Recently, nearly unnoticed, it had become dark. That time just after magic hour when darkness really settles in. The time when all the plants tuck themselves in, when little critters are bedding down in fluffy comforters, that time, that sublime time. The time that energizes and fuels the varied fires, of passion and adventure, in the hearts of young people, lights cigarettes, Spirits, creates a thirst for alcohol and substance. He was walking down a little path, asphalt, no concrete; he liked the way it felt under his feet. He sipped from a flask, whiskey, nothing would do otherwise, he liked the way it felt in his throat and mouth. He was dragging from a cigarette, American Spirit, nothing would do otherwise. He liked the way it felt in his fingers. He liked the way the smoke felt in his lungs. He gave out a little sigh, a satisfied sigh with a tinge of whiskey for melancholy, a splash of grenadine for sweetness, and the zest of some existential lemon which he used to ‘paint that shit gold.’
The path wound through a forest of tall and beautiful trees, the canopies he could no longer really see, they blocked the moonlight a little, casting silhouettes. The path was lit by small Christmas lights on an old picket fence running the length of it. He imagined there must be 10,000 points of light. So many little Christmas lights, the glow pushing out and along the ground, an idyllic and peaceful setting. He felt good, excitedly resigned to possible scenarios for the night to come. He spit, reflexively, then sipped the whiskey, swirling it slowly and letting it sit in his mouth before swallowing. He wished he had a hundred flasks. He dragged from the cigarette, allowing the smoke to travel deep into his lungs and held it. He let the smoke float gently from his slightly open mouth. He wished he had a thousand more cigarettes. Maybe there would be wine, with maybe some little cheese cubes or a big wheel of Brie with tasty crackers. He didn’t feel hungry, in fact, he felt empty. He liked that empty feeling in his stomach, with the whiskey in it; he felt a warming, internal, fire. He hummed a song to which he didn’t know the lyrics. A pretty little tune he’d only heard that day, he kicked himself for not knowing the lyrics.
This path had taken him through beautiful spaces, deserted in a place definitely not, as an oasis. He was floored, glad she had told him this route. He could smell the moisture in the air, the wetness on leaves. He could feel though not walking on it, the sponginess of the soil. And it was quiet which was nice, he thought, so very nice. The rain had lasted long, but was light. He sighed again, a complex sigh, this time with a wolf’s smile on his face and mercury in his eyes. And then the sound!
A piano is playing somewhere, out there, in the trees. He stops, lets his arms fall limp to his sides as smoke pours from his mouth, he stands motionless, stupefied. He is almost terrified, almost paralyzed. This is very nearly too much for him. A thicket of leafy bushes grows wildly down one side of the path. The lights of the fence flow down the other; he is not trapped, only guided. He cannot fathom this new element. He feels so suddenly, no longer alone nor isolated, and simultaneously, so much more alone, so isolated. Adrenaline courses from the caps of his kidneys through his veins, his stomach floats. The sound of this strange piano has made this a real forest, an old forest, and he, an old man. He is a traveler or maybe the owner of a little piece of property. He is looking for a place to camp out for the night, maybe not wanting to go home to an empty house.
He is a very sad old man, not old, but old, he feels old. He lost his wife during the Depression, she took his pretty little daughter, hair of golden curls with her. That was seven years ago. Now he goes Walkabout, something he read about the Indians in Australia doing. He is no longer a teenager, though he feels the loneliness of one, the fear of on.. He can fathom no reason to go home to a sad and lonely house, at least, no reason to bed down there. He has walked this path five hundred times, he knows it. And now, in this place he knows so well, a haunting piano is playing. He pictures a shade sitting at the black and white keys of a piano that does not really exist. The shade, eyes closed, plays this slow, dark, and chilling tune. This shade might be his wife, or worse, his daughter, waiting for him, to kill him, to ruin him…perhaps, just to say, ‘hello, will you listen to my song for a while?’
A guitar joined the piano, then a voice, adding words to this sad and beautiful song. Another voice joined the first. He awoke from his dream, and in fact all dreams, realizing now exactly where he was, and why he was there. Though beautiful, this path was just a little hollow in a big city. He started walking again with a sip of whiskey, a shake of the head, and a smirk. The two exceptionally fine female voices became louder as he walked. He began to feel a different sort of fear and apprehension than that of himself as the lonely old man: the fear of admiration. That fear of being a stranger approaching a group of those who are not. After a long slow turn in the path he came to see them.
