Life in the Basement

It is Friday morning in the city and everything is winding down. Except, that is, in the basement of the Tap, where if things were to wind down any further the cogs would start rotating the other way. I quite honestly believe that Jack had the grandfather clock custom built to move at half the pace of real time.
I’m the first up today, having been awoken by the 5.57 as usual. Mine and Miles’ room is directly beneath the railway bridge, grudgingly accepting the brunt of every suited commuter, with his newspaper or novel, making the glorious trip to the Smokes. Honestly it thunders above, rolling and rattling to the core of your brain, using your veins as tunnels and your blood as the track. Somehow Miles usually sleeps through the entire ordeal, only to be stirred a few hours later by the cathedral bells. I do sometimes wonder if he’s on a higher plain, only able to be woken by the Lord Himself.
Since you may never have visited Leaves, have probably never stepped foot in the Tap, and have certainly never been to the basement, it is wise for me to give you a brief tour. Leaves is a city, but it is a remarkably small city, and as such there is an enduring mood of personal pride in it amongst its citizens. And yes, it is that kind of annoying pride where people love to crow to outsiders about how they popped into the cathedral gardens for tea and scones during their lunch break, or how on Saturday they bought some organic jam from the farmers market. Still, lying just on the edge of Leaves, and unfortunately right on the railway route out, is a small beacon of sincerity in the form of the Tap, a pub that caters for the young, the bright, and the chronically miserable. It would be a mistake to think this establishment to be some kind of bohemian paradise, for as any fans of genetics will know, yuppie men and women tend to construct yuppie sons and daughters. As such there is a certain amount of discussion over the best real ale, and an element of the ‘frisbee crowd’ who will catch on to any passing trend, no matter how tedious or poorly thought out it is. Generally speaking though it is a bearable place to be, with its oak beams meet nautical memorabilia motif, and that is where I used to spend the vast majority of my time until Miles and I were invited into the basement.
The basement itself is fairly large and almost entirely coated in wood, giving it the feel of an old ship, perhaps Shackleton’s Endurance but without the dogs. Adding to the seafaring theme is the fact that one side of the basement, specifically the ‘quarters’ of Jack and Ernest, overlooks the estuary, and by ‘overlook’ it is fair to say that any slight rise in the Thames water level would result in an Orleansian style catastrophe for us. There are four bedrooms, two on either side of the basement, with the main room in the middle. The first room on the right as you come down the stairs is mine and Miles’. I’ve known Miles for a few years, having met him while he was playing his trumpet in a grotty jazz club about half a mile down the avenue. If you’re beginning to wonder about the likelihood of a jazz trumpeter being called Miles then you’re right to be suspicious. In the basement we have nicknames based on our heroes, everyone except Jack that is. It is strange to hear a skinny white trumpeter call himself Miles, but you do get used to it. Next to us is Dylan (no not Bob, try again), and he is a poet. He was the one who invited us down here in the first place, having struck up conversation in the Tap. He’s very interesting but also a little intimidating, since his intellect seems to leap out at you if you try to make an argument, as if it is a spirit lurking in the shadows. He does have a tendency to try to speak in rhyming couplets from time to time, but if you ignore the pretension of it, it is at worst harmless and at best alarmingly beautiful. To look at him you would think he was the most dull person imaginable, with his straight mousey hair and pale eyes, but when he opens his mouth it is pure wisdom.
Opposite Dylan’s is Hop’s room, and it is constantly filled with canvas after canvas of paintings of Leaves and its various residents. You may like the sound of this guy but trust me, he’s as pompous and precise as they come, walking in a zero degree line and talking in a pitch that refuses to waver even a semitone. He has a large beard that makes him look even rounder than he already is, and constantly wears a grey trench coat that drags along the ground, picking up all manner of dust and other remnants of life. He is Jack’s right hand man, and has been down here longer than the rest of us, and I suppose that is what gives him his sense of authority. Finally, of course, there is Jack himself. Except there is little to say about him, because I know very little, as does everyone. He is almost always silent, older than the rest of us but I’m not sure how old (I’d guess anywhere between twenty-five and forty), and he provides for us. I don’t know where his money comes from, or how much of it there is, but one of the agreements for coming down here was that we didn’t ask. We live the life that people dream of. Yes we could be bank managers or councillors or museum guides or whatever on Earth it is that people do in this city, but instead we do more, we have hopes and dreams beyond silver and gold. By the way my name is Huck and, if you hadn’t guessed by now, I’m a writer.
I am writing on this day because I’ve got a feeling there might be a story to tell. Last night there was a bit of a commotion in the Tap, all revolving around Jack. For whatever reason a tussle occurred and he was taken away by a group of suited types, surely not Leavesians but Londoners. You might have expected us to spend all night on a mad search, or at the very least stay up playing cards and listening for the telephone. But this isn’t the first time something strange has happened, and I can guarantee it will not be the last. I hear the cathedral bells sing their melodic rumble in the distance, and Miles, right on cue, wanders out of our room.
“Any sign?” are his first words.
“No. No signs, no riddles and no telegrams.”
His body slumps and very slowly falls back, as if a breeze has shot through the half open window, determined to keep him upright. Eventually he defeats it and hits the covered wooden bench, which must surely have been a pew in a previous time.
“Should we be worried?”
“I don’t think so. Let Hop worry about it, he’s made for these situations, loves a good panic.”

