The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Sylvester’s Tower


Chapter One

Sylvester eased his oft spoken of ‘aching bones’ into the old brown armchair.

“Ahhh…” he sighed.

‘Each day was a long day, nowadays,’ he mused seeking out the silver flask from the inside of his long coat.

Long ago he had ceased to wear the apparel of his time. Instead, he wore a long, leather coat of black; beneath which he wore an open-neck white shirt, ruffled down the front and at the cuffs. He also wore skin-tight coal-black jeans and black ankle boots, with a Cuban heel, of the finest Italian leather.

Much as he would prefer to dress as he had, the Edwardian clothes Sylvester had worn for several decades had worn out, in places almost threadbare.

Even so, he’d felt like weeping, the day she’d taken them to the Red Cross shop downtown.

'Grant you,' he considered with a rueful grin, 'I do look good in what she bought for me.'

Sylvester had first met his friend Tabbi when she'd been seventeen and, at the beginning of the rebellious phase she was still in.

And, he loved her for it...

Then as now, she had a strength of character that few could match.
'In fact,' he decided, 'it is her sense of self that has allowed her to overcome the travails of her life.'

Sylvester respected the 'polite anarchist' as he would call her, to her face, often wondering if he too could have managed as well as she seemed to had done.

In his own time the man had led a comparatively privileged lifestyle, having come from an affluent background.

He'd had the best education his parents could afford; he'd done the 'Great Tour', of Europe and The Americas; yet it had been an almost accidental purchase that had led to most life-changing event, in his somewhat pampered life.

It had been the first of the machines built to H.G.Wells original specifications, before his disappearance, thanks to his own time-travel device.

Sylester had followed a shortcut home from the tavern, one night one dank, foggy night. He had taken a right turn and, not ended up in the canal, but instead had found himself taking the left, which had led to a series of lock-ups, in the arch beneath the overhead railway. And, that is where he'd had his first encounter with his wonderful 'Siver Machine', as Dave Brock had called it, way back in the nineteen seventies.

“Yes,” he sighed, “my Silver Machine...”
Then just for a moment, he could hear the song written to honour the thing, shortly before its acquisition from him.

Yet, all that had ended well – and, although the song had not been what the Edwardian had been accustomed to, he did find his time with the band invigorating.

'His Silver-Machine...' he sighed at the memory of its purchase.

Sylvester had heard the small fellow with a loud voice from yards away and, his interest had been piqued.

“First and only, built since the disappearance of the great man 'imself,” the fellow had told the assembled crowd before him, gathered in a tight semi-circle.

A little man, he stood on an upturned empty orange crate to garner the attention of the crowd, his strident voice carrying his sales pitch as far as the canals edge, where Sylvester had stood.

“So c'mon gentlemen, this is surely a one-off. So, why lose the chance of a century, this or any other? And, all I'm askin is a miserly one hundred pounds.”

At the mention of the price the crowd dissipated, one-by-one, until only Sylvester had been left and, he had a wallet that was still quite full and waiting to be emptied.

“So... are you interested... in a time-machine?” The fellow in the too tight check suit had asked Sylvester with a false smile stretched across his face.

So a purchase had been made, formalised with a shake of the hands and, shortly thereafter, a foolish drunk had experimented with his new purchase, that dark night.

Then when he had awoken it had been morning and he had found amidst the metal frame of his machine, on the canal tow-path, bruises and pain constant companions.

The time-machine had seemingly wrapped itself around him and he lay there for several hours, until a young woman in black leather and lace had found him, as she had taken a short-cut, back to her squat.

With effort she had eased him out of the mess he had lay among, groaning. Then, she had taken him home, being careful to note where she had found the man.

Hours later, as Sylvester had lain sleeping on the old battered couch, with several young people standing before him.

The young woman who had found him told the others, “Look after him awhile, I'm off out to see Ged and the van. Alright?” She had heard the man rambling on the way home and now wanted to know more.

Nods of assent had been given: after all, it had been her squat and she always seemed to know where and when coin could be found, when needed. So, Tabbi called the shots and, if she said she was off out to pick up a time-machine, then that was alright by them.


Chapter Two

Sylvester had lain recuperating on the couch for three days, with Tabbi his nurse. Then on the third morning he had heard sounds emanating from the basement, the sounds of a hammer on metal.

He had risen painfully; gathering his bedding round his cadaverous body clad in long-johns, and then made his way toward the sounds. He had opened the door beneath the stairs and then made his way down cold concrete steps, thankful he'd kept his socks on and that the light was on and bright.

At the bottom of the steps he looked to his left and what had formerly been a pile of junk, that had been his time-machine and the young woman who found him on the canal tow-path, amidst its wreckage.

Her big boots and short shapely legs clad in self support hose were the only part of Tabbi visible; the rest of her was beneath the rebuilt machine.

