'Under Margaret Thatcher, the government had decided to build a network of new motorways and trunk roads in order to realise her dream of universal driving. Hers was a programme not just to facilitate car ownership, but also to close down the alternatives.

We fought for Solsbury Hill because of what it was, what it represented. It was one of the few quiet places in a corner of England that was becoming ever noisier; a scene of slow beauty, of rough pasture, elder coverts and dense hedges, capped with an ancient hill fort. It epitomised the places we were losing to development in every county.'

– George Monbiot

 

'There's still a few sad bastards who like country and clean air.'

– P.A.I.N, 'Beltane'

 

I've disturbed one of the ant nests, my blood red DM knocking off the top third of their grassy fort. A reflection of the hill, spilled soil and pissed off yellow ants boiling up from the earth. A premonition in miniature. Fuck. Indra laughs, you're supposed to be an environmental protestor, and here you are kicking the shit out of an ants nest. Thanks love, I think, but I chuckle along with her, as the golden insects swarm in irritation over the ox-blood leather. One of them disappears down the inside of my boot; I whip it off in alarm, Indra laughing all the time. I find the ant, but it's crushed, dead, by the time I get it out. Sorry sunshine.

Indra knows a fair bit about the plants and animals, we’ve been out on the hill, her showing me what’s what. I asked her to show me, I want to know. The sky is eggshell blue. That’s a vetch, she says as I tug my muddy DM back on with difficulty. Little purple pink flowers. A pastel blue butterfly with black frilling round its wings flaps languidly in the late spring sunshine. A Chalkhill Blue, she says immediately. I like Indra. We carry on, back to camp, her pointing out flora and fauna of interest, me taking mental note, willing myself to know more. She tells of the time she saw muntjac in the woods of Bedfordshire, of escaped wallabies in the Peak District. I’m quite new to the protest.

The sun’s going down on the hill. I can see a few hard-hats off in the distance, a couple of coppers too, a slow storm gathering. When I get a moment spare I’m reading up on this place. Solsbury Hill. Couldn’t say I knew much about it before. I’m a London lad, barely been out to the West Country before, I might’ve been taken as a kiddie by the old man but I’m not sure. We normally went farther afield, camping in the middle of bleedin nowhere. Good cider round here. Funny accents. The hill feels ancient, lying here dreaming of its days as an Iron Age hill fort. One of the other guys, an older hippie bloke called Jed, he’s clever as fuck and knows the kind of stuff I’m into, he’s lent me this book, The Hill of Dreams, by some taffy called Arthur Machen. Good stuff, what I’ve read so far. So much that I still need to read, to learn, to do.

We’re near Bath. We went for a trip there for supplies, some cooking equipment, big pouches of duty free baccy, some bevvies. Nice place, reminded me of Canterbury, of York, all those other heritage cities sitting in the shadows of their history. Gaggles of European teenagers being herded around town by their clipboard wielding elders, fat Yanks snapping away furiously as if the scenery would disappear any moment.

Jed tells me of how Arthur led his Britons, here by the hill, against the invaders from Saxony, going down in legend. The story felt familiar as he told it. Another fight is coming.

That cunt Peter Gabriel wrote a ‘spiritual song’ about this place, reaching number thirteen in the British charts back in 1977. There are more punks here than Genesis fans, from what I can see. I fucking hate Genesis. The villages of Swainswick and Batheaston continue their sleepy existence below the hill, so bloody English, their protector now threatened by the motorcar, the automobile that will become compulsory, rendering pedestrians obsolete, ramblers sad folk of the past, cyclists an eccentric sub-culture fighting a doomed fight. We get told we’re standing in the way of progress. Some of the villagers don’t want the road either, they tell us. They do drive, though. The automobile’s self-fulfilling prophecies as it motors ever forward. More cars? We need more roads. More roads? We better get a car. The meadow ants on the grassy hill are unconcerned by such arguments.