*

Apologies are due as I was wrong. Hop and Dylan have just walked through the door, having been up all night trawling the streets. Dedication is the only word to describe it.
“Morning has come and the first rays of sun see no glimpse or sound of our friend.” Can you guess who said that? Honestly it is endearing after a while.
“For the love of mankind Dylan I have had enough of your ramblings. We are in the middle of a possibly grave situation and poetry is not the thing that we need.” Not endearing to Hop then obviously, but then again not many things are endearing to such a mono-tonal man. Grave crisis? It’s hard to tell if that’s something to get concerned about or if it is just Hop enjoying the situation as I knew he would do. He flicks back his hair, waddled across to Jack’s room and touched the door, an act of symbolism I can only assume.
“What’s he done anyway?” That’s my contribution, the daftest question imaginable since I am fully aware that nobody knows, and that nobody really wants to know. It is suitably met by a silence that lingers until Hop smashes his fist against the oak table, his large hairy fist. The main concern, although nobody wishes to admit it, is that until Jack comes back we have very little food and almost no money whatsoever. Jack could be inhumated or on a funeral pyre and my main concern would still be where I was going to live and how I was going to eat.

*
The sun has now started a rapid descent over the estuary, and we are sitting on the balcony of Hop’s room, now thoroughly worried and a bit bored, as the childish excitement of earlier in the day has died down. Things have taken a bit of a biblical turn: we’ve eaten our last supper, and we’re now simply sitting and waiting for our messiah to come back and buy us some food. Well it maybe isn’t quite up to the biblical standard. Miles is playing a little tune, which helps to create an even greater air of depression. I think Hop is starting to get used to the idea of Jack not being around though, starting to view himself as our leader. Unfortunately Jack’s leadership skills have never been his speaking or his intellect, only his ability to keep us in our bohemian paradise. I highly doubt that we would continue our philosophising and intellectual living while squatting in an abandoned warehouse. I do sympathise with Hop though, since if what he says is true, the man who is missing is a near and dear friend.
I begin to drift off into a dreamy haze, only the sound of Miles’ trumpet being carried by the summer breeze being picked up by any of my senses. I let that creamy sound envelope me and before I know it I am falling away into the sleep that the train stole from me in the early hours of the morning.
By the time I awake it is almost completely dark, and the lights are now visible on the other side of the estuary. I suddenly notice that I am alone outside, and quickly dash through the wooden door only to find Hop’s room empty all but for a half finished canvas lying on the floor with a brown footmark stamped across it. The entire basement is empty and dark, a strange version of the place I have experienced for the past year. On the table I find a note from Miles: ‘Jack is gone, we’ve got to leave, it was easier to let you sleep’. I have a feeling Dylan had a say in the writing of that, or perhaps Miles has been around him too long. I’ve also got a feeling that’s the last communication I will have with any of them. No matter, I’ll find somewhere to go. Huckleberry was a survivor, moseying down the Mississippi river, picking up friends as he went along. It just so happens that I lose them easily too, but those are the wheels of life. You won’t find me at the museum just yet.