The Wanderer by Timothy J. Jarvis

smirk by feigning to fish for something in his eye. Rashmi spoke first.
    ‘Who’s Blind Willy Johnson?’
    ‘A blues musician, but that isn’t important,’ I said, impatient. I turned to William.
    ‘What’s funny?’ I asked, irked, but striving to hide it.
    ‘Nothing. Really.’
    But he snickered.
    ‘Don’t you believe me?’
    ‘I believe you,’ he said.
    Then lit a cigarette. His face was set. But the corners of his mouth twitched still.
    ‘Haven’t you experienced something like it? Or, if not, why are you here?’
    ‘Hey, calm down.’
    I grimaced, looked away.
    ‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ I muttered.
    ‘Have you ever seen the Punch and Judy show again?’ Jane, asked me, gently.
    I swigged at my drink.
    ‘No, I haven’t, thank fuck, otherwise I’d be back in an institution. But, look, I want to know what he,’ I pointed at William, ‘found so amusing.’
    William sighed, ran his hand through his hair.
    ‘You know. Blind Willy?’
    ‘Prick! So childish. I’ve just told you how my life was destroyed, and you snigger at that?’
    ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. My life’s over too.’
    ‘Alright. Tell us about it.’
    He’d smoked his cigarette to the filter, lit another from the stub.
    ‘Fine.’
    Then Elliot spoke up.
    ‘My son was killed in those attacks.’
    He slumped, head in hands, began sobbing.
    Rashmi stared open-mouthed, Duncan tugged at his beard, William smoked, and I threw back another draught of my pint. Only Jane made to comfort the old man, reaching out, putting her hand on his shoulder.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
    ‘I’m sorry too,’ I broke in. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
    ‘Don’t be silly, lad,’ through his tears. ‘How could you know?’
    ‘Yes, but…’
    ‘The police never could tell me anything,’ he went on. ‘Now I know why.’
    He sat back, wiped his eyes. Looking over his shoulder, I was disconcerted to notice the cover of an old issue of Punch hanging in a frame on the wall, the hooknose grinning out at me, impish.
    Just then a man approached our table, asked to borrow one of our ashtrays, broke the taut silence. He was middle-aged, wore a three-piece, pinstriped suit, and a pink tie; I took him to be a solicitor or city banker. William told him, go ahead. As he reached over, his sleeve rode up, revealing an ostentatious gold watch and a tattoo I recognized, with a shock, as identical to the one inked on the neck of the young homeless man I’d inadvertently woken earlier. William blenched when he saw it, let his cigarette fall to the table.
    Once the man had gone, Jane addressed Elliot.
    ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
    ‘I don’t really, no. It’s got no bearing on the events I want to tell you all about.’
    While this exchange took place, Rashmi pulled a compact from her purse and, looking in its mirror, which threw a patch of faerie light on her face, reapplied her lipstick. I stared, incredulous.
    William spoke up.
    ‘Elliot, do you want to tell us your story?’
    The pensioner smiled.
    ‘Why don’t you go ahead with yours?’
    ‘Well,’ William stammered, seemingly afraid.
    Then he appeared to recover his composure. Turning, I saw the suited man leave; it seemed he’d only been fetching the ashtray for a friend on the way out.
    ‘Alright,’ William continued. ‘This all happened about a year and a half ago now,’ he began.
    Then he stopped, took a swallow of his beer.
    ‘In former times,’ he said, fretting at a beer mat, ‘the void was a stage and the sidereal throng players on it. Now things are utterly otherwise.’
    ‘What?’ said Rashmi.
    William sighed.
    ‘Nothing, doesn’t matter. Anyhow, that evening I’d been out drinking with a friend and, a little drunk, decided to walk home across the Heath…’

The Lamia
    It was one of those rare nights in late May when, after several weeks of warm weather, the North Wind rallies for one last desperate assault, and there is ice in the air. But it had been a