Blood. Charles could smell it, and it was close by. He looked round anxiously, half expecting to find death practically underfoot if the scent was that powerful. But he could not readily find anything suspicious, until he looked down at his hands and saw that they were covered with dried brown streaks of the stuff. Horrified, he staggered back against the closest wall, and when he frantically checked himself for injuries, he found that he was filthy from having slept outside and being somewhat maltreated.
After a while, Charles touched his face and made an unpleasant discovery: his mouth and cheek felt oddly sticky, and rubbing at it caused a shower of reddish-brown flakes to fly off on his hands before the morning breeze claimed them.
When that happened, Charles’s mind immediately grasped at the most plausible explanation with relief. He had been a victim of a mugging, that was all, and the villain who had done it must have struck him in the process. That was the only way he could explain the blood on his face and hands and the lack of memory. However, ithat did not explain why his assailant had elected to deprive him of his undergarments. But, even as he thought about it, he was prepared to admit that even he could be surprised by the idiosyncrasies of the modern criminal mind, and anything else he thought he remembered about the night before must have been a by-product of his muddled imagination.
Having settled in his mind what had transpired, and with a deliberate disregard for the rather serious lingering misgivings he still had, Charles redirected his thoughts into solving his most pressing problem.
At that moment, he was somewhere in the city that he could not recognise, with neither clothing nor currency in his possession, so he needed to figure out how on earth he was going to get home looking like the way he did. While he was thinking, he thoroughly searched the immediate vicinity, which only produced a ratty scrap of material that, at one point, might have resembled a rough blanket, but whose ancient fibres had seen healthier days. But, even though the blanket was raggedy, it was still large enough for him to drape around his shoulders and lean frame, while preserving a modicum of modesty with negligible dignity. Unfortunately, it also smelt like the wretched soul who had owned it had also died whilst wearing it.
After wearing the blanket, Charles turned an eye to the brightening sky, then he hurried out of the alley, eager to find a public telephone as swiftly as possible. It was still early in the morning at the time, so the streets were largely deserted, but he knew that that would not last for very long. He walked six blocks before coming to one of those cheerful red structures that had been turned into the predominant guise of the modern telephone box. He stepped inside the structure with a sigh of relief, then he lifted the handset to dial the exchange. He would have to reverse the charges and hope that Max, his trusted butler, would possess the sense to accept them on his behalf.
Mercifully, his friend and self-styled gentleman’s gentleman received the call. “‘Hello?” Maximilian Masemola’s sepulchral voice came over the wire. “Charles? I figured you would have been back hours ago, or at least rung before now.”
“I’m afraid, I’ve run into a bit of trouble and wound up on the wrong side of town,” Charles Goqongwana responded, and his voice sounded higher than usual as he spoke into the receiver. “But it was through no fault of my own, I assure you. Would you mind terribly getting out the old kombie and running over here to fetch me? And, ah, please bring a fresh change of clothes along for me, would you? I’ll explain more when you get here.”
After a short pause, Charles gave Max the address listed on the telephone box, and rung off.
