance, if you don't mind. My cat is a bit skittish, and I think she's got a cut around the eye. I'd like to look at it, don't want her hurting or anything. Would you mind catching and holding her for me? Sadly, my old age is catching up to me. You should know I'm eighty-seven this year! Ha! And they told me smoking was bad for my health! Bah! Load of rubbish."

Mark cringed at what he said, and despite his lethargy, he reluctantly accepted to help him. Besides, he remembered that his father knew him, and apparently, they got on quite well, sharing a few beers last summer whilst watching football.

Opening the gate and setting foot in the driveway, he spotted the cat. Nothing spectacular or exotic, a regular tabby cat. She looked rough, perhaps too much time spent outside or getting into fights, as her owner was muttering.

Rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, tutting whilst edging towards the tabby, he quickly grabbed her. He received a bleeding scratch on his hand alongside a long, sharp hiss. Holding her, outstretched, from his chest and grabbing her neck, he locked her in place for her owner to inspect.

Mr Turner hummed as he rubbed his beard, "Well, there is definitely a wound. Not sure if it's deep, but it's there. Might have to visit the pets down the road. Just in case. Can't be too careful with all these diseases and superbugs around."

Mark took note not to specify that most of those diseases and superbugs he was talking about primarily infected humans. Holding the cat for a few painful seconds, the owner returned with a travelling cage. He gently pushed the cat into the cage and acquired more minor scratches and a bunch of unpleasant hisses. He stared at one of them in confusion, blood slowly running, except it was darker, not entirely red, but a tinge of black added to it.

"Thanks, boy. I appreciate your help. What was your name again? Bart? Mart?" Mr Turner questioned, staring at the ground in thought.

"Mark, Mr Turner."

"Ah, Mark, my apologies. My memory... isn't quite what it used to be. Also, don't be quite so formal. My name's Hakeem." He emphasised the double e, "So, stop calling me Mr Turner. And, seen as you helped this old man, here's a tenner. Don't go spending it all on booze now. I know what you teenagers are like."

"Erm... I'm twenty-two si-, Hakeem." Mark replied, wincing at the cuts.

"Twenty-two!? You're twenty-two? My word. It feels like only yesterday you were dropped off here by your mother. How long ago would that be now. Ten years? Twelve? I suppose it doesn't really matter too much. Have you seen her recently?"

"Who? My mother?" He scowled, "Heh, as if. She sends me a solitary birthday card with twenty quid every year and signs it with two sisters I've never met and nothing else. I suppose I should be grateful, getting that."

"Poor boy. It is a shame what happened. But the past is the past. I just wish she would finish grieving and be a decent mother. They say time heals everything; if only that were true." Hakeem said with a hint of melancholy, "You seem distressed, boy. I did not mean to intrude or say anything hurtful."

"It's fine, sir. I'm just not feeling too well. I need a lie-down and to get some sleep; should feel bright as the sun later."

"Ah, I see. Apologies for making you go out of your way. I wouldn't have asked if I had known. Well, you better get going, then. Get some rest. Say hi to Amelia and Frank, would you? Tell them to come round at some point."

They spoke, reaching the metal gate as Mark stepped out onto the pavement, two short and sharp dings resounding down the street. Hakeem abruptly grabbed Mark's arm, pulling the boy out of the way as the racing bike passed with a whistling whoosh.

"This illness must be real bad, boy. You're not even concentrating on where you're going. You would have done if you'd got hit by that bicycle. I doubt you'd just be looking at a headache if you landed on the concrete." Hakeem said, sputtering into a cough moments later.

"Sorry... I'm... just really not myself at the moment. Are- Are you ok?" Mark inquired in a slight panic.

"I'm fine, boy. I'm fine. I'm not dying yet! I've still got to reach one hundred. I want my letter from the king!" Hakeem bellowed, pounding his chest.

"I'm going to go then, Hakeem. Sorry about that." Mark mumbled before his speech picked up, "I'll let Amelia and dad know to come round at some point."

He finished and left as Hakeem shut the door, unable to notice the gentle smile and the reminiscent eyes on the old man's face. Now finally free to continue, Mark made way for his house, looking forward to getting some well-deserved rest.