Chapter Text
There was an old nursery rhyme that has haunted John since he was but a wee lad. It goes, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar, thief. If you asked him why he was so scared of it, John would go tight-lipped and refuse to talk all night. Fortunately, only Harry knew about this, and Harry herself was spooked by the events that surrounded the rhyme, though she would never admit that.
It happened on a bright spring day, when John was playing with his friends, in a ball game that Harry had joined in to alleviate her boredom. An old woman had come along, hobbling down the road; across the road was a field where John and his friends were playing. There on the road, the woman had halted, gazing at them with her pale eyes. John had felt the intense gaze, his attention drawn away from the game to instead look at the woman. She was dressed in grey rags, looking like a miserable old woman. John however saw in her a flicker of a beautiful woman dressed in a crimson dress, so red that it looked like blood. She had dark eyes and red, red lips. It was but the briefest flicker, though that was enough to spook John.
The old woman approached them, slowly but surely. She was undeterred by Harry’s harsh words, calling her “an old hag”; even with her pale eyes glazed over with age, her glare was strong enough to silence Harry. “I am here to tell your fortunes, children.” Her voice, though cracked, had held a certain amount of power, an underlying current that had made John shiver. The woman focused her pale gaze on John for another brief moment, before turning to one of John’s friends since kindergarten.
It was then she uttered the old nursery rhyme, the one that would follow John and haunt him even when he was in his adult years. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar, thief.” The woman croaked, as she pointed at each child standing there shell-shocked and utterly frightened of the old woman in front of them, with her long, cracked nail like the sharpest point of a knife. The last word she had directed to John, with a slight change in her tone. It sounded almost menacing, to which John had taken a step back in shock.
The woman seemed intent to advance on him, if Harry had not intervened at that moment, incensed that she had been called a beggar. “Leave us now, you old biddy, or I’ll call the police!” She screeched, waving her arms at the old woman as though she was an annoying bird or pheasant. John had never been so glad to have an older sister.
Afterwards, lying in bed at night listening to his father come in at a god-awfully late hour, John kept on turning the rhyme in his head, feeling puzzled and apprehensive. He knew it was silly, he knew it, but he just could not forget it, the way the old woman had looked at him with almost hatred flaring in her eyes as she declared him a thief.
It was an image that was seared in his mind; that would haunt him even as he grew up to acquire many other titles: doctor, soldier, medic, Captain. And all the while, John felt like he was waiting for something, perhaps for the old woman’s words to come true, that one day, he would become a thief.
But he did not lack for much, and so this question his rational side asked never failed to silence his doubts, a thief of what?
And it was so, that the years went by. John continued to serve in the army, until one day a fateful bullet went through his shoulder, blasting through skin and cells and bone, and coming out in an explosion of blood and flesh. Afterwards, John had fought for his life in a cot in an army tent in Afghanistan, while the hot Afghan sun beat down outside mercilessly on the men who were both injured and uninjured, resting after the ambush at their camp. He fought while they shipped him back home on a special carrier plane, with the medical staff that came with plane; fought while on the operating table.
When he came out of his three-month coma, it was to white walls and grey rails and cranky overworked nurses. London seemed like a drowned man’s first gasps of air after being rescued, until it grew grey and dim when John realised he would never be back in the army, possibly stuck forever with a limp that was an inane product of his mind, and a stiff shoulder that would twinge and hurt whenever the weather turned bad. Nonetheless, John could not bear the thought of leaving London, the place where for the first time he had truly stepped away from his family and the burdens attached to it, not his to bear yet still affecting him.
Somewhere in the north of England, on a dark stormy evening, a star fell.
It was in this perpetual state of boredom and self-loathing that a very strange letter came to him. It was addressed to no one; in fact there was not even an address written on it. John had found the blank envelope on his doorstep one Wednesday in an exceptionally chilly spring after his (ineffectual, time-wasting, mind-numbing –) routine meeting with his therapist. Turning it over in his hands slowly, John felt his blood begin to run just that bit faster, his heart drum just that bit quicker. With the carefulness developed during his medical training, John opened the envelope tidily along the seam.
Inside was one single train ticket, the destination printed in thick black letters: WALL.
There was nothing else; no letter or card attached to explain the existence of such a ticket, nothing. John double checked, just to be sure, looking down at his dreary carpet to see if there might be a sliver of a card that might have slipped past. He even opened the door again to see if there was another letter, to explain that it was just a joke, or that it wasn’t meant for John.
Nothing.
John turned back to the train ticket again, curiosity very piqued. It was a regular train ticket, orange and machine printed. The time of departure was that evening, 10pm at Paddington. John glanced at his alarm clock; it was 5pm. He would have five hours to pack a kit, shower, and have dinner. There was more than enough time for him to do that and more. He would have no problem catching – wait! John’s thoughts slammed to a stop. Why on Earth would he be thinking of following through this obviously stupid prank? Because that was just what it was: a dumb practical joke played by probably someone as lethally bored as him.
At the very thought, John’s resolve hardened. Why not? It was not as if John had anything else planned that evening, and anything was better than sitting in his dull bedsit with nothing but the telly and four grey walls to accompany him. He resolutely did not think that it was rather because he would like to avoid another urge to take out his (highly illegal) gun and polish it, or worse, put it to better use.
Having gained a purpose, John got up, leaning just that bit less on his cane. He took a worn but sturdy sachet from his army days and began packing the things he believed he would need. John also made a mental note to grab his gun and spare ammunition. It was better to be safe than sorry. However, John didn’t feel nervous, nor was he feeling anxious. He merely felt excited, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was probably a ruse anyways. If he was lucky, John might find the person who sent the ticket, and if the other person was genial, they could grab a beer together. Or else, John decided, they would be getting a punch to the face.
In any case, he was going to Wall, wherever that was.