A moribund Celtic Earth Mother, Sulis, gave her name to this hill. Indra tells me she was worshipped at the thermal springs in Bath, a place the Romans called Aquae Sulis. They conflated her with Minerva, tangling history and culture. I named one of the small black piglets we keep as pets after her. Sulis, that is. What have the Romans ever done for us, we would joke. It confused those other pigs, the fat wheezing ones who looked baffled and amused by our presence. They are ignorant of their history. The younger ones, angry stupid looking men with, yes, porcine eyes, stare silently. Grunt when spoken to, these keepers of the peace. They look at me like they wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire. The feeling’s mutual.

The Government talk of Britain’s grand past. It seems hollow. Especially the mutterings of The Witch, no longer in the seat of power but with her legacy all around, cut into the Earth, open wounds long to heal. The scar legacies, a capitalist cicatrix. How could her talk be reconciled with what they wanted to do to the country. Rip open our history, perforate the land’s memory, tarmac over any dissent in the great rush to progress. Assume that everyone wants what they say, or better still, tell them that they do. They want to be Americans, listening to Springsteen, driving down Route 66 or something. I like The Boss, but I am English.

It rains, like it does in England. I am up in the trees, working with rope, creating temporary shelters and tree-houses that my child-self would marvel at. It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but sometimes I can really feel them, alive. Well, they are alive, I know that. I can’t say what I mean. The old words won’t fully form. It sounds like stupid hippy shit when it does come out, even to myself. I wish I could express myself better. When I am up there in the canopy, I keep thinking of ‘The Parliament of Trees’ from Swamp Thing. I am a big comic book fan. I often wonder why people seemed to be able to accept these radical ideas of environmentalism, earth elementals, the force of nature, in fantasy, folk lore and fiction, but not apply this to their own lives. To reality. People dismiss these impulses, though it clearly has, pardon the expression, taken root in the human psyche. I’m willing to make fun of myself. But there is truth there. Everything we have, that we are, comes from the land in some way and to destroy that for the sake of a faster journey down a dual carriageway…madness. Insanity reigns. The great rush to nowhere. Build your way out of a problem, dig to freedom. Soon the only places we will be able to buy food from will be in the giant out-of-town supermarkets, only accessible by road. The car becomes necessity, personal choice strangled and put in line. Drive or starve.

I do not own a car.

Of course, I arrived at the site by bus, and yes that came by road. I’m not saying that we don’t need roads. I’m not. Only a moron would say such things, but there has to come a point when some people, even a minority like us, say enough is enough. In a way, we’re the conservatives. I remember, a few years ago, a film nut friend of mine showing me a mock-doc, Punishment Park. In it, a bearded American man, pounded by unforgiving sun and hunted by men of the law, says something quite profound that stuck with me. I’m paraphrasing of course, you can’t get the bloody thing on VHS, but he says something like: At some point in history the honourable thing to do may be to be a policeman, a soldier, a judge. Right now I feel the only honourable thing to be is a criminal.

He says this with no joy, just weary resignation.

Tonight is Beltane. People vary on the spelling. Indra tells me The Old Irish spelling of it is Belltaine, or Beltaine. We Anglicised it, mixed it with up May Day. But none of those dodgy old geezers dressed up in green and white for us, no way. Today we’re having a party. A celebration. I had sat and smoked as Indra and others worked on the poster, to be later photocopied and handed out wherever it could. I handed them out in Bath and in Bristol. An old lady with purple rinse hair told me to get a job. Some first year student girls in grunge T-shirts, they were pretty fit, showed some interest. Yes, we went by car.

BELTAIN ENVIROMENTAL FAYRE. GATHERING OF THE TRIBES ‘94

Home-made and rough hewn, every available bit of space was crammed with handwritten information. A professional designer would disapprove.

THE SPIRIT OF TWYFORD DOWN GETS EVER STRONGER

In the centre of the poster sat an image of what looked like, to me, the Green Man, a Jack in the Green. Stupidly I thought about the Swamp Thing again. Although it could have just as easily been some sort of sun deity. Sulis? I didn’t know. It did look impressive though, and felt like it was the appropriate image.

