Chapter One

Watermelon Man

Lush petals of warmth dance over the back of my hand. My finger tips tremble, cramping against the invading coldness of granite and dirt. Unable to see a thing, I fear I’m blind. My eyes, without asking, shift slowly in to focus. Blurred images contort into thickening shadows, silhouettes stand tall over me. Someone’s prodding at me with a stick but I might be wrong. Over the rumble of chatter I possibly hear someone ask me whether I want to sue, or if I need representation. Wearing a finely-cut grey suit, a man talks in to his phone, eye-brows arched in curiosity, contempt and half-involved intrigue. He looks down at me as he walks past, his black leather shoes hardly missing a step. My head is resting on the road. There’s a car roaming over me, its grille staring down like a lion over an antelope. The engine growls menacingly. With my body aching and the back of my head throbbing, I realise I’ve been run over.

Under a soft triling of mumbled gossip, shifting my shoulders slightly, I push my palms in to the ground, and try to raise myself up. As I move there’s an unsaid disappointment amongst the surrounding crowd that I’m not dead, or at the very least in visible and distracting pain.

“Clumsy fuck, running in to that car. Not looking where he was going.” A voice says.

“Nah, mate. Everything’s attached, pretty dull actually. Yeah, I see the place now. See you in five.”

Feet shuffle and walk away, taking their owners with them as they realise I’m not dead, tragically paralysed, or handsome enough to worry about. Most people leave, and those that don’t look like they’re obliged to be here anyway. Through the window of a shop a woman holds on to a dress, hanging splendidly from a hanger, and runs her fingers along the fabric of the dress. She looks at me for a moment, and then shifts her attention on to the label.

There is a hollow concentration, a flickering interest on how I am and what I’ll do next.

A swollen looking man with a bloated face and thick lips rests his back against a wall, eating a sandwich in one hand, and taking a picture of me in the other.

A humbling inconsequentiality covers the moment. It’s been thirty seconds and not a hand has touched me. If this is what people have to offer, I’d rather recuperate and heal here on the ground without having to deal with them. I’m tired enough as it is.

A soft, croaking voice asks me if I’m OK. I try to turn to address it, but my neck is stiff. Instead, I nod awkwardly, causing myself a jagged bolt of pain snakes it way down my neck, but I try to ignore it. I say I’m might need some help, getting up but apart from that I think I’m alright.

“Oh, that’s alright then,” she says, then walks off, holding two straining bags of shopping.

People stare but offer no hand of help. The static crackles and it all feels so tight…

I feel like an outline of a crisis waiting to be painted and shaded by all those gathered.

Or is this all just my ego talking?

People move so fast now, no pauses, life on the move, other people seem like nothing but a side dish. I may not be more than a momentary glance to most people passing. Each step a person takes away from me becomes transformed in to a signifier of how small I am here. Who am I in this place? Who am I…?

Who am I?

The reason I ask you is because, I personally, don’t know.

Ever since I woke I’ve had the feeling I was missing something but I couldn’t remember what it was. If it took me this long to remember that, how long will it be before I remember the rest? A minute has passed already and I wait anxiously for the next.

I try to grab on to something, some memory, to hold up some hope, reasoning that if it would come, then there may be salvation. But no. My name is on the tip of my tongue just for a moment, then it quickly absconds out of my mouth, scuttles along the road and runs off. I loose sight of it as it crawls in to a bakery. What of my name anyway? What’s in a rose? What’s in a quote?

Still on the floor, my eyes take in my surroundings; there is a scythe-like quality to the harsh wind. It cuts coldly through all of us, around the buildings. The buildings… I marvel at the spectacular symmetry of the red and off-brown shades that are on display, merging.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a pigeon glide in and shit on it all.

“You wouldn’t want to be doing that again would you?” Says a craggy faced Irishman. His voice lingers in the air like an unwelcome but sobering odour. He smiles. A couple of rows of hickledy-pickledy teeth present themselves for inspection. Perfect for a ‘before’ picture on a dental ad, I think to myself.

