"It's not just me," the nurse continued. "I run this place together with my brother, Sam. He works hard to bring in money, but he's been down on his luck lately. If we don't pay back the debt by next month they'll take the premises. Sam's becoming desperate. You wouldn't believe the plans he's come up with."

A cold push of wind flushed through the building. It stopped on the sound of a door shutting. A man bundled up in thick woollens entered via backdoor. He approached them, scrunching woollen cap in hand.

"What's this, more deportees? Or just dropping off your luggage?" he said.

The nurse relieved him of his damp hat. "Sam, you're back early."

"Never a good sign." Sam stared down the tramps. "Can't you see we're full? Try taking care of him yourself before dropping him into a place like this."

Rum frowned curiously, pointing at himself. "Is he talking about me?"

"No Sam," the nurse impeded. "They're guests friends of John. You remember John?"

Sam nodded understanding. He stood with shoulders held high, displaying no desire to apologise. "We're closing soon."

"We are?"

"I have to talk to you. They've narrowed our deadline."

Sam stormed into a backroom behind the makeshift reception. Everything about it indicated his sister to follow.

Sierra shrugged inwardly. It seemed they'd been demoted from honoured guests to basic hindrance. "It's okay. We really should be going."

"I'm sorry. This is just bad timing. Goodbye and good luck." With no more conversation to have she hurried after her brother.

Left standing unattended, Rum sighed in relief. "Finally. I thought she'd never shut up."

"I thought she was nice," Sierra replied.

They'd taken not one step toward the exit when quarrelling voices sounded from the backroom. As the content of the argument vocalised more, it became clear this was something no idle standing citizen could resist listening to.

Alex sat on a broken piece of wall, staring at the ruined structure in awe. If not for those would-be attackers this building would have gone unnoticed to him. He didn't concern himself thinking of that coincidence, rather he thought back to a time long ago.

Before he ever came to the streets this building acted as a computer arcade. When its success dwindled, the owner set his sites on other means of income. One of these was representing young, and therefore naive, artists. Since Alex never saw any other clients he might have been the only one to fall for it. He walked straight in without questions.

Alex thought back to the first time he entered this building: crossing the thresh-hold, experience slips clutched eagerly in hand. It was his first time seeing that dim room lined with desks of no practical use save what's left for spiders. The desks still remained, now broken down, concealed by debris. Cobwebs remained as though those same spiders never moved.

Back then, he'd almost turned to leave before noticing a man sat in front his computer screen. The screen glowed blue against his thick spectacles. His image together with the shroud of darkness gave him the look of a modern voyeur. He was the clerk. His name was Leon, and he introduced Alex to his agent to be.

Their first meeting was an awkward one. The agent received his experience slips with a careless lack of impetus. The only paper to fancy his eye bore a dollar sign and two zeros.

The agent's desk was raised higher and placed under a sun window. Alex sat on an inferior rickety stool, shading his eyes against the glare.

The agent scuffled busily through papers. "So you found out about us on the internet. Good reviews I hope."

"Actually I couldn't find any, but you are located near my college."

"We're new." He put down the papers. "Before we start you should know we normally charge monthly. Since this is your first time I'll let your first payment cover two months like, you know."

"Thank you very much."

"I don't want you to feel under pressure. Like, you know, I read the manuscript you sent in. You've put a lot of hard work into your writing, and at the end of the day, that's all that matters. And it'll also be 20$ for the reading fee. But worry about that later." He penned it on a notebook.

Alex propped his shoulders up with a smile. "Do you think I could really be successful?"

"It's not what I think you can do. It's what you think you can do. Can you do it?"

"I think I can."

"Like, y'know - that's good, most writers don't have your confidence. They're all dreary and down on themselves. What the world needs is more writers who won't change no matter what anyone says. Confidence that's what separates you from the others I've interviewed. Always have confidence."

"Confidence."

"We'll just have to see if you have that same confidence in the rest of your writing. Did you bring some other work I can look at?"

"Other work? I didn't think I'd need to."

"I see, that really is a shame."

Alex nervously put his hand into his back pocket and took out a CD coated in a laminate see through case. "I do have them on this though."

"Good. Leave it with me."

"Sure ... but..."

"Problem?"

"I ... it's my only copy. I don't have a computer so I write in the library or college and store them on this."

"What are you saying? You don't trust me yet? Like, you know, trust is a big part of confidence and I'm watching it fizzle away right here."

"Trust? Okay ... I'll leave it with you."

The agent reached over and snatched it away. With one quick turn in his swivel chair he popped it into an open safety box then shut it tight. "See that, locked away safe until I need it. Everything's fine."

Alex cursed the memory, though he'd been cursing it endlessly for some time now. He'd always told himself the agent robbed his writing to steal the stories. In reality he probably never even looked at them. At least the lie indicated they were worth stealing.

Week after week Alex requested the writing back. Week after week the agent said he was still reading the stories. By the second month that first freebie seemed trifle.

Alex found himself drawn to the beaten in hollow that was the agent's office, attracted by the rhythm of water dripping from a support beam. One drop clung to the beam with everything it had, only to let itself go and splash to tiny particles. With whatever piece of his poet's subconscious remained he compared the struggle to his own life, which might have been just as quick in the grand scheme of things.

He began focussing on the ground where the drops fell as if attempting to unravel a magic eye puzzle. The drops weren't making normal sounds but dinging with a metallic chime. There was something there, something belonging to the agent strong enough to withstand the fire. Led by curious instinct he pulled the loose rubble away, dug around the debris then heaved this small box shaped object out onto stable ground. The dust and grit accumulated over time left the object looking almost brick like to blend in with the rest of this mess. Hiding like a chameleon it had avoided looters. With one wash of his hand Alex broke away this disguise. Despite a splashing of choking dust it could hide no longer. It was a safety box. More specifically the very safety box the agent kept in his office. The box he put his writing in.

