35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
‘Hey!’ I yodelled, almost slipping into the evil pit. ‘I’m in here!’
Nothing.
‘Hey! Oi!’
When the spiteful, biting spasms in my lower east side had
subsided, I washed myself wearily with water and hand. I’d long since
ceased missing toilet paper, it didn’t trouble me in the least. But the
prospect of spending a night in this dungeon with whatever else
inhabited it did trouble me. I tottered over and tugged at the
unyielding bulk of the door. It was not about to budge. Briefly I
contemplated running at it with my rugby shoulder, but I soon faced
up to facts. Finally I looked up at the small barred rectangle: surely I
could squeeze through it, no? A few minutes’ investment of tearing
flesh and fingernails and I’d slid over all manner of vile and slimy
things, pushed aside bars that crumbled into sharp flakes of rust, and
found myself outside the palace walls, in a forlorn and dormant
thoroughfare.
Trekking along in the security of towering shadows, I soon
reached a yawning recess that looked like the main entrance. Its
mighty gates were closed. There was no doorbell, and the anguished
thumping of my fists brought not even a hint of response. Plodding
on in search of an alternate entrance, I came across part of the palace
wall that, with the aid of a vendor’s cart, a conveniently situated
tree, and some stone protrusions, it looked fairly possible to climb
over. Feeling, in my damp, soiled underpants, like some crazed old
Tarzan, I bounded from cart to branches and then protrusions,
managing at length to drag myself up and over onto a parapet –
only scraping off half the skin on my knees and chest in the process.
Hanging from my hands, I let myself drop to the ground. It was a
good deal farther than I’d imagined – such things usually are – and
my right foot hurt savagely from the impact. Hissing curses, I stood
to find out where exactly it was I’d landed. A walled second-floor
courtyard was the answer – but a courtyard littered with the forms of
women swaddled in saris sleeping unsheltered on flagstones beneath
the heavens’ track lighting.
This was not good for a foreigner wearing only Y-fronts. This
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