His hand reaches down to help me up. How very kind.

He stays smiling and his lips peel back over his teeth. His dry, cracking lips; I can almost hear them snapping as he shows his intent of good will in a grin that appears desperate rather than sincere.

A screech of a woman’s voice runs through the air – “No! For God’s sake, he could hurt himself! His back might be broken!”

I doubt that, her voice is so irritating my toes curl.

“If my back was broken,” I say, “I wouldn’t be able to sit up.”

I look up and see her face staring down. She’s peering at me like she’s leering over some fence. She’s about sixty and has awful white hair with curls like a poodle pulled tightly round her face. The right side of her lip curls up and I see tea-stained teeth lightly shaded with stray pink lip-stick. Lines cross her face like someone scoring time, history etched permanently to her face.

She bends down and speaks to me, placing her hand on my shoulder. I need reassurance that everything is OK.

“Let’s wait for the ambulance. They can take care of you here,” she says to me with a mixture of blame and boredom.

I’m not sure if it’s her finger-nails-on-the-chalkboard voice, intrusive stare or even if it’s just her perfume that insults my nostrils, but as soon as she says ‘ambulance’ my stomach contracts and my gag reflex makes itself know. Tiny pools of sick leap up and deposit themselves in my mouth. I swallow them. Something tells me to show no weakness.

“Really, I don’t want to be looked after by anybody. I’m sure I’m fine,” I tell her. I have a constantly devaluing sense of trust in my opinion. I have no idea where my moral compass is set. Should I let the ambulance get here? Am I wanted? Am I paranoid? How much of this is instinct? How much is me?

Miss Poodle-Face raises her voice and looks at me like a disappointed grandparent.

“Listen young man,” she says, her jowls bobbing like an accusing finger, “I have a grandchild training as a doctor, training with the ambulance service. He told me a story. Tragic it was, tragic. There was this man, about 30 or so who coming out of work, tripped on the pavement. Crack! Skull hits the ground hard!” She claps her hands together with force and venom, as though she’s slapping my face. “Still he thinks he’s fine, feels a bit dizzy over the next few days but brushes it off.” Her dark eyes tighten and she stares at mine. “Two days later he has a headache and walks out of work, passes out and crack! Skull hits the pavement and my grandchild is on the ambulance they call. Turns out he had a blood clot in the brain from the fall before. Brain aneurism. Just dies! Like that! Ridiculous death!”

Her veiny hand reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.

“Now what I’m trying to say is, he didn’t go to the doctor. He needn’t have died because he didn’t think about what could happen. My advice is like my other grandchild says – stay on the floor and you won’t get hurt.”

“Is he a police officer?” I ask.

“No,” she replies sharply.

There is distinct change in tone and atmosphere. I think I can hear an ambulance; its screaming siren bounces down the street and in to my ear hole.

“Well I think you look just fine, matey. You took the punch pretty well,” exclaims the craggy faced Irishman. ”Maybe you should leave before they all arrive, you know what it’s like. Bloody load of fussing and Jesus know what!” He gesticulates wildly and his eyes roll back so far that I think he’s going to faint. Disappointingly, he doesn’t.

Miss Poodle-Face pipes in again. “I wouldn’t trust him. It’s his car that hit you!”

“Well, that’s true I guess, but it weren’t deliberate!”The Irishman says. “You were runnin’!” His smile cracks for a second and his eyes widen like a child caught with his fingers in the cookie-jar, a nervous cornered animal.

It’s a lot of information to take in. Why was I running?

“Why were you running?” Asks the poodle-haired lady reasonably.

I look up and see a few people hovering over me, now they think I’m OK people have moved along. Those left loitering have shifted the scene in to something like a benign interrogation, eager to have their suspicions answered and elaborated. I want to tell them why I was running, but I don’t know. My mouth opens to speak but the line of thought, my memory, has been severed from me. Words run away to play with my tongue, far away from where they’re needed.