PROTECT THE HILLFORT

EMPOWER YOURSELF

The day was warm, sunny. People were camped, chatting. Some travellers arrived, some of the Dongas too. They were the ones who’d been at Twyford Down in ‘92, protesting the Winchetser bypass that destroyed in its wake two SSSIs, two ancient monuments and one Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. One of the most protected areas in England yet in two years reduced to a mere motorway. Insanity reigns. I spoke to some of the Dongas. Nice people, by and large. They told me, when I asked like a awestruck little boy, they took their name from ancient system of track ways that used to crisscross the country. Leys. I could remember seeing them on the TV in my mum’s place in Islington. They travelled in an ancient way, slow, human in scale, they said. They said the opposed the inhumanity of the motorcar. I agreed with them on that point. The crazy Earth First! Fuckers had been involved as well. I didn’t know what I thought of them. I wasn’t much good in a scrap.

Like I’ve said, I’m a big comic book fan. I love the Hellblazer comics that involved the New Age travellers, disruptions of ley-lines by the Tories in order to disrupt the land’s power, and an Earth spirit called ‘Jallantilliokan’. Bullshit, mostly, but a lot of fun. It taught me about the Beanfield, the travellers, police bastards. Stupid, but there you go. School never taught me these things. Two intertwining dragons, elementals, bursting forth from northern Scottish seas, it was compelling to my teenage self. Relevant fantasy to sink into, which fed, a little, into my own life. Or I took it and ran with it, one of the two.

Some of us here in the camp refer to us, collectively, as ‘internal refugees’. Indra says it a lot, almost like a mantra. I try and untangle what that means as I sleep near the stars, rope and tarp for a roof. I am agile and good up in the trees. We are settling, those of us who can, up here in an attempt to halt the oncoming destruction. They can’t take the trees until they take us. Some of the older guys here sing the Specials tune ‘Monkey Man’ at me whilst I’m clambering up into the branches. It makes me laugh.

I wonder where all this will end, shivering in the damp, smoking endless rollups. I am mud spattered, bedraggled. My hair needs washing and my beard is expanding in all directions. People, my parents included, would say I was crazy. I am twenty one years old. I lie awake in the trees, looking at the stars, thinking of when my old man took me and my brother round Blean Woods in Kent. To Pegwell Bay. The White Cliffs of Dover. He’s probably responsible for me being here. I smile when I think this, at what he’d say to that.

Today is Beltane, everyone’s busy getting ready for the celebrations. Old Tom has his cider stall set up near the bottom of the hill, strong scrumpy for a pound a pint. I’ve downed a couple as the day has progressed, I’m feeling a bit woozy in the pounding heat. It’s a good day for it, weather-wise. Perfect, even. People are slowly arriving in vans, on foot, in groups, alone, teenagers, great big bearded men, punks, hippies, a couple of goth looking types, some acid casualties, ravers, a few people from the villages come to check out what’s what, students, travellers, a whole gamut. There must be a few plainclothes here too, as well as the small but noticeable police presence. Fuck them, I don’t want to think about it, not today.

I’m up in the trees again, I like it up here, especially today. I can see everything coming together, the English countryside unrolling before me, the crowd thickening, the bonfire for later being built, it’s fucking massive, it’ll quite a sight when it’s aflame. Jed is here with me, it took him a while to get up here but he’s not in bad shape for a feller pushing forty. He’s catching his breath, building a big spliff, looking up at the eggshell blue sky, as a butterfly flits around us. I remember something from Indra’s tutelage. A Meadow Fritillary, I tell him. He smiles and continues working on the spliff. Jed is wearing a ridiculous multi-coloured tye-dyed hippy T-shirt. I take the piss out of it, he responds in kind. That punk shit that you wear, honestly. A load of old noise. He’s a good feller. We sit up in the canopy and talk of forgotten books, parliaments of trees, Jallantilliokan, Arthur Machen, John Cowper Powys, Thatcher, the Tories, a few personal anecdotes, parts of the country we love, nature, the Green Man, Sulis, how we’re looking forward to tonight, what drugs we have on us, who we know that’s coming,. We know that bad times are coming. We keep the conversation positive.

