The richest crop comes from the harshest environments, but the possibility of growth, of overcoming adversity must be present.
—The Pharmer’s Handbook, Sixth Edition, page 17.
Van stood in front of the pub, still lighting his cigarette. When he brought his hands down, and that first smoky exhale cleared, he saw a small bearded man in a white fedora and powder blue seersucker. Their eyes met, and the little man started across the street. His long white beard swayed in the breeze.
He tossed the fresh cig, turned, and headed down the alley next to the pub, to the apartment door. He rummaged for the old-fashioned key, put it in and gave it a solid turn. He heard the lock give and he entered the building. Hobson stopped and watched Van walk away. He scratched at this skin beneath his beard and sighed.
Van pushed the door open, not sure what to expect, after being away from the flat for what seemed like forever. And if Anthony had been staying here, there had to be a sign, a clue, something. It was dark. No sign of Anthony. The doors to the bedrooms were closed.
He dropped his bag on the floor, tossed his keys into the bowl on the small table and walked down the hall. He passed the door to Anthony's bedroom. He put his hand on the handle, but then thought better of it and turned to his room, instead. The door was closed as well. He didn't know what to do. So many choices, so many doors. He rested his forehead against it. Eyes closed. It hadn't been that long since he'd been here, that he should feel the swirling anxiety of being in a forgotten place. He opened his eyes and saw a stamp in the middle of his door, an actual stamp, in old violet ink. It was of a boot.
A light turned on at the end of the hall, in the sitting room, across from the small kitchen. "Van, we need to talk." A voice called.
Van grit his teeth, resigned. Hobson was here. Things were a lot worse than he imagined. The man from the street sat in the wing chair facing the entrance, facing Van. His white linen hat rested on the table next to him. He had poured himself a shot from the bottle of Teacher's, their go-to whisky, that was always on hand for non-special occasions.
"Why didn't you come to the bar?" Van said.
"You know why. Besides, I was looking for Anthony."
Van took a step forward. "I knew it! He is missing. But how did he end up on your radar? It's not like you to get involved, not anymore."
"He was working on something, a new project of sorts, and asked for my help."
"How? I thought we were done asking for... guidance from you."
"You are. And I refused, but it looks like he went ahead and figured it out on his own. You sure you don't know what he was working on? No idea at all? If you just tell me where he is, we can fix this before it becomes too big to contain."
Van looked at him. He thought of the stamp on the door. "What the hell are you talking about? I've been sitting downstairs going out of my mind."
"So, you don’t know?"
"No! I don't fucking know! Today's the fifteenth, remember? He was supposed to be at the pub. We spoke a couple of days ago."
"Hmm." He stood and approached Van. Looked him up and down, spun around him. "Are you sure? If you think of him right now, you don't know where he is. You can't see him at all?"
"What?! No! Suddenly, I'm psychic! Bloody hell!"
"I guess not. Let's circle back to that. You spoke a couple of days ago?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Where was he when you spoke?"
"Paris."
"And you, where were you?"
"I was—" Van hesitated. Where had he been when the call had come? He didn't remember. He pushed back into his memories. He heard Anthony tell him he was anxious to get to the pub, that he hoped Van would be there..." Where had he been when he heard that? He couldn't bring back any details beyond the sound of Anthony's voice. "I don't remember. How can I not know?" He collapsed on the couch and dropped his head between his legs. "My brain's all messed up."
"Interesting. Last known location: Paris. That's something. We need to find him. I think he might be in trouble."
"Now you're worried? What's going on?" Van pleaded.
"I can't. Although..." He looked at Van again.
"Hobson, you're killing me."
He turned and sat back down, took the whisky from the small table, and finished it. "This stuff is still vile." He squinted at him again, thoughtful.
"We like it." Van said.
"Mandolin Dreams. Mean anything to you?"
"As in, one of my songs?"
"Yeah. We never talked about it, but where did it come from?"
“Not sure. I wasn’t exactly sober much when I wrote that. You never wanted to talk about my music before.”
"That doesn't make any sense. It was a song about... honestly, I'm not even sure. I was pretty fucking depressed when I wrote it. Unless, he is trying to refer to where I walked. But it can't be that because I don't even remember what I was doing or where I was. Too much booze. It was not a great time."
Hobson thought for a moment, then said, more to himself than to Van, "looks like we're going to Paris." He turned into the hallway and headed for the door.
"Paris." Van whispered as he glanced at the top of Hobson's head. Would he notice the stamp on the door?
Outside, Hobson pulled the beige tarp off the car in the alley, threw it to the side and exposed a pristine nineteen-seventy red convertible MGB.
"We're taking Terry's car? He's okay with you fucking off with his car?"
"Whatever." He hopped over the door and motioned to Van to get in on the other side. "He never uses it anyway."
"He is going to kill you." Van said as he sat down.
"He wishes."
Hobson started the car, sans keys, and they were off. They sped down Whitehall. "Are you doing that?" Van asked.
"Doing what?"
"We haven't hit a single light. They just seem to turn green as we get to each one."
"Just lucky, I guess." Hobson grinned. "Aren't you tired?" he said as they approached Big Ben.
"Not at all. I'm fucking wired."
Hobson sighed and raised his left hand. "Sure you are." When his hand dropped back to the steering wheel, Van was fast asleep. "Let's see what that big oaf has loaded in the CD player." He hit play and one of Van's songs blared out of the speakers. "Oooh. I like this one." Hobson smiled. Van's voice, boomed from the car speakers.
...If Strats could kill they'd all be lying on the floor A little riff, a little fill, a nice loud amp to shoot some more I look in the mirror at my own sorry face And wonder why I'm going on about the whole human race
"Damn! I forget how good you were." The car started across Westminster bridge. Ahead of them, about halfway across, a pale blue light popped into existence. It looked like a row of LEDs laying on the pavement. It rose from the street, extended about two meters tall. Hobson drove directly at it. The centre shimmered and shone and got brighter as they approached. "Let's see what you're really made of. I hope I'm right about this." Hobson gripped the wheel and sped the car through the faint blue opening. They never made it to the other side of the bridge. They were gone.