Two sirens sat on a marble slab, one with a small type of portable electric piano, the other with a guitar. An elegant looking raven-hair played the piano, her eyes closed. Her hair fell in large waves, cascading down her shoulders. A mean looking dirty blonde played guitar, her eyes closed as well, her hair falling straight down towards her chin, never reaching it. He, slowly walking the path towards them, fresh cigarette in one hand, flask and fired lighter in the other, breathed smoke. He approached unnoticed, the pair absorbed in their song. The three of them presented what, to him, was quite a quaint little picture. In his mind, he clicked through, via slide projector, a thousand different outcomes. He expected not one of those images to come to fruition. The blonde opened her eyes with a slight look of surprise and averted her gaze to the guitar. He smiled, when she looked, in attempt to disarm her. No longer did she look so mean, her big pretty eyes softened her. The song intensified, the instruments sitting silent, their voices growing louder.
“I don't know what I have done. I’m turning myself into a demon.” The lyric shocked him. Sung slowly and beautifully, unexpected, brilliant…he absorbed them. The song came to an end. He clapped a little, quietly, pleasantly; his cigarette in his mouth, his hand hitting his flask. The black haired girl looked up with surprise, the blonde smiled and bowed slightly over her guitar. He was close to them now, no more than ten feet away.
“Do you have a cigarette I can have?” She, the blonde, asked. He smiled, laughing internally, knowing, just knowing that this would be the outcome, one of the few he didn't flip through in that mental slideshow.
“Why, yes, I do.” He replied, opening his pack to reveal three cigarettes, one upended. He held the baby blue box out to the blonde. She reached petite fingers into the pack, touching first the lucky, then another,
“I almost took your lucky, whoops.” He moved the pack toward the black haired girl. She flipped a switch on the small keyboard, and took a cigarette, also avoiding the lucky.
“Thank you,” she said with an inflection of glee, her fear, obviously dissuaded. He produced his lighter and lit the blonde’s, then the cigarette held in the raven-haired beauty’s fingers.
“Did you like the song?” asked the blonde.
“I did, very much, you scared me at first. Odd to hear piano suddenly playing through the forest.” They laughed a little, smiling.
“I’m Anna,” said the blonde.
“Carolyn,” said the raven-hair.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Zane.”
“Are you going to the show tonight?” Carolyn asked.
“Yea, headed there now. Meeting a friend, she has art in the show.”
“Oh, cool, we are playing a small set a little later,” said Anna.
“That’s awesome. I am excited to hear more.” He reached in his pocket, pulling out his phone, “Oh snap, I was supposed to meet her five minutes ago, what time do you guys play?”
“Around 9:30, there’s a couple bands playing,” replied Carolyn.
“Cool, I'll see you there.” He said, walking past the bench.
“Bye, Zane,” said Anna.
The path had been rising steadily, and he realized he was actually a lot higher than he thought; and a lot drunker, the flask was nearly empty. His cigarette was getting low, this was upsetting. His head was a little foggy and simultaneously over-clear, this was exciting. Less thinking, more being.
He approached the main doors of the large building. People sat around smoking cigarettes on the short brick walls near the door. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t hear her. He wished he’d been on time. He was 15 minutes late. Anxious, a little frustrated, he took another sip from the flask, it was painfully low. He took a seat on a wall, and knowing no one, lit up the last American Spirit. He tried to look casual, in place. Small groups of people talked and interacted separately and together. He alone, sat alone. He focused on the cigarette, attempting to savor every molecule of smoke. What a shame it is that smoke flows from cigarettes even when not inhaling. He tried to think of a way to catch all the smoke, no good ones came to mind.
He pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket—Madeline. He answered,
“I’m at the Pizza Hut.” She laughed,
“I’m at the Taco Bell.”
“I’m at the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell.” She laughed again,
“I don’t see you.”
“Jamaica Ave.”
“Jamaica Ave.?”
“Yea, I’m at the Pizza Hut.”
“I’m at the Taco Bell, I’m at the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell.”
“I’m out front smoking a cigarette,” he spoke in his normal tone.