An exaltation of skylarks launch themselves from one of the neighbouring trees, tiny bodies whirling through the air in search of an insect lunch. They are in decline, being wiped out by modern agricultural practice.

Indra appears at the bottom of the tree.

‘Oi, Ewoks, are you coming down? We could do with a hand setting up some of the stalls.’ She is laughing as she says this.

‘Alright, keep your wig on, we’re coming’ shouts Jed in reply. ‘Ten minutes, yeah?’

Indra agrees and saunters off. I watch her as her figure grows smaller, before being swallowed up by the ever growing crowd. Somewhere, the dull bass thump of a sound-system has started up. Jed lights the spliff, his head shrouded in white smoke. We share it, as we watch a small piece of history amass at our feet, and further in the distance the police, security in blue hardhats, behind them the roads alive with endless traffic, the villages, jeopardised trees and green, tarmac and swelling towns, all of England.

Tonight’s Beltain. This is our day of celebration. If everything else goes wrong, if JCB and the diggers come and tear us apart, we will always have this.

 

 

Gary Budden is the co-editor of the upcoming anthology Hackney: Acquired for Development By…, and currently editorial assistant at Ambit magazine.

For four years he co-ran Out of Step Promotions, who put on an eclectic mix of punk, ska, folk, hip-hop and spoken word, in venues ranging from massive crumbling squats to the intimate settings of bookshops and cafes.

He has worked for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival, Richmond Literature Festival and the British Film Institute.

He has written for Stalking Elk, The Flaneur, Menacing Hedge, Canary Magazine, Whippersnapper Press, Brain Cloud, Distorted Magazine, Cigarette Burns, Hackney Hive and Hackney Citizen.

He loves punk rock, literature, and being a vegetarian. He lives in London.

 

It is winter, and the sharp air reddens my face as I walk to the railway station. My cheeks blush as the blood circles around inside my body. My nose runs and I wipe my face against the soft sleeve of my cardigan. My hands are in a cheap pair of black gloves. As I walk, I pick at a loose thread of cotton on the cuff of my left glove and I can feel the cold worm its way through the poor cotton weave and begin to nip nip nip at my skin. I breathe into my cupped hands and this warms me for a moment until the cold wriggles back in.

When I get to the station I sit down on the cold stone wall and wait for my train. I blow the air out from my lungs and watch as a cloud comes out from my mouth. It swims around and then drifts off to join the cigarette smoke from the man next to me. He glances my way and then returns to his habit. Once more I create a cloud, and then begin to rub my gloved hands together.

Looking around, I see tired faces. People who didn’t have time for their morning coffee yawn and stretch. I catch a yawn from a well-dressed woman and cover my mouth with my hand. I play a game to pass the time until my train arrives. It’s called ‘Guess How Old Each Waiting Person Is’. Cigarette Man looks around 40, so I guess he’s actually about 35. Well-dressed Woman looks like she’s almost 50, but she’s one of those women you can tell was beautiful when she was younger. It hasn’t completely left her face yet. The man standing behind her looks like he could snap in the wind. He is frail, and looks as old as the Earth.

I notice a girl standing at the other end of the platform. She is slim and of average height. She kicks a stone off the platform and onto the rail track. I watch her scuff scuff scuff her leather boots along the dirty ground for a moment. She has a plain baby-face, but I reckon she is about 18. I remember going to school for the first time and being scared of people older than me. The big boys doing their exams. Now it’s my turn to do my exams. I’m doing my Standard Grades this year, but I don’t feel like a big boy yet. I wonder if the girl is a student at University. She has a folder, and I wonder what is inside. Books? Paintings? Top-secret documents? Maybe she is a spy. She doesn’t look like a spy, but then again the best spies never do.

