The Color Conspiracy
“Item 827…”
Mr. March riffles through the folders, draws one out and slams the drawer shut with his foot.
“Born in Early 19th Century, date unknown.”
He pulls out the first sheet of paper, lays it on the table and turns it to face the others.
“Given name: Paul Ritchie. Goes by Jack Inkpen.”
Mr. March sets down a series of black and white photographs, the first one showing a young teenage boy smoking on the corner, one hand held up to his mouth and the other reaching out towards a telephone pole covered with papers. The next shot zooms up to his face, where the cigarette dangles from his fleshy lips. Medium hue hair hangs down in his face, short but plentiful, ruffled like he’s just been scratching his head. The next picture shows his big eyes, the lower lid curled upward in a considering gaze, and his turned-up nose.
“What about his parents?” the woman asks.
“Also unknown, but we have the records from the orphanage,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and resting his feet on the table.
“He looks 16, maybe 18…” she mutters, pulling one of the photographs closer. “Did you say he was from 1800’s? He looks like a Punk…”
“He moves about the Eras constantly; the little bugger’s hard to get close to,” the second man hisses, narrowing his dark eyes. “I swear, when I get my hands on that little faggoty bard––”
“Shut up, Cooper, you need a contract before you can do anything about it!” She sneers over at him, rolling her eyes.
“I know that!”
From behind the desk, Mr. March pulls out a small black tape, silencing both of them with, “Do you want to hear him, or not?”
They nod, glaring at each other.
He pulls out a tape player, inserts the recording and with a click he presses play. For a few seconds they hear nothing but the tape churning round and around, and static. Then a few far off voices pipe in, a clack-clack clatter and the zipp of fingers across strings. As the tape swivels they hear the gentle plucking of a guitar, sounding much closer than the bustle of the crowd.
The song starts off slow, a series of strummed chords and progressions that the three couldn’t possibly understand, a melody that struck them all deep in the gut. And even if they could name that feeling they wouldn’t dare admit it.
“Hey, ho, nobody home, meat nor drink nor money have I none. Still, I will be merry. Hey, ho, nobody home…”