There was little thought between that realisation and his first attempt to break it open. A heavy rock dropped from a height did the trick.

Quickly, he dove on his knees to set about searching for what he so desired. He pulled out forms and envelopes none of which he needed until setting sights on a black CD pouch. He flicked through all the CD's inside until coming to one he recognised. It bore his name and the titles of his stories, written in the same way he wrote it all that time ago. It was his. He found it.

He stood up holding the only thing he could have desired these past two years. On examination of the surface he found it intact, not a scratch. It had been safely stored within the pouch all this time.

At a loss for breath he uttered, "It's mine."

He clutched the CD close to heart and reminisced back to another day.

Following months of futile meetings and little progress, communication with the agency broke to an immediate halt. Being the kind of person he used to be, Alex waited with patience, feeding himself his own excuses. He visited every day, when on one day he saw a flutter of movement through their dusty windows. Something snapped in him. He started to yell politely.

"Hello! I saw someone in there. Look, my name is Alex. I used to come here all the time." In apparent contradiction he banged violently on the glass.

As if in surrender, the front door clicked open. A short man in a striped shirt and glasses peeked out cautiously. It took Alex a moment to remember the face, let alone his name. It was the silent clerk who had been here on every visit.

"Leon," Alex said. "I've been trying to get through for ages."

Leon clung to the door warily. "He's not here."

Alex caught the door before Leon could slam it, and walked inside like a welcomed guest. The place stank of mould. "His car's outside."

"Listen you," Leon protested. "You can't come in here! Go away. I said he's not..." Leon shied down when the agent entered the room.

"Alex," the agent said. "I see you managed to get inside." He frowned at Leon.

"W-why haven't you been answering my calls? Why do you never let me inside?"

The agent turned his back to drop some items into a travelling bag. When full, he zipped the bag closed, tossing it to a pile of several others.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know how to tell you ... but I can't help you anymore. Like, y'know, no publishing house will take your work. Honestly I thought you had something here but when I think about it ... none of your stories make sense. Like, you know, they're really quite awful."

"You liked them before. You said they were good."

"Don't be argumentative. The publishers told me the same thing. Really, they opened my eyes. To be honest they hated it, laughed at it even. They said this kid won't get anywhere writing stuff like this. Of course I defended you to the bone but they wouldn't have any of it."

"The publishers told you that?"

"Maybe when you improve that pen hand of yours I'll let you come back, until then, adios. You better go home and get climbing that ladder, it'll be a long one." He sighed. "My advice: just stay on the ground. Give up."

Alex could feel sharp nails in his clenched fist. Where a better man might flex muscle in anger, a bony outline extruded from his tightened skin.

"What kind of agent are you?" He spoke through sealed teeth.

"An ex-agent now." He picked up a carrier bag to indicate a change in locale.

"I want my writing back. Give it to me now."

"Sorry, I lost it. We're closing now so ... like, you know."

"Where are you moving to?"

"Leon, help Alex find his way outside."

"Where are you running to?"

"Almost sounded like a threat."

"You took my money. You stole my writing. I won't let you get way with this."

The agent motioned for the phone. "Fine. I'm calling the police."

Alex froze. A frail chill washed over his temper.

"That's right," the agent said. "You know the cops won't side with a gullible little loser like you. This building's a wreck but it's more than you'll ever have. And you've no right to be here."

"Cunt. I'll get you."

"That's it, say it louder so everyone can hear the sociopath writer live out the stereotype."

At some point Alex bought into the threats. Though he could have fought the good fight he allowed Leon to push him out to the curb. The front door slammed shut in tune with the shutters.

Alex rushed the shutters as if trying to catch them. He merely slammed into it, banging fists and screaming.

"Bastards! This isn't over! Bastards!"

"Bastards," Alex whispered.

Alex smirked dryly for the thought of how badly shattered his life had become, and how much this building had to do with that. Finding his writing like this didn't so much put the pieces back together, as sweep them aside for a better moment.

To think it lay here all this time. He could have reclaimed it if he looked, but he was too afraid to return. And yet, contrary to those fears there was no wanted poster bearing his picture, just the dull quiet of a forgotten crime scene.

Alex shook the thoughts away. All this anticipation and he didn't know if these CDs still worked. In truth, he needed an excuse to prevent the ill-memories from seeping back. No matter the setting, this moment was one of joy. He'd take it all up while it lasted.

The ill-memories didn't stop in this moment of joy. Even as he paced and read the titles of each story out loud, the bad memories moulded into shape at the back of his mind. No matter how he tried holding it down, the debris of these ruins began lifting back to their original place, the scorch marks faded, and the doors reappeared. At the rear twinkle of his mind's eye, he saw the building fully formed as was ten years ago.

He saw a naive writer enter under cover of darkness. A smashed window marked his return.

Chapter 10.

This rash decision arose on the spur of a moment. It started with a pitiful lament in his campus room, and ignited to a lust for revenge. If he stayed home it would have surely gone away to rise again another day. But he didn't have another day. The agent was due to leave next morning. If he didn't act he'd never see that man again. His writing would be lost.

Alex stumbled through the broken window into a pitch black room. He shrieked quietly after cutting his hands on glass. It might have been the feel of his own blood or the adrenaline drying, but Alex froze with fear. As if his mindset suffered a power vacuum regret took the place of anger. He wished this change of heart could be taking place back in the safety of his dorm room. He wished he'd not acted so rash as to arrive without tools. He could bang his head against the wall for forgetting to bring a torch.