She reaches for the inside pocket of her jacket. It is a nice jacket. Long and dark. It looks cosy. I hope she is warm. She isn’t wearing gloves though, and I think her hands must be chilly. As she feels inside her jacket I wonder what she is looking for. Maybe a walkie-talkie to get in touch with HQ? Maybe a pistol. I wonder who she is going to shoot.

She pulls out a train ticket. She must be a very good spy. Good spies don’t blow their cover by pulling guns and walkie-talkies out in broad daylight. I hope she is going to the same place as me. A train pulls in, slowly and noisily. I cover my ears from the noise. This is not my train. This train is going to Dunblane and I am not.

Cigarette Man quickly stubs his habit out on the wall and boards the train. Well-dressed Woman checks the timetable and relaxes. This is not her train either. She sees me looking at me and has an odd expression on her face that I don't understand. I keep looking at her and she tells me to 'F off', which is rude. The Man as Old as the Earth does not move. Maybe he has died. I wonder if you can die standing up.

I keep looking round and see that the spy girl is getting on the Dunblane train. Maybe she has an exhibition for her paintings, or maybe she’s going to kill a rival spy. I feel as dead as the Earth-Old Man.

*

It is still winter, and the air is getting colder every day. It is colder than it was yesterday, and I am wearing a different scarf because this scarf is thicker. I pick at a loose thread on the cuff of my left glove as I walk to the station. The air is trying really hard to get at my hands today, squeezing through the gaps in my gloves. This makes them sore. Or numb. Or both. I wiggle my fingers but they don’t move very much. I count them to make sure they’re all still there. One two three four five twice. They are all still there.

I use some of my sore numb fingers to get my train ticket out of my pocket. Today I almost bought a ticket to Dunblane, but decided not to. As I look at the little ticket I am holding in my 10 fingers – 8 fingers and 2 thumbs – I sit down on the cold stone wall and wait for my train. I look around the station, and recognise some of the people.

Cigarette Man is here, puffing on his cigarette and coughing every now and again. I wonder if it’s the smoke or the cold that is making him cough. I bet it’s the smoke. It’s bad for your insides. Worse than the cold, anyway. Well-dressed Woman is looking very well-dressed. I think she will get a promotion because she looks like a good businesswoman. I wonder if she is very rich. I bet she is very rich. The Man as Old as the Earth is not here this morning. He probably died yesterday. You can die standing up, I decide.

A girl walks past me, carrying a folder. It is the spy girl with the leather boots and no gloves and the plain baby-face. She looks nice and warm today. She goes and stands at the other end of the platform and looks around like I am doing. I wonder what she is thinking. She’s probably looking for other spies. I pretend to be a spy and talk into my watch. My watch is my walkie-talkie. HQ tells me my mission and I say “over and out”. Cigarette Man gives me a funny look. I would shoot him but then everyone would know I am a spy.

A train pulls up at the platform and I cover my ears with my sore numb hands. I look at the spy girl with the leather boots and no gloves and the plain baby-face, and she picks up her folder. She is getting on this train and this is the train I want to get on too. My heart beats like a bass drum in my body.

Boom boom.

I stand up.

Boom boom.

I get on the train and she does too.

She is holding on to her folder tightly and I wonder if she regrets not wearing gloves. I don’t like holding things in the cold with no gloves on.

On the train there are no seats. I lean against the wall and hold onto the hand rail as the train pulls away. The pretty girl who probably regrets not wearing gloves stands next to me and I can feel the drummer in my chest hit harder.

BOOM BOOM.

I take off my gloves because the cold air didn’t get on the train with me. The girl and I look around the carriage and I wonder what she is thinking about these people. I wonder if we have the same thoughts and I think we might.

The train bumps violently and the girl reaches back to steady herself. She is reaching for the rail but instead her hand touches mine. I don’t usually like people touching me because I get scared they’re going to hurt me or take me away somewhere bad. Sometimes I get so scared I start to panic and cry or scream. I don’t do that this time though because this time I think I want her to touch my hand. Her skin is very warm and soft. I thought it would be cold because she doesn’t wear gloves but it’s not. She turns and looks at me and smiles. She has wonderful teeth. The enamel is white and her teeth are a good size. Not too big, not too small. I think she has the best smile I have ever seen and I show her mine. I hope she likes mine too. She keeps smiling and I guess this means she does. I think we are falling in love like in books.