“It only crashed because its flight through time was not stabilised,” the teen had explained, after studying what remained of his time-machine.

“That and the fact you knew little about what you were doing...” she had added, her hands already busy.

Sylvester had coughed at that, wanting to explain that he'd been drunk when he'd made his purchase. But as he could attest, he had not been drunk when he'd taken his maiden journey nor had he looked at the manual, provided with his purchase.

“And with a few tweaks, it wouldn't be too much of a push...” she had paused a moment, deliberating on what to tell him next: 'After all,' she reminded herself with a grin, 'it's not like he understood what he'd bought, or has the sense to understand what he could have done.'

She had been scathing of the older man, yet had already conceded to her housemates, “I like him, I want him to stay.”

Then as he had rested, Tabbi had begun to twist metal and redesign where needed, the machine he had bought, all those years ago.

Finally she had provided the machine with padded seating and painted it silver and told him, “I made a few adjustments.”

Then as he had stood with open mouth, she had explained that by manipulating the time force, other factors could also be influenced, like 'where' as well as 'when'.

Sylvester had been dumbfounded.

“It’s simply a matter of aligning the spatial regulator, with the correct settings,” She had told him, the day she had added her own touch to the machine.

“It’s actually quite easy to set,” she had added and proceeded to explain the device and its function, to him.

Simple, he queried to this date, all these years on.

He still could not fathom how a young woman of her tender years could have built the intricate Heath Robinson affair, which she had located on the main console, fastening it in place with gaffer tape as she explained, “I’ll fix up something proper one day.”

She hadn’t.

But, she had accomplished her objective. The machine was able to move in space as well as time and, as she explained, “It will give us so many stories to tell, one day.”


Chapter Three

'Yes,' Sylvester mused, 'She's been good to me...'

Eventually he had repaid the many favours he felt he owed Tabbi, by going forward in time and placing a few bets once the winners had been found. With the money he had bought their house from the council, who had been only to keen to get the property off their hands, particularly for what he had offered.

It had been his intent to provide the teen with something, towards her own future and, the broad smile and hug that she had given him had made his day, week and possibly his year.

“Well, maybe even the decade,” the normally lonely fellow admitted ruefully, if only to himself, looking for the tin he had been given by a thoroughly perplexed roadie, prior to them returning to the nineteen eighties.

'Hank, Henry... or Jeff', Sylvester could not recall the bearded young man's name, but he could remember the smokes the fellow had taken from his tin, this very tin, on many occasions.

Granted, Tabbi and her friends enjoyed their own habits, but this was his and even Tabbi would not venture near the tin she knew that he rarely opened.

Finally he found the battered old Golden Virginia tin, the letters in faded yellow.
It had been beneath cushion that was his pillow, so often in the past, when the couch had been his bed.

He put the tin in his right hand coat pocket, with a black clipper lighter he saw on the low table with a smoked glass centre and a veritable mess in its middle.

“Perfect,” he muttered, ensuring his keys were in his right hand pocket.

There had been nothing on breakfast television to keep his attention this morning and his mind was going whirlygig. He was tired of the demons that reminded him how alone he was, even in a house with three others in it – and, perhaps more if one or two of them had got lucky the previous evening.

Turning off the power to the television set Sylvester dusted off a few flecks of dust from his coat, straightened out several creases, both real and imagined, then turned to look at himself in the mirror.

Satisfied with his look, Sylvester donned a pair pebble lens glasses with gold colour frames and smokey lens.

“It's bright outside this autumn morning,” he justified, content that the glasses added to his overall dress wear.

“Stylish and practical,” he muttered aloud, turning from the mirror to cross the room and open the drapes fully.

Tabbi had not roused, nor Leanne or Alan, her remaining housemates.

He smiled as he walked out the front door and down the short pathway, of paving stones midst long grass that led to the low gate, painted Buckingham Green.


Chapter Four

Leaving Kirkdale, Sylvester had walked down Everton Road and the length of Great Homer Street passing people going to work, with traffic getting heavier on the main road.

He took one turn after another, before taking a left onto Everton brow; then through the green of the park toward Everton Road, where he took another left turn.

He finally sat down on a low sandstone wall and looked down to the city, the green before him.

He remembered his past, as he looked to the city, where Tabbi had given him succour.

What he had known before time-travel had brought him here now seemed vacuous and, it was only in this moment of now that he recognised that.

He looked down to his hands, upon his knees. Neither his hands nor face looked as old as he was in actual years and Tabbi had even had an explanation for that: ‘Chronal energy,” she had explained simply.

Then noting his bemusement, she had clarified herself, “It seems to have had a beneficial effect on you Sylvester.”

“Beneficial?” He asked, feeling very stupid.

“Look at your hands,” she had told him and, he had.

“All that travelling in the fourth dimension has had a positive effect on your cellular regrowth Sylvester…” she had explained.

