The 3rd Apr 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
Litter and waste scuffles around my feet as I scrape my way through the alley. Waste bins as tall as giants emphasise their existence with an old comfortable stench,soiled newspapers and grubby polystyrene boxes are sacrificed at their base. A couple of rats scurry under the wire fence,but stop to watch my progress before sliding under cover. The main road with its tired charity shops and dirty fast food outlets is a street where money resists journeying too often. I fumble through my pockets and find the half stub of a cigarette and suck it to life as if my life depended on it. I drink in the silence. I am a head with no thoughts. I am a body with no life.
The plastic Casio on my wrist shakes;squeezing my eyes I can see it is time to go. I kick an empty tin of dog food and head for the bus stop.
“Return to Chapel Green.”
The driver looks me up and down,as if it's his decision to allow me to travel that far up market. Our eyes lock and he gives in, exchanging my last two pound coin for a ticket.
“Last bus leaves ten thirty..sharp.” His voice mocking;who around here would want me in their house for more than a few minutes?
The bus scrambles up the social ladder as our journey continues,and most passengers have left by the time we reach Chapel Green. I allow an elderly couple to get off before me,the driver studies me carefully, remembering every little detail he can. In his own mind he is already making his heroic telephone call to Crimewatch. If only he knew how little fight there is left in me.
As I climb down from the bus I flinch at the rain as it spits nastily in my face,biting into my cheeks,causing needless tears to slither down my face. Somehow my feet find a puddle which my ten year old shoes are no protection against. I turn my face up to God and casually shake my head. I can take it.
The houses near the bus stop are neat semis,once council houses but now smartly presented and paid for. I turn my collar up and head away from them;they are not good enough,not nearly good enough. Another mile up the road,and they are good enough;spaciously detached,at least three cars in every drive way. The fourth house on the last avenue is called the Willows,the front garden is small but I gather it has at least an acre of land at the back,with flat lawns and richly coloured flower beds. So I gather.
No street lights,so I slink back behind the front hedge and wait.
A light comes on in the small front bedroom,and soon after the window is pushed open by a small hand with a face I cannot see.. I look at my watch and smile. Nine thirty. Exactly.
I wait and listen.
I listen.
The music touches me with a soft physical force,the world loses every one of its senses but that of sound. Beyond the window,an unseen hand,now ten years old,fingers buttons tenderly whilst the unseen face caresses the mouthpiece of his brass cornet. A gift from his father. And through the instrument he blows a message which he has practised for months. In my head I sing along with him.”Solitaire is the only game in town,and every step that takes me takes me down.”
Each note reaches me. Though to others the music might sound mournful and sad, to me it speaks of a big heart and of an even bigger love.
After thirty minutes the playing finishes and the end of an unseen arm holds a silver cornet which waves out of the window. Within a minute a woman with a small scar on her inner right thigh appears at the window,stares into the darkness before snapping the curtains together. Inside the room she probably underestimates how far and deeply sound can actually travel.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.