How did it take this long to hit me? I still feel dazed, still trying to find myself in an all too literal way. My head swirls. A faint buzz crawls around my skull like a trapped wasp. Everything has a thin coating of separation. There’s a beat before anything hits me. Am I stupid, or is it the accident halting my thoughts? Still all this ‘Who Am I…?’

I take a deep breath and start to get up. There is a shriek from Miss Poodle-Face.

“What did I say? Don’t move!” Her eyes sharpen and tighten her stare. “How do you feel?”

“Fine, I think.” I say, one hand stretched on to the floor, holding my weight. My other rubs my eyes. I feel clean shaven, freshly so.

“Well, at least you’re not going to be done for manslaughter!” She yells at Irish.

‘Why did God see fit to give such a loud voice to someone with such a disagreeable tone?’ I ask myself.

“I think you’ll find that everyone saw that he ran straight in to me! Weren’t my fault at all! I’m as safe a driver as you’ll find. For Crissayks lady, I used to be a bus driver!” Retorts Irish.

I remember a joke. My Dad was a bus driver and died quietly in his sleep, unlike his passengers. How do I know that?

The few people still spectating are holding their breath, their fingers and eyes twitching, waiting for the next whack. A couple of pigeons have landed a couple of feet away and peck aggressively at a stray crust of pizza.

Miss Poodle-face and Irish continue to trade salvos of opinion about me while I’m a few feet away. A small child, maybe seven years old, holds his father’s hand while in the other he takes hungry bites out of a chocolate bar.

There is too much noise here, I need some silence. I’m trying very hard to hold on to myself, I don’t need this clutter. I need quiet and solitude, I feel like a child lost without a mothers guiding hand, drifting, not able to remain on one track of thought. I feel like I have a moth for a brain in room full of light bulbs.

The siren gets louder and louder, each rise in volume a herald to its arrival. The screech of the siren pulses like a nightmarish heart-beat. The tightening in my stomach is going again, I feel like it’s a countdown. I’ve been sitting here assuming it’s an ambulance, but what if it’s the police? The feared and distrusted police… Is that bad? Should I care that it’s the police? I need quiet and solitude. The doubt and sirens are a horrible and hindering obstacle.

Something runs around in my head saying that if you’re running somewhere and fall down, you should only think about the pain when you’re done running, when you have time to tend to the grazes, when you’ve got to the end and allow yourself some quiet and solitude. This is all that’s keeping me together right now, the potential promise of finding quiet and solitude, my land of sanctuary

I test my legs and tense them. They can hold me? They can hold me. I’m standing before anyone notices or cares to react. No matter the rest of me, my legs work for now.

Irish and Miss Poodle-Face break off from their bickering over my well being, and whether Irish should be arrested, to take in the sight of me in my standing upright in my full height. I look down- I’m taller than I thought I was.

Everything seems slightly less disorienting and intimidating. Although I must say I emphasis ‘less’ in the previous sentence, ‘less’ in that it hasn’t gone away altogether, or even half-way.

“What the hell?” Says Irish, raising a surprised and questioning eye-brow. “Looks like you came out on top. Just like I said you would kiddo!” Irish turns to Miss Poodle-Face and winks at her to show who he’s really to talking to. He exhales heavily. His shoulders lower and relax.

“You are ridiculous!” Miss Poodle-Face retorts, her nasal tone becoming more edged and disagreeable. “I give you a bit of heart-felt advice and you blindingly ignore it! You should have stayed on the floor! You youngsters, I don’t know…” She trails off as she finishes her thought. ”You pay no attention to the elders of today, do you…? Psshhh.”

Kiddo? Youngster? How old am I?

“Back in my day, we used to know that older people were right, even if they were wrong. What happened to respect? Doing what you were told? Don’t you believe in society?” Asks Miss Poodle-Face.

“Ach! What are you flapping about?” Responds Irish, apparently on my behalf. “There ain’t no such thing as society. It’s everyone for themselves. Haven’t you got a bus recently?”

