The Fate of Pryde, the second in TheTrilogy of Remembrance.

The Fate of Pryde Chapter 2

            “How so?”

            “First of all, he’s not at all what he appears to be.”

            “Who is?”

            “Hmmm…Callan far more than most.” Stopping up, Peter frowned in thought, unaware of the crowds streaming past them. “At first, you think he’s dithery and kindly—an absent-minded professor. But he has a mind like a steel trap and he does not suffer fools gladly! It’s all a ruse.”

            They were almost at the end of the arcade. Caught up in his talk, Peter waved his arm, nearly clipping a woman passing by.

“The man is a born and bred empiricist.”

            “Ah, yes!” Alex laughed. “Unless we can see, smell, hear or touch it—right under our noses—it doesn’t exist.”

            “Exactly! But that cuts out most of the universe and everything worth thinking about.” Peter said. Engaged in the conversation, he stopped up suddenly, blocking the way. A man behind cursed under his breath and pushed past him. Unaware, Peter continued. “Apparently, he’s taking on the believers in the occult.”

            Alex’s eyebrows shot up. He tossed his head back and laughed. “This will be an interesting evening!”

Peter nodded vigorously. Neither man saw the young boy barreling headlong toward them.

In frustration, Alex shook his head. “Those kinds of philosophers are missing so much!”

            The boy, dressed in torn jeans and a dirty black T-shirt, was only thirty feet away. Another man further back chased after him. The few other passers-by scattered. Alex and Peter did not notice them.

             “It’s ridiculous! “ Peter laughed, still not seeing the boy, who was now within twenty feet.

            The boy slammed straight into Peter and then—with an agonized cry—fell to the tiles. Neither Alex or Peter were hurt and they rushed to set the boy on his feet.

            “What the hell!” said Peter as Alex tried to brush the boy off.

            “Sorry mister! Din’t mean to…”

            A man brushed against Peter and then said, “Sorry, sir.” He turned on the boy. “How can you be so damned careless running into people like that?”

            The boy, his eyes bulging in his narrow face, shot off down the corridor.

“Kids!” the man said, and hurried off.

Without further pause, Alex and Peter headed for the far doors opening onto Jermyn Street. Within several blocks, they were at Folio Books.

            A sign in the window read:

Book Launch for Professor Henry Callan:

An Empiricist’s Theory of the Occult

Commencing at 7pm.

Light Refreshments.

Opening the door, they saw perhaps twenty-five people, sherry glasses in hand, crowded in the book shop’s aisles. The shelves sagged and tipped under the weight of books shoved onto them. Extra volumes were stacked in every conceivable space—even up to the window ledges. Near the till was set an old oak desk with several padded chairs behind it. In front, precarious looking plastic chairs were set in rows. A grandfather clock chimed in the corner striking eight o’clock.