“I’m coming to get you.” She hung up first. He smiled and sighed a sad sigh, an apprehensive sigh, a get yourself ready sigh. He looked into the cherry of his cigarette, the cigarette’s undoing, watched it slowly consume the white paper. Adrenaline again rose from the caps of his kidneys knotting his stomach. He realized he was wasting the cigarette and brought it to his lips attempting to take all the smoke this paper tube full of leaves could offer. He finished the last of the flask, the last bit of whiskey flowing out and resting in his mouth. He swirled it and swallowed, satisfied, taking another drag. Adrenaline continued to flood through his veins. Tension building, he looked around at the faces, examining, expecting to see hers rise from behind a shoulder, or appear near someone. Six months since he last saw her, he wondered if she’d gotten fat.
He looked inside the big glass doors and saw her walking down the hall in a green dress, looking very pretty, same slim frame as always. His stomach rose higher and higher, he wished he had more whiskey. He noticed the little cup of dark red liquid in her hand, and felt a little relief. He pretended not to see her, looking away. Waiting, not wanting to make the first move.
With mounted tension, with excitement and fear, with bleary-eyed drunkenness and stone sobriety, his knee bouncing a little, he sat in a kind of private anguish. The cigarette, sitting between his middle and ring finger, began to tremble. He could hear her approaching, and felt an explosion under his skin, under all of it, from deep inside. He worried he’d erupt in light and flame, a shout and nothing left but air, maybe a wisp of smoke floating away. What a scene, all reduced to nothing...how embarrassing.
She put her hands on his shoulders. He turned to meet her face. She was smiling wide. She pulled herself into him. He slid his cigarette hand out, try not to burn her, and put his arms around her. She was warm, even through his jacket. He could feel her skin against his neck. She was soft. Her hand was holding the back of his neck, fingers in his hair. The feeling of explosion waned, replaced by a feeling of complete and total collapse, as if he might fall apart in big flakes, like cigarette ash, to her feet. Old pains were being buried, and simultaneously rising to the surface, through her touch. She let go and stood back,
“let me look at you!” she said excitedly. What he thought he looked good in, he now regretted wearing, it simply couldn’t be good enough. “You look thin,” she said, seemingly more to herself than him, “have you been eating?”
“Heh, not really. Just can’t find the time.”
“I’m sure.” Against any rational idea. that they had started talking again, he remembered the last thing he had said to her upon breaking up; with tears and venom in his voice, on an international phone call—I’m putting my white flag down, I’ve had enough of this shit. ‘Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.’—an H.L. Mencken quote, after which he hung up the phone. So melodramatic, but he was dead serious.
He was made first mate on the infamous pirate ship The Gleam. He served under his captain faithfully and loyally. His captain was called Pain, and he glowed bright. Under his guidance, he found in himself something he had never known. He burned settlement after settlement, dropped innumerable chests of gold to the bottom of the sea never to be returned, keelhauled his crew, raped women and spit in the faces of children, he lit the sky bright with the glow of fire while the wind carried screams to all ends of the earth. He was mad as Ahab, only he wanted to pierce every pretty face; he desired only to paint everything red and white with blood and semen.
Together, he and his captain terrorized and ruined all that was beautiful and good. Fueled by the powder of the Coca plant, the latex of the poppy, the fermentations and distillations of wheat and grape, sugar and potato, they left in their wake, a mountain range of corpses and deep valleys of fire. They would sit on deck, legs swinging off the side, smoking tobacco and weeping with horrible grins on their faces. They grew more and more tired, more and more haggard, their ship more and more damaged, rotting inside out, the hull pierced and torn. Masts leaning, sails shredded, leaving a flow of debris in their wake. And over time, they slowed, sitting at the bottoms of bottles, until they eventually sank. He emerged from the sea after thirty days in the depths, wasted away, a skeleton, but sane.
“You really should eat more, it’s unhealthy.” She said, looking at him kindly.
“I know, I know; I just got so used to not eating for a while.” Her look betrayed a hidden sadness,
"That can happen." She said slowly, looking down at his face, remembering it's subtleties. She felt like crying. It had been so long since she had looked at him like this. He looked up at her as she looked down at him, into her eyes, across her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her hair falling down, straight onto her shoulders. She slid down the lump in her throat. She breathed back a torrent of emotion. She hid anger and sadness and love and remorse,
“Do you want to get a glass of wine?”