We stand falling and smiling for a million years and eventually I decide to say words to her. She beats me to it.

“Let’s play a game,” she says with a kind voice.

“What game?” I ask quickly.

She points across the carriage and I see a big man talking very loudly on his mobile telephone. He is telling someone off because they have been bad.

“Guess how old that man is.”

 

 

Samuel Best graduated from the University of Strathclyde in 2011 with a First in Creative Writing, and is currently working on his debut novel – provisionally entitled Shop Front. Whilst at university, Samuel studied under writers including Rodge Glass, Doug Johnstone, Louise Welsh and David Kinloch, as well as joining the creative writing group to hone his writing and performance skills. Samuel has had extracts from both Shop Front and his dissertation published in Strathclyde’s Keith Wright Memorial Booklet which led to his first appearance at Aye Write! as part of the Strathclyde University Showcase. In his final year Samuel was involved with the set-up of Valve Journal and currently helps run Octavius, a literary magazine for student writers in Scotland.

  

Riley walked from the station and turned into the road that ran up to the cottage. The road was unmarked and dust trailed across from the field. He reached the end of the road, crossed from the shaded trees into the sunlight, and opened the stiff front gate. He brushed his shoes off on the doormat. Reaching for the brass knocker, he noticed the half-moon of sweat under his arm. It was too late to do anything about that.

 

Julie opened the door.

 

‘Hello, Julie,’ he said.

 

She nodded and stepped to one side. He brushed past her and headed through the hallway to the kitchen. The kitchen door was open and light fell onto the floorboards. He knocked twice to seem polite. Then he pushed the door all the way open.

 

His wife was sitting in a wicker chair by the big window. Things were exactly how she’d kept them at home; the net curtains folded an inch above the windowsill, the brown-tipped petals picked from the roses on the oak table and piled next to the vase.

 

‘Mel?’ Riley said. ‘It’s me.’

 

‘Oh,’ she said.

 

She didn’t turn from the window. He took his bag and his jacket and hung them over the pegs on the back of the door. He could hear Julie moving around in the hallway. She came in and walked straight over to the sink. She’d been a school headmistress and you could tell; the painted bead necklace over her polo jumper, the way her chin tilted up when she looked down through her glasses.

 

 

 

Riley pulled a chair over and sat with Mel.

 

‘How are you, darling?’ he asked.

 

She turned away from him.

 

‘I can see the sweat under your arms.’

 

He tried to fold the damp patches of his shirt further under his arms.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. It was a stupid thing to say. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it.’

 

Mel straightened up.

 

‘Where’s Cal?’ Riley asked.

 

‘He’s not here,’ Julie said.

 

‘I was asking my wife.’

 

Julie, as though she hadn’t heard him, carried on.

 

‘He stays behind with his teacher,’ she said. ‘He has to catch up on the work he missed.’

 

‘Did you agree to this, Mel?’

 

Mel picked at a loose button on her cardigan. In about an hour the button would be sewn down; either that or the cardigan out of her sight. It was just her way. When buttons on cardigans came loose, or his hands had the dirty shine and the smell of copper from handling coins, she couldn’t be doing with it.

 

‘Whether she agrees or not doesn’t matter,’ Julie said. She stepped in front of him, blocking the sunlight, and pushed a tea towel into a mug. ‘It’s best for Callum. I thought you’d be happy knowing he’s settling in. Seeing you will only make things worse.’

 

His hands gripped the arm of the wicker chair.

 

‘I’ll wait for him to come back,’ he said.

 

Julie let her glasses hang down on the chain. She walked back to the sink and folded the towel on the draining board. Riley loosened his grip, sat up straight and faced Mel. Her hair was pulled back very tight into a bun, but a loose strand had fallen from behind her ear. Riley raised a hand to guide it back but, as soon as the rough tip of his finger touched her soft skin, she snapped her hand up to the side of her face.

