Top Posts Tagged with #not forgotten

What History Forgot

The Bentley slides quietly into a parking slot on the university’s campus. Its glossy fenders and reflecting the floodlights, that brighten the lot. Crowley slips out from behind the wheel, snapping his collar up against the drizzle. He inspects the perimeter: red brick, closed-circuit cameras and the yellow square of a security office window overlooking the car park.

He pops the trunk and retrieves a battered brown toolbox. Its lid tattooed with decades of paint and chemical stains. Then he slings it one-handed like a stage prop. Dressed in a navy boiler suit and a wool cap pulled low, he makes for an ideal maintenance worker. The gait is all bravado, though, and anyone watching might notice the faintest suggestion of a strut. He approaches the entrance at a brisk walk, toolbox swinging and waves at the security guard behind a row of screens.

The metal handle of the old wooden door gives under his hand and he pushes it open. He steps into the main corridor with quick, decisive strides. His boots squeak against the linoleum. The air is heavy with the raw, sour tang of floor wax and coffee from the vending machine. Ahead, a student with a green streak in her hair and a backpack plastered in climate protest stickers glances up from her phone. Crowley’s lanyard is visible, the university’s crest swinging as he passes. She barely registers him before ducking into a stairwell.

The hall is lined with door after door, each with its placard: “Pathology,” “Specimen Storage,” “Laboratory.” Voices clatter against the hush, coming from the partially open door of the lab. Inside three students in lab coats stand in front of a sealed in setup.

“You think we got it right?” one youngster asks.

“I know it’s not that hard-to-get the fungus spores,” is the dismissive answer from the second.

The third in the group is a young woman, “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this?”

“Oh, come on, it’s just an experiment. Professor Mayers is all for those.”

“This could go so wrong. And it’s illegal,” the woman again.

“Yeah, no joke. No one will trace it though. And they cut the funding. Again.”

“Still...”

Crowley shakes his head and mumbles, “Humans. Always learning—especially what they shouldn’t.”

With that he walks past the door, the female of the trio looking up startled.

He rounds a corner, toolbox still in hand, and stops in front of a placard reading “Rosewood Lecture Hall.” In smaller letters underneath it’s added: “In honour of Sir Sebastian Rosewood, whose vision forever shaped the future of British Medicine.” The toolbox clanks as it’s set on the floor. Crowley smirks at the gold lettering and knuckles the plaque twice. Shaking his head he smirks, “Funny, isn’t it? The worst monsters always get a memorial.” Then he wedges a slim flathead screwdriver under the plague’s polished edge. The screws loosen with a faint squeal. They come out with the wall plugs attached and he pockets them with practiced speed. White plaster dust floats to the floor for the four holes left in the brick wall. He slides the plaque into the toolbox and tilts his head towards the students down the hall.

The pair stand near the water fountain. The taller one nudges his friend and points at the empty patch of wall above the now-bare mounting screws. “Oh, did they finally pull it down?”

His friend, in a puffer jacket, sips from a bottle and shrugs. “Yeah, guess the backlash got to them—even Mayers is pretending it’s overdue. They say the guy ran a torture ward, not a hospital.”

The taller student’s nostrils flare. “So, who’s next up for sainthood? If they ask me, it ought to be someone who didn’t vivisect prisoners.”

Crowley picks up his toolbox, then offers, “I heard they’re putting it to a student vote. Can’t be worse than Rosewood.”

The smaller one nods, “Yep, about time we get a say. I have an idea or two myself.”

“Well then, you better get the ball rolling. Wouldn’t want anyone to steal your thunder.”

He elbows his friend, “Let’s put it on the UNI-Net. I bet we’ll get a thousand hits till the first lecture.”

Crowley tips his head and heads down the hall, checking his watch.

While exiting the old wooden doors at the entrance he adjusts his glasses in the floodlights, “Let’s see how my old friend is getting on.”

A black cab drifts to a halt beside the burial ground’s metal railings. Aziraphale steps out, fussing with his black umbrella. Its wooden handle is carved like a chess piece. He pays the driver with exact change. Then he produces an arrangement of white lilies from the backseat. Unfolding the umbrella, he heads to the ugly iron gate under the dim light coming from a single lantern. When he presses the rusted iron handle down, it doesn’t budge. After a wave of his hand the gate whines on its hinges.

