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Driving home, 3am.

     Outside the house it was quiet. But night is always
noisier outdoors, the breath of the wind caresses the ears and
the sound of footsteps may not be your own. It was cold. Ice
marbled mistily on the windscreen but I wasn't inclined to
remove my hands from the warmth of pockets. Tarmac,
jewelled. I wiped the glass tentatively with an elbow. The
breeze caused a branch to crackle and I hastily turned to peer
into the darkness. The house behind me sighed and I took the
keys from my pocket. I turned the key in the lock, which stuck
slightly, then gave with a sharp click. From within the arctic
car the windscreen seemed algae green. I leaned between the
front seats to retrieve the de-icer from where it had rolled. The
can was light, probably empty, as I shook it the  movement
warmed me slightly. A loud thud echoed about the interior as
the can hit the steering wheel. I slid the key into the ignition,
pulled out the choke using the hand with the can and wound
down the window. The car roared as I turned the key. With a
flick I turned the wipers on full and listened to the pop and
scrape of rubber & ice. I sprayed the de-icer onto the marble
through my wound down window and, like a clearing
hangover it dissolved. I switched on the headlights and wound
up the window, shady trees stood frozen ahead, naked. I
engaged the engine and started my night journey home.
     Driving at night is almost like a vivid dream; the easy
speed, empty road and the flick of an insect buckling against
glass. In the background the car radio was whirring silently at
the end  of the tape. Trees slipped by, unnoticed. For the first
time this evening I was finally alone, with my ambition. I
wondered if it was fear that was making me flee homewards
again. Fear of the unknown is a concept that I have never truly
grasped, although that doesn't necessarily exclude me from
it's influence. I didn't feel it there. I felt paranoia, a sickly
dread of the inevitable. I have a friend who will never be
happy and there is nothing that I can do. But then it is
inevitable that when I see self-destructive exploitation I feel
compelled to shrug.
     The flick of an insect brought to mind a conversation
which had made me smile. I think too much. The blur of a
striped line swerved nervously beneath the car and I stayed in
the centre of the road. A racheting sound told me the tape had
jammed, the radio came on with a hiss of static which I cut
short with a tweak.
     It was night, the countryside glowed with the light
which was to turn to sunrise. Birds shifted uneasily on their
perches. It was winter and they shouldn't have been there, but
the autumn had been a mild one.
     Leaves had rotted on the road and it was making the
steering spongy. The hot air vents smelt greasy. Around me a
scenery of empty fields was hidden in shadow and the pool of
head light showed only the tarmac and flattened remains of
rabbits.
     "Welcome to Kidderminster - twinned with Husum."
     A sign and the invisible fields became invisible council
estates, with invisible inmates. The twinned town was a
concentration camp in the Second World War. An old man
wants disassociation, but he fought for my right not to give a
shit about his opinions. I wouldn't want to be judged by my
parents actions.
     On the hill I saw a light flashing, blue light on red. A
fire-engine, by my home. I remember my tongue beating and
thickening like a muscle and taking my foot from the
accelerator as I pulled into the drive. Two doors up from me
a fire was raging.

     "Stand back please, sir." the fireman held his arm out
authoritatively.
     "What happened?"
     "Someone saw flames, we don't know how it started
and it's not really our job to find out. The police will be along
later I dare say."
     "Is Tom alright?"
     "You knew the man who lived here, sir? I'm sorry but
by the time we got here he'd taken in a lot of fumes."
     "Is he . . . "
     "Carbon Monoxide poisoning, there was nothing we
could do."

     So I drove the car to the river and watched the
headless swans drift on the water, reflecting the clouds in the
sky.


©1998 Mark Sexton