“Certainly not one you’ve been driving,” spits Miss Poodle-Face.

“Too good for buses are you? Rather walk on your Jack Jones, or get a taxi by yourself would you?”

“If it means not having to deal with your type of people, then I’ll avoid all the buses in the world.”

While Irish and Miss Poodle-Face argue I stand back; still and silent on the outside, anything but on the inside. I’m faced with unanswerable questions. Important and evaporated answers lie behind me crumpled up on the floor a few minutes prior, in an incarnation I may never know again. I’ve woken here with nothing but I can’t let these brutes know.

I’m wary of everything, from the shine coming off the windows as they reflect the street lamps to the strangly, silver chest- hair coming over Irish’s dirty white vest. I think I can see a small stain of something yellow on there. Egg maybe? Does it matter?

Stay focused, dammit. My thoughts drift like a drunk on a motorway. I feel so groggy, standing here listening to two people who are convinced they’re both right about something I can’t be bothered listening to. I hate to admit it but the old lady may have been right, I should have stayed lying down. I’m sore for sure, and dizzy to compound the matter. Is that a concussion I hear rolling round? I don’t want these people to get the drop on me. A survival instinct of sorts, a deep paranoia, exists in me but I have no idea why. What do I need to defend against? I’ve done something, I know I have. I don’t know what, but I have. Anxiety and paranoia meet somewhere inside me, shake hands, get comfortable, and share a coffee. In all this confusion, in all this chaos of people shouting and allocating blame and guilt, I know I’m guilty of something, and so the question becomes not am I guilty but what am I guilty of? Jumping the gun perhaps…

My thoughts are driving and digging deep in to the multitude of quarries nestling in my mind, trying to come up with answers to battle the constant torrent of questions I assault myself with. I’m buckling under the pressure. For one all too brief moment there is release and I feel my eyes tip backwards and my body go limp. My body goes to crash, but unfortunately there is a lack of luck and I recover and steady myself. I need quiet and solitude. Quiet and solitude. I need to get home, where is home? Home is where the heart is. Where is my heart? My love? My passions? What of my moral compass? At which direction does it point? North or South? Up or Down? Am I Jehovah or Lucifer? Am I straight or gay? I don’t feel gay, what does being gay feel like I wonder? Does it feel like me? Jesus, keep focused anything could…

The sirens? Where are they? Are they for me? They must be, I’m the sick one.

I’m startled by a sudden squeeze. A hand rests on my shoulder. It’s a large hand with an authoritative grip. I twist my neck and see a dark sleeve with stripes on it.

“Are you OK, sir?”

It’s a deep, authoritative tone – I don’t like it.

Turning around, I see it’s a police officer. The summation of my fears stands before me and sees fit to have grown a moustache. It sits on the top of his lip uncomfortably, nestling like a cat under his nose. It looks like a prop of sorts- an unwieldy shield of prickly inappropriateness. Tom Selleck can carry it off, but not this guy. He’s as creepy as Tony Danza in a Village People tribute act. Why the hell do I know them and not my name?

“I feel OK, officer. Just a bump I think,” I lie through my teeth. Sanctuary, where is my sanctuary?

The Officers’ eyes squint, focusing in to mine. Am I a good liar? I think I would’ve believed me. Am I gullible though?

Save for the moustache, the officer is not unusual looking. He has a very normally proportioned nose and although his eyes look tired he could be anybody else except for the moustache. It’s very well-maintained, like a caterpillar bonsai tree.

“You okay there sir? You look confused.” Asks Officer Tony Danza.

“No, no.” I say, praying I’m a good liar. “I was just thinking.”

“Good, because I have a few questions,” Officer Tony Danza says. He looks down and his hand drifts towards his baton. “How do you feel? I thought you got hit hard. Do you know what happened?”