He enters, shoes pressing into gravel, and walks the overgrown aisle between lichen-choked stones. Rain beads on the lilies’ waxy petals where they stick out from under the umbrella. Running his eyes over the grounds he searches for a marker—any sign of remembrance. He finds a patch of raw earth. Nothing seems to want to grow there. Aziraphale kneels and arranges the lilies with delicate precision.

A shadow detaches from the wall of the caretaker’s hut. Jack Donovan approaches, his raincoat dark and wet at the cuffs. He halts three strides from Aziraphale and glances at the flowers.

“How lovely meeting you here. I was just checking in with my darlings. Bringing flowers for my whores?” he sneers at him.

Aziraphale puts two more flowers in their right place, before he gets to his feet. His voice is soft but with a steel edge beneath, “These women aren’t yours. They’ll never be.”

“Everything here belongs to me. Even the dead know it,” is Jack’s mocking reply.

That gets him a head shake and another soft edged statement, “I know they have endured quite enough suffering, during their lifetimes. Not to mention in their deaths.”

Jack shrugs his shoulders, “You call it suffering. I call it leverage.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother to answer this time. Then, behind the railings, Crowley appears. As he approaches, his boots hiss in the thin layer of snow. The frost steams away in a widening circle around him, leaving slick black earth showing through. He stalks up the gravel path, toolbox swinging in precise arcs. Besides Aziraphale he stops and sets down his toolbox with a rattle. Jack Donovan’s gaze flicks downward. A frown appears between his brows – a look of uncertainty crosses over his features. Then his eyes bore into Crowley’s. The men face each other across the lilies, shoulders squared.

Crowley bares his teeth. Steam rises from the ground under his boots. The surrounding snow hisses and recedes in a neat radius, exposing cold, black earth. He speaks in a low tone, “I call you a cockroach, Jack. And I’d suggest you scuttle before you get stamped out.”

Jack holds Crowley’s gaze for a moment. His pupils widen. He adjusts the collar of his raincoat and looks past Crowley at Aziraphale, then at the glistening lilies. Spitting on the ground he growls, “Pft, this place is nothing special. Have your fun with these whores gents.” He turns sharply and stalks back toward the gate. His footsteps leave shallow prints in the melting slush.

Aziraphale takes a look at his watch. Then he kneels to brush away the last of the old leaves from the raw earth. He straightens, umbrella balanced on his shoulder, hands clasped in front of him. While Crowley opens the toolbox, lifts out the plaque, and balances it on one palm. He looks sideways at Aziraphale, who stands motionless. His lips moving in a quiet prayer:

I see you, who were wronged by society.

You were denied justice, kindness and even a proper burial.

Your suffering was needless and not yours to endure.

You are not forgotten. I can’t give you justice. But I will remember you.

Go in peace. Be at rest.

Crowley steps forward, holds the plaque chest-high and speaks clearly: “You go on to hell.” He throws it down through the ground right as Aziraphale’s prayer ends.

The lamps around the burial ground flicker, then snuff out, leaving the cemetery in a blue-washed twilight. Wind rattles the iron gate and shakes loose a few withered berries from a nearby yew. The first flakes of snow drift down, gathering in Crowley’s hair and dusting the shoulders of Aziraphale’s coat.

Aziraphale bows his head, both hands folded atop the umbrella’s carved handle. His voice is audible in the hush, “No one mourned them properly. I suppose that falls to me now.”

Crowley closes the toolbox, “You’ve given them their peace.”

He approaches his friend from behind, rests a gloved hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and waits. Aziraphale straightens and looks at the lilies, then back at the patch of earth. He turns to Crowley, who gives a small, approving nod.

Crowley gestures toward the gate. Together they walk the graveled path, Crowley’s steps melting the thin crust of snow, Aziraphale’s umbrella tilted against the flurry. The gate shrieks on its hinges as Crowley opens it, and they step onto the pavement.

The Bentley’s lights come on and Crowley opens the passenger door, “Let’s pick up the witch and take a look at her work.”