Little Voices

Chapter Three: Xanti looks for work and finds a few other things he wasn't expecting along the way!

Little Voices

 

The township of Dragoon was founded by its eccentric namesake between the forests of Southwood and the Temple of Xenon. Over the years it had expanded into a sprawling urban hub of industry and commerce. It has been said that the heir-less old man could find no other way but this of get closer to god, but then it has also been said that the property values in the resulting township become quite favourable, quick quickly. Not much is known of what happened to ‘Auld Lord Xavier’ except to say that he disappeared quite suddenly one day, without much warning or reason, and that he was never ever seen of or heard from, again.

 

Xanti kept a locker in the changing room of one of the many public baths. It was against company policy for anyone to lay claim to any one locker permanently, but having seen the occasionally scruffy state of the young man who began to frequent the baths so regularly, without ever attempting to sauna or swim; its patrons choose to turn a blind eye. At first they would in his absence, deposit fresh clothes and cleaning products into the locker for him to use. After some time however, they noticed that this had became quite unnecessary as he acquired the resources to do so himself. Satisfied - or rather; as satisfied as a young lad his age can ever be - with his appearance, Xanti took a deep, steadying breath, sealed his locker shut and then headed off in search of employment, to the Night District.

The first things that Xanti noticed in the district were the deep, resonating bass-lines that seemed to rattle him to his very bones. He felt it in his chest well before he saw its source. Even the shining light of the mid-day sun could not reassure him against the dozens of beady eyes that tracked his every movement. Or the rows upon rows of rotten teeth that flashed grins in his direction, not least the sinewy hands that reached out to him, some pleading, others tempting him with their... He took another deep breath and hurried along to the service entrance of Pedro Blackheart’s ‘night club’.

He approached the tall steel door and the two equally large gentlemen who guarded it. One of the men held a thin tablet computer.  He flicked and tapped away at its screen, seemingly ignorant of Xanti’s nervous approach. He gave his name and then hurriedly explained his presence. The two men mocked and mimicked his ramblings, which made Xanti question his own intentions even further. After much jest they let him inside, where he was guided by the tablet-less of the two, though a series of corridors and rooms that lead to Pedro’s ‘office’. Xanti saw many extreme things in that short journey; some of which he would not come to comprehend for quite some time afterwards and others, he had seen many times before, whether the person doing so had wanted him to see them or not. No one there seemed to care much either way or they paid him little mind; as if children barely in their teens frequented such establishments all the time.

If there was one positive thing Xanti would later say he took out of the whole experience; beyond the people and their smoke, the strobes and the coloured, flashing lighting: it was the music... Back there in that corridor with all of its horrors on full display, something clicked in Xanti’s mind: he no longer wanted to run away, head cowered in fear: he felt like shocking out to the rhythms in his chest, like jumping up and down until his limbs were as sore as they could be. Whatever it was those dark people in this even darker place were up to; he wanted to be a part of it, of that much he was certain.

The doorman knocked on the ornate wooden door to Pedro’s office and waited for a response. ‘WHAT?’ The response threw the doorman slightly, who took a moment to answer.

‘Erm...’ The doormen checked himself with a gentle cough. ‘There’s a young man by the man of Xanti here to see you sir...’ There was a theatrical sigh from within the room. This was followed by the sound of a heavy metal bolt being slid across, which in turn was followed by the sound of a key being inserted, which shifted the tumblers of solid and complex sounding lock. A sweaty, balding, streak of a man stuck his head out around the door and shook it, disapprovingly. As he did; the greasy remains of his shoulder length hair, flicked from side to side, like tangled, jet black jungle vines.

‘By the name of, Andre?’ He smiled bitterly; his blackened gums on full display. ‘Them night classes are doing wonders for your vocabulary, eh son?’ Andre shifted on his feet, taking a step away from Pedro, whilst making sure not to meet his gaze.

‘Yes sir...’ he stammered. ‘I, I mean no sir...’

‘...Three bags full of it, sir! Ain’t yer, Andre?’ Pedro finished playfully. He looked Xanti up and down and the grin faded as the young man failed to pay him the same respectful deference. He looked deep into Xanti’s eyes and to the young man’s credit; he did not so much as even blink. The smile returned to Pedro’s face, albeit less playfully this time. He winked at Xanti and then nodded to himself, before waving the doorman away. ‘Give yourself a raise Andre; this young man right here, should do quite nicely I think...’ Andre took a gamble and lifted his gaze from his feet.

‘Erm... Yes... yes sir... Thank you, sir...’ Never gamble what you cannot afford to lose. Pedro cocked his head like an owl and glared up at Andre with eyes just as beady. Unable to look away, the blood drained from Andre’s already pale face. Xanti found the length of the silence uncomfortable. He readied himself for the unexpected. ‘Goodbye, Andre...’ The spell was broken, and Andre gasped as if coming up for air, not a moment too soon. He took stock of himself and then hurried away back to his duties, just as quickly as his giant legs could take him. Pedro shifted his attention back to Xanti who watched the previously imposing night-club bouncer leave, with a barely concealed contempt. With a fist, Pedro lightly tapped Xanti on the chin and then threw a scrawny arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘You shall do very nicely, indeed I think...’ He ushered the boy into his office. ‘Tell me:’ he asked, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘What do you know about voices, me lad?’ He looked up at Pedro, confused. Pedro did not quite smell right, but Xanti did well to hide his discomfort...

‘Voices, Pedro? What kind of voices?’ he asked intrigued.

‘Ah yes...’ replied Pedro, kicking the door closed behind them. ‘Little voices, me lad...What else?’ He smiled at the obvious confusion written across Xanti’s face. ‘...And don’t call me Pedro, eh lad? Me mother calls me Pedro. The taxman calls me Pedro...’

‘Oh... right...’ If Pedro’s body smelt bad, the odour coming from his mouth was positively repulsive! ‘What should I call you then...’ Xanti’s voice trailed off as he noticed the young lady dressed in black, standing regally - with her hands held behind her back - at one end of Pedro’s desk. She looked older than Xanti by a couple of years at least. She wore no shoes, no made-up nor jewellery, but her dress was cut (if not a little short) from a fine looking cloth, and her eyes were covered by a bandage made of the same material. Had he looked even closer he may have even noticed the subtle ‘fish’ design that ran embossed along the outfit’s revealing seams.

‘Call me “Uncle”, mate...’ Pedro said with a shrug. ‘All of me friends call me “Uncle”!’