Officer Tony Danza reaches in to his pocket and pulls out a notebook and pen. He grips it weakly. It looks like he’s done this so often, with such frequency, that the ability to summon up some energy or enthusiasm to hold the pen has escaped him. It’s burrowed away deep within him maybe, subdued by years of repetition. All this from how he holds a pen? Speculation and Paranoia, my two best friends…

“Sir, do you know what happened to you?”

He stares me down and waits for me to speak. All eyes on me, I mustn’t buckle.

“I was running and I think… I… Just ran in to the road and got hit by a car.” Shit, I stumbled on my speech. The weakness shows, all is lost. No, short-term salvation is possible; I must watch my speech. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You’re standing, I notice.” Officer Tony Danza is a sharp one. “I’m not sure if that was the wisest thing to do. You never know how you might be injured. I was speaking to a guy, a fella who works for the ambulance service. Told me about this guy who fell over, cracked his skull on the pavement, felt fine but the next day fell over dead. Gentlemen had a brain aneurysm would you believe?”

“I think you might’ve been speaking about my Grandson.” Comes Miss Poodle-Hairs’ off-key voice.

Officer Tony Danza turns and his grip tightens on the pen.

“He died of the brain aneurysm?” Asks Officer Tony Danza.

“No, no. My Grandson’s the ambulance man you spoke to, told me exactly the same story.” She says, and then halts as soon as she finishes the sentence. Her face tightens, each nerve suddenly lighting up. Her pupils seem wider. She looks like she knows she should have stayed quiet. The world is at war with itself and one wrong move you’re on a social minefield. One slip of the tongue and you’re the first against the wall.

“Really, Madam? Small world isn’t it?” Danza smiles, but it’s not reassuring. “How’s your other Grandson? His brother? What’s he up to nowadays?” He asks.

“Not much, Officer, not much.” ‘Not much I can mention,’ she seems one degree away from saying. She may have the hair of a poodle but something tells me she has the bite of a pit-bull. How deep does her façade of sorts run? Does she know me?

Officer Tony Danza flips open his notebook and starts to scribble things down. Miss Poodle-Hairs apparent spine of steel shrinks away. She looks likes she’s supported by weak kindling, waiting and hoping for it to ignite and take her away. She stays quiet as Danza mutters things in to the radio on his lapel, the words muffled and hidden.

“I’ll be asking you some more questions in a minute, sir,” says Danza to me.

My mind is still pursuing all these questions that it cannot answer for now. The paranoia and suspicion may be well grounded, but the foundation it is built on is weak and hungry for affirmation.

There’s something in my pocket, rubbing against my thigh. Unconsciously I’ve been shifting from one side to the next and only now I’ve noticed because of the persistent rubbing. I reach down in to my pocket, the back of my hand brushing against the precise machine stitching of my jeans. I can feel something, a wallet I think- a lamp I can rub and make a wish to the Genie inside. My first wish? My name. My second? My address. My third and final wish? A little money never goes amiss. I pull it out and a wallet full of dreams and wish fulfilment appears. I ease the cheap velcro open. The ripping sound as it opens sounds like lightening crackling through the air. I open it carefully. There’s silence as I ease it apart, feeling the potential shine across my face. Salvation…

Officer Tony Danza’s eyes still focus tightly on Miss Poodle-Hair, his moustache rustling. “You know they want to talk to your son about some things, the guys at the station. Don’t worry, it’s the ones behind the desk, so don’t worry yourself. At least not for the moment. Ha-Ha!” He laughs and his moustache jumps up and down on his face, wriggling.

I look down and there’s some money in my wallet, a twenty and a ten pound note. I kiss the angel on my shoulder. She smiles and blushes.

“There are things a lot worse than my Grandson, Officer.” Says Miss Poodle-Hair.

Michael Trevanon. My name is Michael Trevenon, It says it there on my driving licence.

“I know that, Madam. The problem here is that he knows the worst kind of people, things seem to happen around here and his name just keeps cropping up,” says Officer Tony Danza.

The street lamps send a shivering light across the card, across my address. As a bonus I can feel keys in my back pocket.

