Sundownandout

Ships loiter along on the horizon, in the hazy pink, lazy pink tired hot day. Windmills stand stock-still out at sea, all spent and nothing doing, now that the day is closing its eyes. Pier broken off, burnt remnants sitting it out, stubborn dead wood waiting offshore to be invited back home. Silhouettes dotted along the shore claiming the sky as their own, holding the colours and air between outstretched arms. Headlights swing carelessly around the headland across the bay, behind the once-grand crescent hotel where the cracks creep up the walls, ready to bring it all down. Night time brings the wind-breaks down and the crying babies are taken home after wailing for an hour past their bed-time while mum and dad drink tins on the benches overlooking the sea, because the sea belongs to them, if only for this moment. Teenagers strut the sand, lighting cigarettes and disposable barbecues, playing tinny music on their phones which hold a thousand posed grinning photographs that show how happy and tanned they have been today. Instant memories to prove the day’s worth. Swear words strewn across the sand along with the trail of empty cider cans, marking a path from happy beginnings to sorrowful angry heated ends. Storms are coming and we can feel it on our skin. Electric heat lifts hairs on backs of necks as fingers tentatively lift edges of linen and cotton tumbles to the floor in folds. Lazy crescent moon hardly lifts above the horizon and recedes across the harbour, deepening from gold to red as it disappears after only visiting for an hour or two. Heat and electricity on our skin, bringing hands together and lips begin the long night’s gentle work, making tapestries of touch and skin. 

Bike

We had been out having some glasses of wine, when rounding the corner, outside the museum, we saw him. It took a moment for the scene to become clear because my glasses were in my bag and the contents of the other glasses were in me, but  there he was, hunched over, down near the peddles of my bicycle, sawing off the lock with a hack-saw.

“Hey!” I called out, “HEY! That’s my bike!” I began to run towards him and he scrambled to his feet, reaching to pick up his rucksack which was on the ground nearby, but he fumbled and I was there, right there in-front of him, an incredulous look upon my face, whilst he looked at me, a bit dismayed and put out.

“What are you doing?!” I said, incredulously, “That’s my bike!” He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He was probably in his early twenties. His hair looked unwashed and he was somewhat, slightly dazed. “Are you sure that’s your bike?” He looked at me, hopefully.

“YES! Of course I’m sure! What are you talking about?” I winced with disbelief at his disbelief. I went to the bike and took out my keys. I undid the lock, just to prove it.

“Oh. It is yours then.” He said, disappointed.

“Yes! It IS my bike! I can’t believe you were trying to steal my bike! WHY?! Look at it!” We all looked at my bike. A white Raleigh bike, thirty years old (at least); a grandma’s bike with a basket and some rust attached.

“Ah nah; that’s a lovely bike,” he nodded at it, defensively.

“Well I know it’s a lovely bike, but it’s my lovely bike, not your lovely bike! Why don’t you go and steal one with gears or something? No, how about this; don’t steal anyone’s bike!” More pitiful shuffling of feet.

I leaned in towards him and brought my voice down to a menacing whisper. “Me and this bike have been together a long time and if, if you had stolen it, I would have hunted you down, and killed you”. Briony laughed. “I would have! And I will if you ever try that again!”

“I’m really sorry, look I really am. I feel really bad about it now.”

“Oh, he feels really bad about it now, so that’s ok! How would you feel? If someone stole your bike?”

“I’d be really upset. I mean, I’ve had my bike stolen; five times!” he said, “That’s why I’m trying to get another one.”

“Yes, but I didn’t steal any of your five bikes! I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you tried to steal my bike.” I shook my head and stared at him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t phone the police?”

“Ah nah, please don’t do that. Please.” He looked hurt and resorted to shuffling his feet again. Briony looked at him sympathetically. I started to feel sorry for him, amidst the annoyance.

“Look, you’re gonna need a new lock; that one’s nearly gone through.”

 “Oh thank you for your advice! And whose fault is that, that I need a new lock?”

“What you want to do is get one of them ‘D’ locks; they’re much better.”

“Oh ok, are they the best then? I mean you’d have trouble getting into one of them?” He nodded. I made a note to buy one of those next time.  “So what are you going to do, hmm? To make up for the fact you ruined my lock? What have you got? What are you going to give me? Give me the money for a new lock and we’ll call it square.”

“I haven’t got any money.”

I looked him up and down. Probably not, but he must have something.

“Ok, give me a joint. I bet you’ve got a joint.” I didn’t even smoke joints any more, but he looked stoned and my wine-induced-wisdom was telling me this was the best deal possible. Suddenly, I wanted a joint.

“I haven’t got any,” he did the pathetic eyes again and started to root around through his bag. He pulled out a half-consumed bottle of cheap cider. I winced. Briony reached out to take it.

“NO!” I stopped her, feeling that a second-hand bottle of White Lightening was not a good deal. 

“Right, you can buy me a new lock. Give me your address or your phone number,” I demanded.

He shuffled again. “....O..kay...How about you give me your number? I’ll get a lock and I will ring you.”

“...O...kay.” I said and scribbled the number down.  He wasn’t evil, he was just hopeless. I would put my faith in humanity and I would trust his word. Yes, he was being honest, I had faith.

That was the last time that a man asked for my telephone number. And guess what? He didn’t call.