 

‘No,’ she said.

 

‘Mel,’ Riley said. ‘Come on now.’

 

‘Please.’

 

‘Mel you’re my wife,’ he said. ‘I should be allowed to touch my own wife.’

 

‘I’m not ready.’

 

Her hand was still guarding her face, tight and rigid, the bones sticking out beneath her skin.

 

‘Can we at least talk about it?’

 

There was the smell of the garden and the field coming in through the window.

 

‘We could go outside,’ Riley said. ‘We can talk about it there, by ourselves.’

 

Mel, relaxing her fingers, placed her hand back on the armrest.

 

‘I’m not ready,’ she said.

 

 

 

He tried not to push her, but he couldn’t keep it in much longer. Cal would be back soon. He’d come running in, his rucksack almost as big as him, and there they would be – husband and wife and son.

 

‘I want you to come home,’ he said. ‘I want you and Cal to come home. That’s where you should be.’

 

Julie put the tray of tea down heavily on the table, the teaspoons rattling in the mugs.

 

‘What have you been saying to her?’

 

‘I was talking with my wife,’ Riley said, ‘and this is none of your business.’

 

‘This is my house which makes it my business.’

 

‘I’ve had enough,’ Riley said. He stood up and began pacing about, crossing from the floorboards to the tiles. ‘Where is Cal? He should be home by now, even if he is staying late.’

 

The only sound was the clack of his heels on the tiles. He stopped. Mel had her forehead rested on her fingertips and was staring into her lap. There had been times when she couldn’t look at him. He knew that. Now she wouldn’t.

 

‘Where is he?’

 

‘Callum won’t be seeing you today,’ Julie said. There was almost a regretful tone in her voice. Riley opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t pick from the words trying to get out.

 

‘It’s true he’s having extra lessons after school,’ Julie said, ‘but afterwards he’s going to a friend’s house. He won’t be back until tomorrow.’

 

‘You can’t,’ Riley said.

 

He was allowed to see Cal. Staying with Julie was only temporary; he could take Cal back whenever he wanted. Cal was his.

 

‘You can’t,’ he said again, shaking his head. ‘You can’t do that.’

 

‘I don’t think you have any right,’ Julie began.

 

‘I have every right,’ Riley said. ‘Mel, you know I have.’

 

‘It’s best for Callum,’ Julie said.

 

‘Will you let me talk with my wife, please?’

 

Mel was shaking her head slowly. The strand of hair was still out of place. He tried to pick it away from her face but this time she slapped his hand away and shielded herself with her arms.

 

‘Just leave me alone! Please? Will you please?’

 

‘Get out,’ Julie said. ‘Get out now.’

 

 

He only wanted to talk to her. That was all he wanted. He should be allowed to talk to his wife. Julie was guiding him towards the front door. He wanted to talk with his wife. That was all. That was all he wanted.

 

‘Will you let me talk to her, please?’

 

‘No,’ Julie said. ‘Get out.’

 

Mel still crouched over in the chair. Riley took his jacket and his bag from the coat hangers and left.

 

 

 

Outside, he closed the gate behind him and crossed the road back into the shade. He opened his collar and unfastened the two top buttons of his shirt. He ran the back of his hand under his fringe and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. The bag scraped the low stone walls that hemmed him in until the road opened up and began to smooth out.

 

 

 

Through the trees, on the other side, was the open platform of the station. To the right was The Railway Pub, to the left the empty car park. Outside The Railway, a man wearing a denim jacket tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking. He looked over his shoulder through the doorway. Then he sat down at one of the round wooden tables, his hands still shaking, and smoked his cigarette. Riley walked past him and stepped through the turnstiles onto the platform. The platform was cool. He sat down on the wide bench near the wall of the building. It was a few minutes before his muscles began to loosen up.

 

 

 

Two girls, both in their twenties, walked out from the pub and sat further along the bench. The first girl had her wet hair tied back into a ponytail; the second was a little heavier with a thicket of dark curls, holding three books close to her chest.