“That may be as it is but truthfully, I haven’t spoken a word to him in 3 months.” Her eyes sharpen and Officer Tony Danza mirrors her. They stand there for a second trading looks, each urging the other to snap. Finally…

“Well, if I see him I’ll tell him to give you a ring. Nothing more shameful than a son who doesn’t speak to his mother,” says Officer Tony Danza, and backs down. He smiles apologetically, blinks and looks around to me. “So what’s your story then? I think we were interrupted.”

An undercurrent of certainty rides with me now. I know my name. Though it may be a shallow stretch of tide to anchor in, it’s the only harbour I can see right now.

“I got hit by a car because I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Be certain, leave no doubt for this enemy to cling to.

“Sir, can I take your name first?” Officer Tony Danza’s body straightens and he drops his head slightly, looking at me forehead-first.

“Michael Travenon, my name is Michael Travenon.”

Officer Tony Danza scribbles away in his notebook impassionedly.

Miss Poodle-Hair shifts uncomfortably, sucking her lips in. Over the shoulder of Officer Tony Danza I can see his partner is talking to Irish. I can over-hear a ‘B’Jesus’ from Irish. I can’t see the other pliceman too well, do I need glasses?

“I got hit by the Irish guy they tell me. To tell you the truth I can’t remember too much about it. Just woke up with a bunch of people staring over me. I’m not reliable as an eye witness.” I say.

“I’m not worrying about that just now; I just want to check on your condition. The ambulance will be here soon,” Officer Tony Danza informs me.

“How come you guys arrived first?” I ask.

“People tend to move out the way faster if you can arrest them, sir,” he says dead-pan. “Now, can you go over with me how you feel? Any bruises, broken bones?”

I have a gaping hole where my memory should be, a constantly expanding sense of paranoia. I’m also working on a soon to be over-filling sense of nausea the longer I speak with you, Officer Tony Danza, but no, nothing broken.

“I feel fine, I guess. I took the punch pretty well.” I tell him, nodding towards Irish.

“Course you did son! That’s what I told ‘em ! No need for all this malarky!” shouts over Irish.

“Ignore him. Just tell us what you want to tell us.”

“There’s not much I can tell you. All I know I’ve told you. I’m sorry I can’t be much more help. To tell you to the truth, you’d probably be able to get more information from the lady you spoke to.”

The art of redirection, its echoes and influence so familiar, feels like a well-worn patch sown tightly on to my soul.

Officer Tony Danza turns his moustachioed gaze back to Miss Poodle-Hair.

“How much did you see, Madam?”

“The whole incident.” She turns to me with a quizzical look on her face. “Sorry my dear, but what did you say your name was?”

“Michael Travenon.” I reply.

“Never heard of you,” Says Miss Poodle-Hair. “You look familiar though.”

Officer Tony Danza’s grip on his pen tightens again.

“Do you know her, Mr Trevenon? Have you two crossed paths?” asks Officer Tony Danza.

Time stops for a second. I instinctively go to say no but then I halt, hinder, trip and stop myself. Do I know her? I wait for her to proffer the information to Officer Tony Danza. I want to get out of here as soon as possible but with as little hassle as can be avoided, so I stay still like a cornered frog, waiting for the situation to play out in front of me. I wait for her to speak to me, to say a little bit more about who I am.

Her eyes linger on my face. “No. No, I don’t know him, Officer. You must have one of those faces.” And with that she turns away.

Even if I know nothing else, I know I don’t know her. Or at the very least I know she says she doesn’t know me. Truthfully speaking, that’s all I know. Certainty is a scarce resource.

Officer Tony Danza turns to me. I see a drop of water hit the badge on his police-hat. It trickles slowly down on to the brim and disperses along the plastic on the edge, Danza doesn’t notice it. “Are you sure you’re OK? Does it hurt when you turn your head?” He asks very forthrightly, very routine-like.

“No, really Officer, truthfully, I mean it. Somehow I got out totally unscathed,” I say.

