Lost Boys of London [EN]

Chapter 1 - Here Comes Pan

"Come with me.

Come with me to Neverland."

- Peter Pan, JM Barrie -

England, 1888.

The night sky and the scenery of London were a single picture tainted with shades of grey. Dense clouds had gathered over the capital of England and opened their floodgates so that the pelting rain switched with a dense fog.

Darkness drew its veil over the city; in the windows, oil lamps and candles only moderately illuminated the dark and winding streets. In the slums, one found muddy paths between dilapidated houses, whores, and sailors, as well as thieving riffraff, who prowled the dark and winding alleys, especially at night. Every ten steps, one stumbled upon a pile of misery sleeping on the ground or drunk, while others huddled around fire baskets or had fun with a cheap woman in the next corner.

Not far away, the whitish-gray haze rolled like lazy breath over the wet stones of dirty streets, bumping up against the flat sidewalks in Whitechapel and moving on as an endless river of fog. Posters pasted on top of each other peeled-down brick walls. In large black letters and sweeping drawings, they advertised freak shows, the services of occult practices, plays, or even the grim faces of wanted persons.

Cast-iron gas lanterns lit the more central neighborhoods' more traveled main streets. Their greenish-yellow glow reached out to their surroundings, sinking other corners even more into shadow. In the middle-class neighborhoods, the iron sentinels of the night stood in rows, flickering with dim light and causing a queasy feeling. The empty streets lent an image of quiet melancholy to any stragglers on their way home.

In the distance, the sound of police whistles could be heard. A dog barked, and the distant patter of horses' hooves on the cobblestones sounded somewhere. Big Ben struck the eleventh hour with its booming, melodious sound.
At a small fireplace, three men stood together, fingers stretched toward the warmth, sharing a bottle of whiskey. When the soft splash of footsteps reached their ears not far from them, all three turned their heads. Only one of them still saw the figure that turned off into one of the countless alleys and disappeared from their sight.

The path was muddy between the two towering walls on either side of the alley. Thus, the dirt smacked under his bare feet with every step. In sudden, great leaps, the figure hurried past a pile of weathered crates and an overturned bucket of garbage. Finally, he stopped against a wall and craned his neck to glance at one of the countless windows. A worn teddy bear with a missing button eye leaned against the dirty glass of the window.

The pale moonlight traced over unwashed blonde hair where a few leaves rustled and trembled in the gentle breeze. A brief flash of light reflected across a sharpened blade as fingers wrapped tighter around the knife's pommel.

Piercing green eyes flashed in the shadows as his lips pulled apart into a wide, sinister grin. Only the stars, blinking down from the night skies, managed to keep a watchful eye on what was happening and listened anxiously as a voice murmured gently:

„Think of happy thoughts, and you'll fly."