Chapter two

I had been walking the yapping, over-grown rat that Mona had christened “Sasha”. Her tail stood pretentiously upright as she barked at a sycamore tree. I pulled on her lead by leaning my body weight away from her; half hoping I’d drag us both to the ground. She was unusually determined to make noise so my curiosity understandably let my eyes drift up to the branches of her new nemesis. In the brittle fingers that were budding with spring, a long black jacket hung twisted in the shape of a tortured corpse. I stepped so close to the tree’s truck I couldn’t even see the jacket suspended above me. The whole concept threw me off but Sasha, in an odd moment of unintended aid pulled me with a surge of canine strength away form the tree trunk to a discarded black shoe under a bench nearby. A brass buckle glimmered through the mud stains on the leather tongue. I picked the shoe up by its back and held it at arm’s length as though it may spring into an aggressive attack at any moment.
“Miss!” A hoarse voice croaked from nowhere. I spun on my heels with mild panic only to face a bent figure approaching me. Sasha no longer felt like an adventurous explorer as she retreated behind my legs. Raising his head I saw a sickly pale face as a man straightened himself, his tall, lanky figure stumbled slightly. I noted that he wore the mate to the shoe in my hand and nothing on the other foot. His trousers were covered in mud and grass; he wore a wait-coat and a dishevelled white shirt with a loosened bow tie. On his head was an old, battered top hat that concealed most of his straw-like, strawberry blonde hair.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he spoke with a refined yet modest voice, still hoarse, “I believe that is my left shoe. I hope you won’t mind if I return it to my foot.” He smiled in a good humoured way and his eyes had a sarcastic glint. He gently removed the shoe from my hand and I was so shocked I neither helped of hindered him; I only stood and stared.
After stooping down to put on his shoe he stood up again and asked my name.
“Abigail,” I stuttered, still incapable of blinking while in the presence of this odd man, “Abigail Redcap.”
“Nice to meet you, Abigail.” His breath seemed to form the words after it had left his mouth. He placed a hand affectionately on my head for a minute as though I were a child and removed it again with a smile. I should have been more irritated at being treated like an infant. I was fourteen but the sincerity in his movements made me believe he would do nothing to insult me, intentionally or otherwise. I trusted my instincts and silently accepted his actions as kind.
He walked away from me with a stride that seemed weakened from its natural brisk strength. An unusual but pleasant smell floated mildly from him. It was only in later months when I was in a better position to ask that I learnt the smell was of opium.
“My name is Simon Graham,” he said raising his voice as he walked away from me to the sycamore tree that crucified what I suspected was his coat.
I had met Simon when summer was just dawning. By the time of my birthday it was a memory as worn as the old photograph of my mother I kept in my pocket. Winter was well established and unflinching in destroying the warm sunshine and the rainbow of flowers that had graced my first few months in Simon’s company. When I first met him I had no idea how much he would change my outlook on life. At first he was just a homeless young man who may have been a tad insane. By my birthday I adored and shared his madness.