I’m getting a little tired of this, my paranoia growing with every reinforcement I have to make about my condition, about how I feel. My body is unscathed, but my mind… me… is missing, but they can’t see that. They mustn’t. One wrong move and you’re the first against the wall.

Another drop of water hits Officer Tony Danza’s hat. It trickles down and falls off the rim of his police-hat but he misses it completely.

There’s a click on the radio and a scratchy, breathless voice hums through the radio. It’s a woman reciting a reminder for all available units to attend a fire in progress and provide assistance to the fire-service. Officer Tony Danza exhales a tired and exasperated moan. He’s a tired man is Officer Tony Danza.

As the radio voice fizzles out it begins to rain. The rain-drops fall, splashing on Officer Tony Danza’s police-hat. He tilts his gaze upwards and at last acknowledges the rain.

“Damn it to hell, it’s raining. ”How far away from here do you live?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply “I’m not too familiar with this side of town.” I show him my driving licence while a rain-drop catches me awkwardly on the neck, rolling down the length of my spine.

“That’s quite a distance,” he says

He holds himself still for a few moments. For a second I think he’s looking at the card, checking it – Danza’s eyes are empty however. Then I realise he’s not looking at the driving licence at all, he’s looking straight through it, lost in his thoughts.

“Really I should have you stay here and wait for the ambulance.” He says. He then sucks in his left cheek in consideration, the side of his moustache crinkling as it turns up. “But you say you feel fine?”

I nod as nonchalantly as I can.

“If it’s OK with you sir, I’m going to call off the ambulance, send it to the fire where it’s needed. I’m also going to offer you a lift back to your place; I got better things to do than fight a fire in this soon-to-be pouring rain.”

“What about your partner?”

I turn round and he’s by another police car that’s snuck up, they’re talking to Irish. All I can hear are his frustrated Irish tones protesting his innocence to the accompanying police statements.

“He can take a lift with the other boys. I don’t want to go to the fire, I can’t do anything there anyhow. What am I going to do? There are enough of them there already to say there’s nothing to see in front of a burning building, enough to speak to television reporters and enough of them to watch the bodies coming out burned in to God know what position. Not tonight, not if I can avoid it.” He sighs. “You need a lift? Or you wanna go to the hospital?”

Officer Tony Danza looks at me waiting for a reply. It seems that the question is rhetorical. Not the hospital, I want to go home, I want to find sanctuary.

I hesitate for a moment but it doesn’t matter, we both know what I’m going to say so I offer him a solitary nod with an acknowledging grunt, then we start wandering towards his police car. He gives a sinisterly courteous “Thank you, madam, see you soon,” to Miss Poodle-Hair.

Before I’ve even begun to ponder my situation and whether I’ve done the right thing, I’m in the front seat of a police-car and tell myself that at least it’s better than sitting in the back.

As I settle, before I’ve glanced around, the first thing that strikes me is the smell. There’s a strangulating smell of coffee and cigarettes, the food of the enemy. There’s a few chewing-gum wrappers wrinkled, torn and discarded over the floor. It’s warmer than outside, though still my paranoia runs riot round me. I’ve been accepted on to the chariot of my foe, but how long can this charade last?

I hear the creaking of the car door opening and Officer Tony Danza steps in. He clicks on his safety-belt and starts the car. The engine rumbles over the tapping of the rain. I turn to see Miss Poodle-Hair, standing outside on the pavement, pulling her green coat tightly around herself, staring down at the ground, her thoughts lost to somewhere I don’t have time to contemplate.

We start to drive to my home, hoping desperately it will give me a respite from this crushing pressure.

The rain is coming down faster now, bouncing off the wind-shield of the car, each drop exploding as it hits the glass. Occasionally the shards of rain crash in to one another, ricocheting and bouncing down, reforming in pools on the ground, washing the streets clean. Come morning the rain and puddles will be gone, evaporated by the sun in to the morning clouds, then at some point, soon maybe, there will be another storm and the process will start over.