An Invitation, With Love From Fate

The streets of London were bustling with tired co-workers making their way to the nearest pub to drown their sorrows, groups of tourists that had preferred the late afternoon tours through the capital and teenagers shouting abuse at each other. The young man taking in the last drag of his Camel cigarette was leaning against a shop window and shaking his head at the world in front of him. Would London always be like this, he wondered as a red-faced Swiss couple with a shrieking toddler moved past him. Is that what I’m going to become in ten, fifteen years’ time?

He chucked the cigarette stub in the air, missing the nearby bin by a mere centimetre. He huffed, walked over and picked it up from the ground. Something caught his eye. He disposed of the finished cigarette in one smooth movement and shifted closer to the small black, green and golden ticket poking out from underneath a dirty cardboard box.

It read “K. Midnight” on one side and had an address scribbled by hand on the other. The elaborate design around the writing in the middle suggested that it was some sort of invitation or reminder for an elite party, some place the young man would never dream of going. He gently lifted the box, pulling out the card and without thinking twice, putting it in his pocket. It had been the most dangerous thing he had done all day.

The journey home was taking longer than expected, but Alice and Arthur didn’t mind. The gentle rocking of the train was casting a delicate bubble of calm over both of them. Everything had been organised to welcome the new arrival at midnight the next day. It would be at their usual place, the hidden warehouse off the motorway, a place so desolate no one would ever dream of coming to look for any of them there.

Arthur’s head dropped slightly. He had fallen asleep. Alice tilted him towards her so that he wouldn’t rest against anyone else. They wouldn’t thank him for it.

Everything had been prepared. Everything was going to be fine. More than fine, it would be perfect.

Lara turned in Achilles’ arms. The absinthe had long lost its power of joy over her and she had sunken into a deep sleep on one of the sofas in the warehouse. The fact that she hadn’t left with anyone by that time meant that for once, she wanted to spend the night at home. Achilles paid the cab driver, grabbed the black crocodile bag and heaved her out of the car. They were alone on the quiet street once the taxi had disappeared into the night. Achilles turned towards the old Georgian house and began walking towards its long, pointy gate. He opened it with a firm push of his body weight and slipped through. Walking swiftly through the garden, he noticed that the watch dogs had been fed recently, which to him made no sense. It must have been just after three. Clearly no one was expecting intruders tonight.

As Achilles stopped on the porch, Lara’s head rolled back, tilting away from him. Her pale face was illuminated by the candles burning from inside the house, shadows playing a game of fire on her. He sighed as he began looking for her keys.