whispered.
âWhat are you doing?â she asked.
âI couldnât sleep.â
âWell go back to bed soon, all right?â
I sat there a small while longer, with the talkback radio show talking and arguing with itself at the kitchen table. Octavia filled me that whole night. It made me wonder if she was sitting in her own kitchen, thinking of me.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Either way, I was going there the next day, and the hours were disappearing slower than I thought possible.
I returned to bed and waited. When the sun came up, I got up with it, and gradually, the day passed me by. School was the usual concoction of jokes, complete bastards, shoves and a laugh here and there.
For a few anxious seconds in the afternoon, I wasnât sure what Octaviaâs last name was and feared I might not be able to look her up in the phone book. I was relieved when I remembered. It was Ash. Octavia Ash. When I got the address, I looked the street up on the map and found it to be about a ten minute walk from the station, as long as I didnât get lost.
Before I went, I jumped the fence and gave Miffy a patfor a while. In a way, I was nervous. Nervous as hell. I thought of everything that might go wrong. Train derailment. Not being able to find the right house. Standing outside the
wrong
house. I covered all of it in my mind as I patted the ball of fluff that had rolled over and somehow smiled as I rubbed his stomach.
âWish me luck Miffy,â I said softly as I got up to leave, but all he did was prop himself up and give me a look of
Donât you stop patting me you lazy bastard.
I jumped the fence anyway though, went through the house and left. I left a note saying I might go to Steveâs that night so no-one would worry too much. (The odds were that I might end up there in any case.)
I was wearing the sort of thing I always wear. Old jeans, my black spray jacket, a jersey and my old shoes.
Before I left, I went to the bathroom and tried to keep my hair from sticking up, but thatâs like trying to defy gravity. That hair sticks up no matter what. Thick like dogâs fur, and always slightly messy. Thereâs just never a lot I can do about it.
Besides,
I thought,
I should just try to be like I was yesterday. If I was good enough yesterday I should be good enough today.
It was settled. I was going.
I let the front door slam shut behind me and the fly screen rattle. It was as if each door was kicking me out of the old life Iâd lived in that house. I was being thrown out into the world, new. The broken, leaning gate creaked open, let me out, and I gently placed it shut. I was gone, and from down the street, maybe fifty yards away, I looked back for a second at the house where Ilived. It wasnât the same any more. It never would be. I kept walking.
The traffic on the street waded past me, and at one point, when it all got blocked, a passenger from a cab spat out the window and it landed near my feet.
âChrist,â the guy said. âSorry mate.â
All I did was smile and say, âNo worries.â I couldnât afford to be distracted. Not today. Iâd picked up the scent of a different life, and nothing was going to get me off it. I would hunt it down. I would find its place inside me. I would find it, taste it, devour it. The guy could have spat in my face and I would have wiped it off and kept walking.
There would be no distractions.
No regrets.
It was still afternoon when I made it down to Central Station, bought my ticket and headed for the underground. Platform Twenty-five.
Standing there, I waited at the back of the platform till I felt the cold wind of the train pushing through the tunnel. It surrounded my ears until the roar entered me and slowed to a dull, limping sigh.
It was an old train.
A scabby one.
In the last carriage, downstairs, there was an old man with a radio, listening to jazz music. He smiled at me (a very rare event on any form of public
âWhat are you doing?â she asked.
âI couldnât sleep.â
âWell go back to bed soon, all right?â
I sat there a small while longer, with the talkback radio show talking and arguing with itself at the kitchen table. Octavia filled me that whole night. It made me wonder if she was sitting in her own kitchen, thinking of me.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Either way, I was going there the next day, and the hours were disappearing slower than I thought possible.
I returned to bed and waited. When the sun came up, I got up with it, and gradually, the day passed me by. School was the usual concoction of jokes, complete bastards, shoves and a laugh here and there.
For a few anxious seconds in the afternoon, I wasnât sure what Octaviaâs last name was and feared I might not be able to look her up in the phone book. I was relieved when I remembered. It was Ash. Octavia Ash. When I got the address, I looked the street up on the map and found it to be about a ten minute walk from the station, as long as I didnât get lost.
Before I went, I jumped the fence and gave Miffy a patfor a while. In a way, I was nervous. Nervous as hell. I thought of everything that might go wrong. Train derailment. Not being able to find the right house. Standing outside the
wrong
house. I covered all of it in my mind as I patted the ball of fluff that had rolled over and somehow smiled as I rubbed his stomach.
âWish me luck Miffy,â I said softly as I got up to leave, but all he did was prop himself up and give me a look of
Donât you stop patting me you lazy bastard.
I jumped the fence anyway though, went through the house and left. I left a note saying I might go to Steveâs that night so no-one would worry too much. (The odds were that I might end up there in any case.)
I was wearing the sort of thing I always wear. Old jeans, my black spray jacket, a jersey and my old shoes.
Before I left, I went to the bathroom and tried to keep my hair from sticking up, but thatâs like trying to defy gravity. That hair sticks up no matter what. Thick like dogâs fur, and always slightly messy. Thereâs just never a lot I can do about it.
Besides,
I thought,
I should just try to be like I was yesterday. If I was good enough yesterday I should be good enough today.
It was settled. I was going.
I let the front door slam shut behind me and the fly screen rattle. It was as if each door was kicking me out of the old life Iâd lived in that house. I was being thrown out into the world, new. The broken, leaning gate creaked open, let me out, and I gently placed it shut. I was gone, and from down the street, maybe fifty yards away, I looked back for a second at the house where Ilived. It wasnât the same any more. It never would be. I kept walking.
The traffic on the street waded past me, and at one point, when it all got blocked, a passenger from a cab spat out the window and it landed near my feet.
âChrist,â the guy said. âSorry mate.â
All I did was smile and say, âNo worries.â I couldnât afford to be distracted. Not today. Iâd picked up the scent of a different life, and nothing was going to get me off it. I would hunt it down. I would find its place inside me. I would find it, taste it, devour it. The guy could have spat in my face and I would have wiped it off and kept walking.
There would be no distractions.
No regrets.
It was still afternoon when I made it down to Central Station, bought my ticket and headed for the underground. Platform Twenty-five.
Standing there, I waited at the back of the platform till I felt the cold wind of the train pushing through the tunnel. It surrounded my ears until the roar entered me and slowed to a dull, limping sigh.
It was an old train.
A scabby one.
In the last carriage, downstairs, there was an old man with a radio, listening to jazz music. He smiled at me (a very rare event on any form of public
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