“Definitely,” he said smiling. She put her hand out to him, he took it and stood up, flicking the last of the dying cigarette away from them. She took his arm at the elbow and they began walking inside.
The inside, was a place illuminated by youth and energy. Pretty young artists and appreciators, some there simply to drink, wisped through the large space. She led him gently along, waving and schmoozing only a little, guiding him somewhere. She pulled him through tall cubicle walls holding sculptures, paintings, mixed media, illustrations, monitors, all the various soft arts were represented. He glanced at them, especially the pieces on the far side of her. He took in the curve of her nose, the perfect brown of her hair with slight highlights, her lips, thin but plump, all almost too much. If it had ever occurred to him to use the word to describe a man’s reaction to a woman, he would have used the word, 'swoon'. He internally swooned. She was his ideal, at nearly all moments, the ideal. A word with a lot of weight, in it’s various meanings, and a word he rarely used when in reference to people or objects. She though, was surely at this moment, his ideal. His legs felt tired. They weren’t, he only thought they felt that way, a mental overreaction.
They walked to her small quasi-cubicle. She pointed as they walked. His eye caught a flash moving in front of him, grabbing Madeline, pulling her away from him. He turned to see mouths touching. Madeline and Anna in embrace.
"Well. Fuck. Me." The rumors were true. They were all true. His jaw hung like a cartoon character; he picked it up off the floor. He could not control his eyes though, they had exploded, wide open, complete disbelief. He had heard this, had thought about it, many times, sexually and non...but it did not prepare him. He felt a mixture of confusion, arousal, jealousy and pain. They stopped kissing, and Anna took a double-take toward him. Her mouth hung open, her eyes wide. In shock, as he was.
"Hello, Zane."
"You two know each other?" Asked Madeline, quizzically.
"We met in the woods, I was practicing for tonight," replied Anna.
"What a small world," said Madeline.
"Indeed," he said quietly, eyes sliding between the two of them. Wide, paper-thin, wings sprouting from fat little bodies crashed around in his stomach. He felt dizzy.
"I'm going to hit the head real quick. OK, girls?"
"You know where it is?" Asked Madeline.
"I'll find it. Be right back."
"Bye, Zane," said Anna.
He walked down a corridor, spinning, no idea where he was. He looked around for a bathroom, the walls seeming to move. He felt like crying, like laughing hysterically. A lump so large it was painful, had taken up residence in his throat. His gag reflex nagged at him. He felt like he was stumbling, walking like a drunk. He was walking straight lines. He saw a sign poking from a wall, with the two little thick-stick figures, and he walked toward it. He pushed the door open with his back.
The bathroom was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and ran to a stall. He vomited, eyes closed tight, tears squeezing out. He choked a little, coughed. Vomited again, this time less. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, flushed the toilet and walked to the sinks. He turned one on, hot only, pulled a few paper towels from a dispenser nearby and wiped his mouth, looking in the mirror for any sick on his face. He breathed out a long slow sigh, a disappointment sigh with acid breath for sting. He shook his head, washing his hands. He lowered his mouth and rinsed it in the hot water, it stung his lips. Spitting hard, then letting water flow in and out, he purged all that he could of his purging. His stomach still banged with butterflies, muted now though, with wings perhaps sewed together with a needle and thread, they struggled on the floor of his belly. He sighed again, and shook his head even harder. Vomiting in an art school bathroom, how cool of you. He began to cry. A difficult cry, not a cathartic cry. A somewhat forced cry, like trying to force a cough. He just wanted the harmful elements out of him. He wanted to expel the grief. He breathed out a growl, dabbing his eyes with a fresh paper towel. He pushed out a hard sigh, a try to restore some confidence, an amp yourself up, a repair yourself sigh.