 

‘The thing is,’ the first girl said, ‘it wasn’t as though nobody saw it.’

 

‘I know,’ the second girl said. She sighed and let her shoulders rise and then drop. ‘I mean, there weren’t many people about, but that’s not the point is it.’

 

 

 

Riley zipped open his bag as though he was looking for something and pretended not to listen.

 

 

 

‘The thing that got me,’ the first girl said, ‘was the noise it made.’ She took the band out of her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. ‘I think he even knew how hard he’d done it. He got right up and went out for a cigarette.’

 

 

 

An announcement came over the speaker by the big clock to say the number twenty-seven would be arriving in ten minutes. It didn’t matter which train came next, as long as he could get on it and it would take him away from this place. The girls moved over to the schedule poster by the entrance.

 

 

 

The man in the denim jacket stepped onto the platform. A tall woman wearing a low-cut top and carrying her shoes by her side followed him. She shouted back through the turnstiles and the boy ran after her. The woman grabbed his hand, half-covered by the sleeves of his jacket, and pointed down the track to the bridge.

 

 

 

‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’ll be coming soon. Then you can stop moaning.’

 

 

 

She threw his arm down and staggered over to the metal seats where the man sat. He had an uncapped bottle of Heineken in his hand. The boy stayed at the edge of the cool shadow from the building. The two girls occasionally looked over their shoulders at the couple. The train was further down the line approaching the bridge. It passed under the bridge and began to slow down. There were four almost empty carriages. The train came to a stop in the station.

 

 

 

Riley sat down in the first seat he came to. He opened the overhead window but there was no wind and the air was hot and close. At least there wasn’t far to go.

 

 

 

The man in denim got on and sat in the seats to Riley’s left with the woman and the boy. The stale smell of beer filled the carriage. The woman threw her shoes on the floor and put her bare feet up. A whistle blew outside and the doors closed. The train bucked twice and started moving slowly. When they were out of the station and had passed under the bridge, the train began to gather pace. It moved faster until it sped through the countryside, passing rows of picket fences bound with wire. Riley closed his eyes and leaned back on the headrest.

 

‘Don’t you start,’ the man said. ‘I’m not having you crying again.’

 

Riley glanced over. The boy didn’t turn from the window.

 

‘Are you crying again?’ the woman said. ‘Are you crying like a little girl?’

 

She stuck her wet bottom lip out and rubbed her eyes with her clenched fists. The man slouched in the chair, a sips worth of beer left in his bottle.

 

‘Don’t ignore your mother,’ he said. He finished the beer and put the bottle between the seats. He leaned over to the boy and gently pushed his shoulder.

 

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Come on now.’

 

The boy raised his hand up to his eyes and then rested it in his lap. The man shook his shoulders and smiled at the woman. She picked up her shoes and waited by the doors. Riley studied the boy’s faint reflection as though it might tell him something about his situation or what he could do about it.

 

 

 

The train was slowing down to the first stop, passing red-brick houses with narrow backyards, the washing lines full of bed sheets. On the other side was a rundown warehouse behind the station building.

 

 

 

The man walked over to the doors and the boy followed him. The woman was leaning against the yellow bars, fastening the straps of her shoes. Riley picked up his things and waited behind them. The man was gripping an overhead rail, the cuffs of his jacket turned back. On his wrist, a copper bracelet had dyed a green strip of skin. Riley put his hand on the rail next to the man’s. The sweat was darkening the shirt under his arms again. It didn’t matter. Nothing like that mattered.

 

 

 

They slowed into the station and came to a stop. The doors opened and he followed the man outside. The sun washed over the station building and the warehouse.  If only there was something he could do. If he could do something, he’d feel a lot better. His body ached to do something. Upstairs in the warehouse, three thick wooden panels had been hammered over a window, the three brilliant blows that sent the room into darkness.

 

 

James Kenny is from Rufford in West Lancashire, England. He is a student of Creative Writing at Liverpool John Moores University and he writes short stories.