The knob creaked at the door, and he opened it and entered, greeted by the scream of his mom, "Gezza!--harsh with all the anxiety and all the indignation in it, and slicing through the burnt-coffee air.
With a soft thud he closed the door, relieved, the old smell coming down on him.
"Morning, Ma," he said, and went to his room, though her heavy feet walked out, her eyes looking at him in a scanning manner, and her eyes twisted in aggravated disapproval.
"Where you been?" vowed she, which did choketh the voice: Chillin with friends, he said to himself, with a froth of aggravation.
"At least tell me when you are not coming home. I waited up--again."
"I am not a kid, he snarled", and stuck out his tongue.
"But you are undern my roof", she shot back, combining love and anger.
She was about to put her arms around him, and then she sniffed away. "Urgh, you stink. Shower, now."
"Gezza smiled thanks for the compliment." Then he waddled to the shower room, the door banging behind him, water gushing behind the tap, more steam than specters.
He sat in the tub and porcelain was colder on his skin and his thoughts were churning with the threat of the cult. No brains to work this stuff out, he said to himself, too low, too scared and too determined.
"Need Brains a bookworm, a person who loves history. Perfect." He stood up in the bath tub and the water dripping from his body and a plan had taken shape and his cocky advantage was crawling back.
"Need cash, though. Victoria a
Hasn't called yet--she is fighting it hard." He peered down, his length up, a sneer of his fear.
"Damn, looks like I added some inches", he observed, with pride in his heart, which grew complacent with the satisfaction. Never again would he have to jerk off at porn--the moaning of his baddies was sufficient, and their moans were a victory chorus in his head.
Dripping water was coming out of Gezzas skin which hit the floor of the bathroom and it was dripping softly as Gezza rubbeds some towel in his hair which was getting rough on his head.
The warmness of the steam was still clung to him, but the warning chill of the nothingness was still with him, a cold-knot in the gut.
He threw the towel out, making it strike the sink with its damp splash and walked to his room, the linoleum creaking at his sneakers.
He picked up a bag of chips off of his messy desk, crunching the package in his hands, lowered into his gaming chair, the leather creaking.
Argh, he moaned, so exasperated, and his voice is heard in the narrow place. Why on earth do they want the book? What magic do they have? Can I get magic too? He thought of things, thoughts went round like electricity.
He struck himself twice with his hands, with the stinging of a sharp blow, his breath stopping. "I am becoming paranoid, but I have to know something."
"Then go find it", the voice of the Playbook rumbled out of his backpack, low and scathing, the runes throbbing a little at the leather. "Sitting here will not get you any answers."
Gezza sneered, with a scowled lip, and flared in irritation. "Damn, I hate when you're right."
He got on his feet, and the chair scratched softly away, and tugged at his favourite red hoodie, the cloth; it rustled, its rich colour a startling choice in the upcoming operation.
He zipped his jeans using a metallic zip, threw on his backpack on his arm, and the weight of the Playbook was a burning pain.
He stood in front of his door to his basement, his hand held indeterminately above the knob, his finger touching the cold metal. The sneer of Mike flashed into his mind, and then the woman in the hooded cape and her smile too keen and her gesture too knowing.
This gave him a thump in the chest, a steeper dead bang and he pulled his hand away, his bravado lost in the terror.
He picked up his phone, and the light was blaze of bad day in the dark room, and he dialed Riley, and moved about, scuffing his sneakers on the floor.
"Pick up, pick up", he said in a tight voice with nerves tormenting his gut. The line clicked.
"Hey, Gezza, what's up?" Not very high it was, but steady, with the dog tags rattling in the background; and, strangely, the voice sounded quite sharp and strong.
"Save the long talk", he said. "Need you to escort me."
"Where to?" she queried, and she sounded suspicious.
"I'll tell you when you get here. At May Avenue crossroads meet me."
"You in trouble?"
"No--just meet me."
"On my way," she replied, and he put down the phone, with a smirk that shook his nerves. You better do, he said, and confidence came back. At least Riley's got hands.
He waked up the stairs, its creaking, his mom was bending over a stack of paperwork, the sound of paper rustling was in the air.
"Going somewhere?" asked she, not raising her eyes, her pen delving sharply.
"Yeah I be back, Before night fall." said Gezza, clipping his words, aggravated.
"Do, your thing", she said, "Just make sure you're actually yeah before night fall." her voice serious but tired voice.
He gave a nod, and opening the front door with a creak, reached the cool air of the morning.
The smell of dew brought him to himself, the remote sound of traffic a soothing throb in his heart.
He walked towards May Avenue where the gravel sounded under his sneakers, his red hood pulled low over his face, and his paranoia was searching the shadow of Mike.
At the corner Gezza leant against a lamp in the street waiting for Riley, and the low buzz of it pierced through the chirping birds.
"I thought I'll be one late." he growled, bringing out his phone and flicking its light in search of a historical library.
The library in which he had discovered the Playbook would have been perfect but it had been disappeared, destroyed.
Instead, he tapped an online map, his fingers impatiently patting, and the ping on the app indicated that there was a close archive.
Looking up, he stood still--Mike was on the other side of the street, his bulk undisguised, his eyes staring at him. Shit, said Gezza, ducking his head, his heart a throbbing drum.
He walked away, and his eyes were consumed by Mike. Gezza ran off, his sneakers hitting the sidewalk, his breath heaving with breathlessness, the Playbook pounding his pack.
"Shit did he see me." He muttered to himself
He looked over his shoulder--Mike was after him, with his oppressive footsteps charging nearer.