“Rainy London”

By Gabriela Alberto

It was a cold, rainy afternoon. The heavy raindrops echoed tap, tap against the pavement and

rooftops. It was a busy day at the airport. There were people coming and going in every direction,

dragging their luggage with them as they moved around. The loud murmur of the people talking was

deafening; phones rang; cars honked outside. Umbrellas moved back and forth from the parking lot as

the airport staff helped ladies with expensive haircuts and gentlemen with elegant suits to their vehicles.

Among the people waiting for their flight to leave, sat Marcus Bellickam. He wore simple, blue jeans; a

bottle-green polo-shirt, a black hoodie; and black Converse high tops. At his feet sat a large camping

backpack, a black suitcase, and a laptop shoulder bag. He sat there, quietly contemplating the scene,

absorbing every little detail. He saw busy business people with their multiple phones always ringing,

nothing around them ever affecting them; a little girl was crying because her daddy was leaving,

oblivious to the fact that he was to come back the next day; couples were reuniting after a long absence.

Every now and then, a few words could be understood above the noise; “I love you” and “I’ll miss you”

were frequently heard, at times interrupted by a child’s giggle.

Hours came and went, and soon the afternoon turned into night. Things grew calmer, but the rain

stayed. “Why am I here so early?” he asked himself. “My flight doesn’t leave for a couple hours.”

“Attention, please. Passengers of the flight 872, please start boarding through Gate 2.”

Marcus got up, picked up his things and headed for Gate 2 boarding pass and passport in hand. He

was not familiar with this airport, but he found it easily. His window seat was not difficult to find either.

Marcus Bellickam was a tall, handsome, 23-year-old. His face was a little roundish, which made him

look younger. He had spiky, and kind of long, ruddy hair that covered his head and partially hid his face,
at times. If it is true that eyes are the windows of the soul, in Marcus’ case their expressiveness made

them the doors; they were large and of grayish-green. He had a long, thin nose; a small mouth; and a

somewhat squared jaw.

He was thinking of his trip. Having been away for 8 weeks, he wondered if things had changed at all at

home. He thought of his parents, and of how much they used to argue. They argued about everything,

and about so many stupid things! It was ridiculous! The worst part, for him, was that, when they argued,

they completely forgot about him and Belle. Annabelle—Belle—was his 16-year-old sister. She was a

sweet-tempered girl, very shy, and she adored her brother almost as much as he adored her. The truth

is, Marcus and Annabelle had become really close, they told each other everything, Marcus, being 7

years older, had always been very protective of her; he just couldn’t stand the thought of her being hurt.

He would always surprise her with little gifts—such as key-chains or hair-clips—or take her out for a

gelato. Since their parents usually ignored them when they were arguing, Marcus always made up

games or found an excuse to get Belle out of the house.

While he was thinking, someone sat next to him. He took a quick glance and then went back to stare

out the window. He then looked again: it was a young girl of about 19 years old. She looked a lot like

Belle, but the Beauty and the Beast Belle, not his sister. She had long, wavy, dark-brown hair; brown

cheerful eyes; and fair skin. He thought the likeness was amusing and sniggered.

“What’s so funny?” the girl asked in a curious, soft voice.

“It is nothing, really,” he replied. “I was just thinking of my sister, and you happen to look a lot like the

main character in her favorite bed-time story.”

 “That’s weird,” she replied, and they were silent for about a minute. Marcus wondered if he had just

made her think he was weird; she wondered who that character she resembled was.

“So, aren’t you telling me who is it?

“Sorry?”

“The character.”

“Oh, if you really want to know, it is Belle from—“

“The Beauty and the Beast!” She laughed. He looked puzzled. She explained. “It’s my favorite, too. My

name’s Hayley, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you; my name is Marcus.”

“So, Marcus, what brought you to London?”

“I am on my way back home.” She smiled. “And you?”

“On my way to visit some relatives in Plymouth. Could not find a plane flying straight there.”

It was a two-hour flight from London to Plymouth, and Marcus and Hayley spent most of the time

getting to know each other.

“I am an only child,” Hayley said. “My father passed away when I was three, so it’s just me and my

mom.”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said and, after a short pause, he added. “I have a younger sister. Her name is

Annabelle. You remind me of her. She’s such a lovely girl!”

 “You love her very much, I can tell. I can see it in your eyes.” Marcus blushed slightly.

Before they even realized it, the SEAT-BELTS ON light was turned on and, minutes later, the plane

landed, and the sun was just coming up.

“May I help you with those?” Marcus asked courteously, pointing at the bags Hayley was holding.”

“I don’t want to bother you–” she began.

“Nonsense! Allow me; this is all that I’m carrying.” He pointed at his things, and then went to get a

luggage cart. When he came back, he was smiling. “I have an idea. You can say no if you like. What If you

give me a ring and you can come over for a cup of tea one of these days. After all, if you are going to be

here for two fortnights, you need to go out.”

She seemed to consider it for a minute. “You know what, I’d like that. That way I get to know Belle.”

“I think you two would like each other.”

Marcus took a notepad out of one of his backpack pockets and scribbled something in it.”Here.” He

handed the paper to Hayley. “This is my mobile number.” She took the paper and put it in her pocket.

“I have to go now; there is my uncle waiting for me.” Marcus stared to the man in question in

disbelieve.

“Mr. Jackson!” He rushed forward to greet him.

“Marcus, I did not know you were coming back today! All right, mate?”

“All right”

“How are you getting home?”

 “I thought I’d take a taxi.”

“Not a chance, of course you are coming with us!”

“Brill! Thank you, sir.”

“Hold on,” Hayley managed to say. “You two know each other?”

“Marcus lives across the street from me. I’ve known him since he was this tall.” He held his hand at his

mid-thigh. How did you two meet?”

“On the plane,” they both answered at the same time.

They got on Mr. Jackson’s car and headed home. It was a fifteen-minute drive spent mostly with

Hayley and Marcus talking to one another and telling Mr. Jackson about their respective journeys.

“Were almost there,” Marcus told Hayley.

Mr. Jackson mumbled something, too low to be understood. His eyes were fixed forward. “Marcus,”

he said, and pointed towards a dark cloud rising above the houses in the area. Now Marcus’ eyes were

fixed on the smoke, too. The sound of fire-truck sirens now began to reach their ears.

“This is not good,” Hayley observed.

Mr. Jackson stepped on the gas, and darted forward as fast as he could. The cloud just grew bigger

and the sirens louder by every second that passed. They turned around a corner and suddenly saw

themselves right in the face of the fire. Three fire brigades were trying uselessly to put the fire. As soon

as Marcus saw his house on fire, he panicked.

 “Stop the car!! Mr. Jackson, stop the car NOW!! Let me out, let me ooo-uutt!!” The car had not even

fully stopped when Marcus leaped from it and darted through the street, headed straight to the house.

”Moooom! Daaaad! ANNABELLE!!” A bulky fireman stopped him from going in.

“Whoa, mate. Stop there!” was all he said.

Marcus was on his knees, his hands holding his face; tears flowing from his eyes like rivers. He tried to

talk, but only his lips moved: no sound came from his mouth. It was then he saw them: one, two, three

black body-bags were laying on stretchers, on their way to the morgue. Mr. Johnson and Hayley were

kneeling behind him now.

“She’s gone,” he said to himself. “They’re all gone.” And it was all blackness for him.

“Attention, please. Passengers of the flight 872, please start boarding through Gate 2.”

The loudspeaker resounded through the airport, waking Marcus up. He was sweating mightily, still

sitting on the same seat he had been before. His bags were still at his feet. He was still in rainy London. It

had all been a dream.