At this point, his mind had wanted to do anything else, but listen. She had confused him and, once she had realised this, Tabbi had sighed and then begun to explain her theory to him: “you travel in time still and, all that back and forth in time has kept you looking younger than you should. I mean Sylvester, go and look in the mirror, there’s noway you look your age…”

He had looked in the mirror as suggested, but didn’t see as she had.

Now, he looks at his hands again and considers that maybe she was right, not only his skin look smoother than it had, his joints ached less than they had before he had begun to time-travel.

“Could she be right?” He mused, looking from his hands down to the city.

He had seen the big yellow cranes dominate the skyline, as change had been wrought on this city he had grown to love, this city of two cathedrals and a river that he had hard called many things; yet he did like one name, ‘The River Of Life.’

The river had given the city trade and through that expansion, much of which he had witnessed first hand.

Now he was witnessing yet anther revival of the cities fortunes.

“I hope it’ll do better than the seventies…’ he mused, thinking back to the many constructions of grey concrete, which had risen at that time.

The seventies had been grey, whilst the people had been colourful, the eighties being colourful, whilst the people had been grey and seeking something. Then there had been this time, the nineties, where everyone seemed to seek something and obscured their need with drink, drugs, or material goods.

He had watched strikes and destitution tear a city apart, then seen it rebuilt slowly and over time, by some who made money while others had money made from them.

Sylvester resented the inequities of the one per cent, who he had seen build a future for themselves, while those who had helped him had a life far different from theirs.

He looked to the tower again, recalling the construction from seventies with a rueful smile.

Not that much remained of that time now; the buckets behind the station and the tower, where the ladies dressed as stewardesses had taken him to an observation deck; and as smells of food had drifted toward his nostrils, Sylvester had watched the city turn, in three hundred and sixty degrees.

In the seventies the tower that dominated the city below him been the beacon of a renaissance that few in those grey times made money from, but they did – using a glamour that they grey of the day needed, to bring rare smiles to a people caught midst strikes, power-cuts and over-flowing bins.

Back then many had called The Beacon St.Johns Tower – a concrete saucer three quarters up a concrete pole, with a new-build market at its base, that many frequented, seeking bargains of the day.

In its day Sylvester recalled the attractive girls in their uniforms, who had greeted tourists to The Tower, who paid money, to see the city turn in three hundred and sixty degrees from its observation deck, while on another floor people had eaten.

When he had spoken of the tower to his young friend just the previous day she had smiled.

“It's a radio station now,” Tabbi had had told him over crumpets, cocoa and an open fire, her knees drawn to her chin as she sipped at the drink.

“And back then, when I arrived here?” he had queried, looking away.

“You could get food, though I could never afford it back then,” she told him, looking to him with a sad smile.

Sylvester recalled that expression still.

Finally Sylvester felt the need to return to the house he called home, which he shared with Tabbi and her friends. The walk the smoke and his thoughts had coalesced, bringing forth a need for completion, which only the company of his young friend could provide.

'Perhaps this time is not mine,' he mused, 'but it's time I really learned how to live, here and now.'

His stomach rumbled and Sylvester rose smiling.

“I think I need to feed,” he muttered and then grinned a wide grin: “and, I have an idea where I'm going to find my nose-bag.”

He looked toward the direction to take and noticed a small boy looking to his mother for guidance, as he held her hand at the kerbside. The child was ever-so small and, her gaze so loving that Sylvester found that he wanted to cry, at the memory of his own mother and, all that he had known and left behind.

All-of-a-sudden he felt at peace with his lost.

Sylvester knew what he was going to do and when he would do it and hoped, Tabbi would smile.


Epilogue:

“Honey, I'm home,” Sylvester called out, as he opened the front door to enter the small hall.

He looked at his watch, as it was relevant to do so.

He knew the others would be at college, but at this time Tabbi should still be the sausage in the roll she seemed to make of her duvet.

Sylvester slipped off his boots, grinning.

His plan was bold, yet simple and, fitted his needs perfectly.

And grinning maniacally, he tiptoed up the stairs, one hand holding his boots, the other holding the banister rail.

Outside Tabbi’s room he set his boots down then Sylvester eased her door open slowly, so as not to wake her, yet.

He saw her feet and he grabbed hold of her ankles, pulling.

And, as the bleary-eyed young woman emerged from her bedding then ended up on the floor, Sylvester gave a silent prayer that she had been alone and wearing a long tee-shirt.

“What the…?” Tabbi began to bellow, her words cut off as her leather fell over her head.

“C’mon you, come downstairs,” Sylvester told Tabbi excitedly, “we’re going out for breakfast…”

He had already decided, he was having a portion of baked beans with his all-day breakfast, ‘after all, it will be seventies prices…’ Sylvester thought with a grin.