Blighty

Trish sat staring at the television. Good Morning with Someone and Someone Else. Her baby was screaming. The kettle was boiling.

“I think I better go now,” I said.

“What?”

“I think I better go.”

“What for?”

“Places to go. People to see.”

“My Bob’ll be back in a minute. You two’ll get on like a house on fire. He’s a tiny dicked useless fuck too.”

“You know what… Even so… I think I’ll be taking off.”

“Suit yourself.”

Last night she looked different. Last night she was single. Last night she fit into a little black dress. Last night her lips looked wet red like a bloody corpse in a Hammer horror film. Last night her eyes sparked and she was full of magic. Last night I felt alive. But then last night there was no baby, no husband, no death.  

The baby screamed louder and louder and, picking up my coat, I opened the front door onto the three storey high walkway. I was miles away from anywhere I knew on one of those sweet South London concrete estates from Hell.

And walking down piss stinking concrete stairwells and out through a gang of surly kids into the bright grey London morning it felt like home.

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