He is sitting at the large open window, leaning back in a chair, smoking a cigarette. Trying not to get ash on the white carpet. The sun shines in through the window, no breeze at all. A typewriter is sitting at the desk, a blank sheet sitting in it. His feet are up on the window sill, ankles crossed, one loafer tapping the other. He drinks a sip from the chilled glass. The bubbles tickle his throat. The bitterness of delicious hops lingers in his mouth. He carefully taps the cigarette in the small ash tray. A roaring whine shatters the pleasant atmosphere. He drops from the back legs to all four, and leans forward to look out the window. A stream of black smoke flows through the sky, growing. He watches the plane spiral slowly toward the harbor. He flicks the cigarette through the window, grabs the sill with both hands, and follows the plane with his eyes. The plane evens out a little bit, hitting the water nose first, more on the underside, diving in a ways. He sees metal fly from the plane. The wings hit, engines exploding, sending fire and wreckage into the bay. One wing fully separates, floating in the water with fire around it. The other sticking out at an odd angle. He watches the plane settle. A door opens on the high side of the aircraft. From his high perch, he sees it all. Start to finish. He hears sirens blaring in the town below. He watches a man step outside of the plane and begin frantically waving his arms. Fire consumes the mangled engine on the wing jutting from the water. He sees a boat floating out into the harbor, police boat. He sits back down, lights a cigarette, takes a sip of the beer, and begins to type the calamity's sequence.
Madeline and Anna sat leaning against the strong edge of the fake walls separating the exhibits, holding hands, Madeline's head on Anna's shoulder. He walked over toward them, giving a small wave. He sipped from a plastic cup of red wine, swirling it in his mouth, trying to drown the flavor of bile. They smiled at him as he approached.
"Sorry girls, had a hard time finding one."
"Not a problem. This is it," said Madeline. He walked into the semi-enclosed space and looked slowly from left to right, looking at each piece. Madeline sidled up on his right, taking his arm in hers. Anna came up on the left. There were a myriad of pieces, in different styles, different mediums. In the center, one caught his eye. A poster, with a picture of some East coast style street, tall three story apartments, bags of trash and litter sitting on the sidewalks. And the caption, 'Why can't all the urban trash be back then with Macintosh.'
"What does this mean?" He asked, looking over at Madeline. Her eyes looking at the poster.
. "I thought about it back when no one used Mac's, when I was younger, and they were almost nowhere to be found."
"Ah, I remember that time...long while ago it seems," said Anna. She put her hand against his back, scratching lightly. His stomach feel almost sick, he wasn't nauseated, but was full of fear and excitement. He was confused. She scratched up and down his back, slowly, quietly, side to side. She slid a finger under the jacket, and under his shirt. Her nail dug in a little. He moved his left arm around and against his back. Unable to resist gravity. He took her finger with his. They closed around each other. He continued to look at various pieces, none striking him now. Madeline said something about a piece, he responded, not entirely sure of what he was saying or what she has said, focused, as he was, intently on the finger locked with his own. One finger. She dragged her hand along the elastic band of his underwear and stepped away, removing it.
"Well, kids, I need to go get ready for the show, I 'm on shortly. When I'm done, let's play," she said. Zane lifted his cup a little towards her, a one sided toast. Madeline leaned forward and kissed her, right in front of his face. Butterflies banging again within him.
"Bye, Zane."
II
"Oh, fuck you...everything, everything, everything. God, why did I do this. You are terrible, you ruin everything you touch. It’s like you try your hardest to hurt anyone you can," she cried out. He stood silently, head down. She grabbed and twisted and wrenched his shirt. Her tears fell heavy down her face. She pushed her fists into his chest, pulling her head in towards him. Sobbing. A tear fell from his eye. He was drunk. Wine and beer and the whiskey and the empty stomach. He shuddered a little, it wasn't cold, nor guilt, it was a shudder of de ja vu. He had been here before, these tears, this anger, this feeling, already done. He had lived this before... a life he never wanted to live again. She had probably been living the same life all the while. Her voiced trembled and she cried,
"Why, why, why why why whywhywhywhywhy."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not. No, you aren't sorry at all." Rage flooded her voice.
"You puerile, piece of sh..." she trailed off and stood back. "It's not worth it." She wiped her eyes, smoothed the pretty green dress. "I'm finished with this, finished with you. This...is the last time." She stopped to sigh, "The last straw, the last stand, all that. Goodbye, Zane." She turned and walked away. They were in a kind of ditch, a large drainage ditch almost under the school. He watched her walk away, then up the side, back to the party. Unable to cry, he simply sat. He sighed a deep sigh, a sigh with a kind of relief, a kind of profound sadness, and a hint of nostalgia.
