Bag of Weasels. Chapter 14

He was skulking round the edge of a fire, scratching at the edges to get warm without talking. I was curious to see his familiar face in a strange new place, and so I stepped towards him.
He was gone.
My ear stung like a bite and I batted it quick. Ash and cinders blew across my face and Flea was at my shoulder, face with a grin and a chipped cigarette butt still on the smoulder.
"My, what have we here?
He slipped quick to my left then snapped back to my right and hissed: "Found your friend, then? Held his hand all the way? Put him on his lead in company.
"Hello Flea,
A spit and a snarl away from biting, waving his cigarette at my eyes, "Careful careful, don't want to burn yourself. Again.
Banksy and Ralph came closer.
"What's she got then, anything nice? Anything for me? He winked at Banksy. "What does she do for you? Any chance of a go? It'll soon be dark.
He laughed as he watched me twitch uncomfortably.
"Touched a nerve, Sunny boy?
Banksy flew into him and grabbed him by the bollocks. She squeezed very hard, Flea squealed and curled up, and she grabbed him by the scruff but he wriggled out of her grip and spat back at her, too quick to be caught again. Banksy led me away, and Flea cackled and spat through his bit back groans.
"I'll yank then off next time, She winked. I looked back and saw Flea scuttling off into shadows.
And now we were in.

Fine rain covered everything, and the fires grew and spread. More odds and sods came in, some beyond awareness, just shuffling and wandering til they fell into the circle. The morning man from out by Earls Court had made it, and weaved between the fires, shouting "Hi! Morning! on and on to no-one. If you were coming the other way, and returned the greeting, he wouldn't even see you, look right through, and with a "Morning! Hi! he'd move on. But for a split second you'd feel the wind blowing through his head. Something was working deep down inside, the motor was still running, and that's what had got him here, for something had guided him in. If the morning man could get here, then surely more would come.
I watched the collection of not-rights move around me like leaves and smoke in a cold wind. Weaving patterns that I joined up in great geometries. Round me, not with me. I was outside.
Patterns of shape. Patterns of intent. Patterns and plans, beware their coming and step away; this was my commandment, and phantom thoughts of before this law hinted at bad times.
Now I'd broken that law and let patterns be and followed them. I would pay the price with illness.

Me and Ralph, we mooched off to settle, find a fire and warm our toes, but we'd just crouched down by a suitable flame when the dog pack, reformed and larger then ever, came tumbling our way, all leaps and wags and games of tag. It broke like a furry wave around our fire and delivered a pair of oiks to our feet: Didgy and Doinky, chalk and cheese, fresh in from Plaistow and long time no see.
Lanky Doinky leaned and swayed in my direction, bending at the waist in his jackknife movement, and stumbled his way into a greeting.
"Sunny? Sunny? Sunny! Yeah Sunny! That's Sunny! Sunny? Yeah yeah look it's Sunny! Didgy? Sunny!
"Doinky.
"Sunny!
"Sunny.
"Doinky
"Sunny! You're here, then.
"Well, he's there, isn't he? Right in front of you.
"I'm here.
This could have gone on for a season, I had to fade Doinky out sometimes or I'd get sucked into his verbal whirlwinds. Didgy talked the sense but was still being pestered by dogs: two of the hounds were chasing each other round and through his bandy legs; he'd reach out and scratch them when he could: Didgy and Doinky were dog people. That's a good thing. I'll tell you about Didgy and Doinky and me