I slipped the phone into one of the inside pockets of the jacket and made my now-unimpeded way through the door. It, like the one above, was clearly built with heft in mind, the difference being that this was close to a hundred years old and not designed specifically for fire exclusion. Out of deference to some honourable vestige of myself, I made the effort to close it quietly, then turned to face the night.
I paused under the porch. A cool, damp breeze touched my face uncertainly. Scents of wet concrete, old fag-ends and drying weeds insinuated themselves. The night smelt shifty, dirty, conspiratorial. Great and marvellous. My paranoia was spreading its unwashed grip across an entire electromagnetic spectrum as well as an entire city.
Next I’d be eyeing lampposts for looking at me funny.
I sniffed and crunched my shoulders briefly, feeling about fifteen. The night snickered at me, cars distantly shushing on the sticky-wet tarmac and street-lamps mocking through a faint aureole of post-precipitation. It was clear that the world outside had been subject to that peculiarly Welsh rain that defies all umbrellas, not through intense, driving horizontalness, but by being too light to fall down properly, a distinctive kind of too-heavy-to-be-called-mist drizzle that actually floats upwards. Just enough damp to irritate, not enough to slicken or soothe. Squeaky windscreen wipers, frizzy hair, constant blinking weather. The night seemed particularly orange somehow, the roads still reflecting and the air lens-like with moisture. I ached for my bed suddenly, and the miles between here and it seemed long.
(Okay, they were about two miles, but you know what I mean.)
My feet stuttered down the couple of steps and on through and over the aforementioned sources of scents. I was looking all round me and unconsciously turned right, towards home. Didn’t even think about it.
*
“So?”
“What?” J drags her gaze back to the present.
“Where the fuck where you?”
“Richmond Road.”
“Ah, right. I get it – one of those big, old…”
“… adapted student houses, yes.”
“Hence the fire escape.”
“And the students.”
“And the fridge. Look…”
“Don’t even think about it!”
“’kay.” P’s tone is flat and a little bitten.
*
I hunched, then, into the slowly-clearing night, wondering if things could get any worse and gloomily prepared for them to become so very shortly. This is the kind of night when blokes randomly follow you home, or you slip in something no longer nameable on the pavement that probably has at least one component ancient cardboard and possibly ancient takeaway to boot. The kind of walk home that seems interminable, in other words, and packed with small, grim incident. Need it be added that people would be driving like nutters? I could hear the car tires sneering sibilantly on the damp tarmac.
I walked stodgily at first, then picked up more of a swing. There are few things that can’t be improved (or at least, be retreated from slightly) when walking is involved. Some people would argue it’s something to do with adrenaline. Some people would doubtless go on in some kind of feng shui vein about realigning energies. Doesn’t really matter, as long as it’s true…
After a while I realised I was somewhat lunging with my walk. As you know, there are several ways to walk at night, but the best two are either “invisibly” or “don’t fuck with me.” I was mostly giving off “angry wounded animal.” The sort that attracts nutters for miles, in other words, keen to engage you in conversation, often starting with the line “Cheer up!” With no heart for dissembling or subtlety, I decided that quick was probably the way to go. This was never going to be a walk I was going to enjoy. However, in view of this being nutter-weather, I also decided to stick with the main streets rather than stitching that usual short route I dart across town through the small streets and yes, drag everyone down with me late at night, don’t roll your eyes.
Somewhere between half- and three-quarters of the way home the air subtly cleared. It was no longer damp, but a kind of recently-rinsed clear. Almost a pleasure to walk in. The raising of the sky, however, made the night much darker, larger, less fathomable.
I was starting down Wellfield when I stopped in my tracks.
“Jesus holy fuck.”
*
J rolls her eyes and head sideways at P.
P gestures. “What?”
“I’d worked it out.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Bloody Gretchen.”
“Oh, her.”
*
I’d missed her friggerty-damn exhibition thingy wotsit bastard thing, hadn’t I? Fuck, no wonder she’d been… ah, crap…
I hunched again and stabbed my forehead into the night. Tock, tock, tock, went my stride. Buggerybollocks and damn.
I tripped on the edge of something. Fine, fucking wicked, just dandy. Of course no-one was watching or hell, even there, but still. Surprisingly, I stopped, did some breathing, tilted my head back, felt the night cascade off me. What-the-fuck-ever.
Equilibrium somewhat restored I pushed off into the last few hundred metres, feeling sure that nothing could really freak me out any more tonight.
Hah.
Round the corner and into trees and parked cars. Adhering to one…
*
“What?”
Shudders. “Huh, grim even by your standards.”
Grimly patient: “Go on.”