Later, beyond recognition of beginnings; of the certain unravelling on the long, unwinding road, nothing happened heading east. She read the back of the seat. She watched rain running down glass. The countryside slid. Wiped her nose on her sleeve. Began the slow-drip. The wake-up call.
A place called Brockwell, a boy of tin got on. She had the last two seats at the back. The bog with the handwritten OUT OF USE. Her bum on this one. Her feet on this one. But, here he comes now, with a wisp of red beard. Black gig bag. Some camo. Whispers something like
Can i sit here?
Gig bag in the overhead. She drew her knees to her head. He sat down.
The early hour wires were stripping away from her. The slow burn fuse. Soon enough she’d be lost in the offing.
In the treeline, her jazz skulked.
Abandoned petrol garage. Where there were once pumps, stumps. The forecourt was buckled. Weeds rooted concrete. No glass, no door. Welcome sign, rotted.
A silver A in a circle of paintspray.
Eddie, sprayed on a wall.
Ever so often, not so often, a band of bland new builds, huddled, shoulder to shoulder, behind chainlink at the edge of the asphalt. Then nothing until the next nowhere town.
Eddie could be fifteen or fifty-three. Anarchy, huh.