He walked down the path, little stumbles here and there. The lights blurred not from motion, unable to remember exactly the way, though it was so obvious two hours before. He thought of his lips, of the taste in his mouth. She had approached him quietly while Madeline was talking about a piece of her art with someone, might as well have been miles away.
"Hello, Zane."
"Anna."
"I want to show you something." He tensed a little. She led him away, walking in front of him. She grabbed two glasses of wine with one hand, a finger in each, and a bottle of beer with the other. She walked, he followed like a dog, obeying not her, nor himself. She took him through corridors, through strange rooms. He followed as she downed both the glasses of wine. Then she abruptly stopped. He was feeling a little foggy, a little tight. She handed him the beer,
"Drink it all." He took it and drank. He stopped, the cold and the bubbles interrupting the flow.
"Finish." He took it again, and after another short stop, finished it. She dropped both the plastic cups to the floor and rushed at him. Grabbing his hair in her hands, one on the back of his neck, she looked at his face,
"You're gorgeous. I'm going to kiss you." He said nothing, not knowing what to say. She made a little sound, a high half moan, and kissed him. Their lips slid across each other, tongues ebbing and flowing. He dropped the bottle, it bounced on the carpet, she didn't notice. He put his hands on her hips. She pulled at his hair, a little more pain than he liked. She put her hand down against his hip, pulling him toward her. He moved his hand down, pulling her towards him in kind. She slid into him, turning to the side a little.
He wished he had a cigarette. This walk was taking forever, and where was he? The guiding lights had disappeared. This path so one directional earlier was now a labyrinth. His telephone vibrated in his pocket. He fished for it, struggling with a fold in his jacket–His mother.
"Hi, mom. What's up?" He said, trying to sound sober.
"I wanted to call and see what you're doing, Zaney."
"Not much, Mama. Madeline dates women now, and I'm lost."
"What?"
"Can you help me out?"
"Yes." His mother, using some map website, guided him to where he could find his own way. He walked out of the forest into the rich part of the city, sighed and began walking West.
She woke early that day, full of energy. She dressed. She left the house. She sat down in front of the newly erected Cleopatra's Needle, enthralled by it. She had come here every day, to see the Needle and give candies to the street children. Today, she came to do both and read the note she had received the day before. She had not opened it yet, a grand display of self-discipline. It was from him.
Dearest, –––––
My love for you is visible in all that I do, I must see you, alone...if you wish. I do not want to give you the impression that I have any intention that is not purely honorable. Let us go tomorrow to the gardens at Gravesend, where I must speak with you of something deeply important to me.
Forever,
––––––––
She swooned. This would finally be it.
The two lovers met at Swan Pier, where they boarded the SS Princess Alice. She looked out at London Bridge, quietly absorbing it, so much more beautiful today than any day before. They sat quietly, having only said a few words of greeting to each other. Anticipation overwhelmed her, shyness he. The ride was pleasant and gay; children ran around laughing, their parent's relaxing in the last of the Fall sun. She looked at him, he at her. They gazed. She slyly slid her hand to his, a bold gesture. No one could see, no one would know. Through her glove she felt the warmth of his hand as it gently squeezed hers.
They arrived at Gravesend and went immediately to the Rosherville Gardens. They walked quietly, closely together, taking in all the beauty of the myriad plants. They ate in a small hidden nook, little sandwiches she had packed. She produced a small bottle of gin, much to his surprise. She was fully atypical. They laughed and drank. Their lips met. She very nearly fainted. They made love with their clothes on. Virgins in the garden. Embracing. He quietly and timidly, told her he would like to marry her. She laughed loud and accepted this quiet proposal, no ring, no officiality, a contract sealed with a kiss. They almost missed the boat.
They sat close now, unabashed, holding hands, staring into each others eyes. It was nearly sunset, all things clear. An enormous shudder rocked the ship. They felt great pressure, and heard loud cracks and screams. The crowded deck became chaos. He fell, sliding, down into the Thames. She watched his face with confusion and horror as he vanished into the muck. And then nothing. The Bywell Castle, a vessel used to transport coal hit the starboard side of the Princess Alice, they did not survive. Over 600 people were lost, the Thames consuming some, it's water poisoning others, the impact and wreckage mangling bodies. They two, were buried in a mass grave, with 118 others.
