Every Picture Tells a Story

Every Picture Tells A Story by Chris Green


I bought my first SLR camera, a Canon EX, in 1977. I had been asked to take some shots of Ibiza. Ibiza wasn’t chav central back then. It was a magic white island populated by bohemians and artists. The photos came out well, and I used a couple of them for promotion of a rock band I was involved with. I carried on taking pictures, and even invested in a darkroom. As time passed, though, I became distracted by other things and my interest in photography became more peripheral.

I continued snapping, of course, and over the years I had a few pictures blown up for display, and a few more made their way into family albums. The rest got stored, unsorted, in the back of a series of cupboards or in attics in various houses I lived in through my serial relationships, eventually ending up in the attic. The prospect of sorting through them became more and more daunting until eventually, I didn’t consider it anymore. Last month I retired and Rachel and I started to talk about moving house, downsizing.

After watching a life laundry programme on TV, we decided we need to clear out the attic. It seemed destined to stay at the resolution stage, but a week later, Rachel reminded me by subtly leaving the loft ladder down, and went out. I took a look at the storage crates of photo wallets. One by one I took them down and began to organise them. I realised straight away that it would be a time-consuming exercise. But hopefully, a cathartic one. My photos suggested that I have had a good life. Admittedly, you did not take photos of grey clouds over Grimsby or blizzards in Swindon. Also, unless you wanted the camera broken over your head, you didn’t tend to take photos of your partner during a domestic dispute or on a bad hair day. In short, you did not think to take photos unless you were feeling good.


But as I look through them, I realise that I have been fortunate. There are some memorable moments captured on film. Here’s one of Lori and me in Colombia. In Barranquilla on the coast. At the Carnival. Lori was half my age. God knows why we went there. To get away from Saskia, maybe. Saskia and I had just split up and she was in a dangerous state of mind. There was no telling what she might do. But back then, Colombia was probably the most dangerous place on Earth. And we had our luggage stolen at El Dorado airport in Bogota. Did I really have hair that short? ….. There are some here from a punk wedding in late 70s. And in this one, I have a huge thick beard. Late1980s, I imagine. I don’t remember going to the FA cup final. I’ve always hated football. Life is full of surprises. And hundreds here of my exhibition of paintings at that downtown gallery. I’m glad I always insisted on 7 by 5 prints and used good quality Kodak or Fuji film; the colours have endured.

There are several sets here of Tangiers. With Bob Mohammed, Ahmed and Ali. I think those were the names. If not they were similar. God, it’s so long ago, I can hardly remember who I went with. 1988, it says on the back. It must have been Julia. Before James and Dean were born. Yes, here Julia is on the bicycle we used as transport up and down the beach for provisions. The bike belonged to Ali, I recall. Bob Mohammed and the others worked at a beach hotel, but it was closed for renovation and they had nothing to do all day, so they became our Morocco guides. Where did all that come from? I haven’t thought about any of it for years. It’s amazing what you can remember with a visual stimulus. Suddenly I can put the details to the story like the flick of a switch. We spent two weeks on the beach with the sun beating down and the Atlantic rolling in. We drank mint tea and our Moroccan guides kept coming up with stronger and stronger hash. I suspect they wanted to get into Julia’s pants. And she always was a bit of a flirt.

Rachel comes in and sees that every inch of the floor is covered with piles of photos.

Glad to see you are getting on with it,’ she says. It was a good idea getting you to watch Life Laundry.’ Does she imagine that I haven’t noticed that she has just come home loaded down with shopping bags, Cath Kidston, Monsoon, Habitat, HomeSense? I can see them lined up in the hall. There is no point in mentioning this. More is less, Rachel will say, or something equally baffling to justify her purchases.

It may take quite a while,’ I say. ‘There are more than I thought.’

You have to be brutal,’ she says, bringing the kitchen bin into the room.

I have already thrown some out,’ I say.

I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. I think she secretly feels guilty. She has been talking so much about clearing out, about selling things at car boots and on eBay, but this has so far remained at the talking about stage.

Rachel goes off to play with her shopping, and I continue with my sorting. I uncover a shoebox packed tightly with photos. There’s a pic of me in front of the Here’s Johnny mural in Berlin, one of a camel race along the Champs-Élysées. That can’t be right, perhaps it’s not the Champs-Élysées, perhaps they are not camels. Here’s one of Saskia standing in the doorway of Hitler and Son Jewellers. That was in Cyprus. It really was called that. I wasn’t with Saskia very long. Probably a good thing. Life was too chaotic. All the people we knew seemed to have crises every minute of every day back then. Children were shuffled around and families formed and reformed like a swap shop.

On with the show. Someone in this pic sleeping in the jib of a JCB. I can’t imagine who that might be. Where did I take that? …….. A pile of loose photos here of a Rolling Stones concert. Great one of Keith. That’s an iconic rock star photo. Attitude and poise …… James and Dean doing somersaults on the beach at Broadstairs. Strange isn’t it how James was always long and lean while Dean was always short and stocky. Here’s are some more of the children. At EuroDisney. 1995 at a guess. How did they get mixed up with the ones of Joi in the buff? Joi was much later. Joi was attractively built, though. Rachel has always been jealous of her. I’d better not let her see these. But I don’t want to bin them. Joi ran off with an Italian pasta magnate, so I guess she’s a little less trim now. ….. Did I really have hair that long? …… Who are those people dressed as circus clowns outside The Feathered Fish? You would think I would have had some method to storing my photos in years gone by, but there doesn’t seem to be. They are completely random. Every picture tells a story.

I regret having been so reluctant to catalogue them, but now I can do what I want with them. I have executive control. I can edit my life. I can just throw away the ones I don’t want, like the ones of Joi’s hairdresser’s dog or the ones of the parquet floor at our house in Serendipity Street being laid. More importantly, I can scan the ones I like on to the computer and enhance them with PhotoShop. I have given myself an advanced tutorial, and it is brilliant. Much better than the darkroom was back in the day. The sunrise at Scarborough quickly becomes the moment of creation, and the lightning over Lostwithiel looks like the end of the world. You can move people from one photo to another or cut them out completely. Perhaps I should do some of that.

It feels great to be in control like this. Why then do I have this sense of foreboding? I feel unaccountably sad. Is it like that Stephen Dunn poem? Happiness, a state you must dare not enter with hopes of staying, quicksand in the marshes, and all.


Here’s a green Harrods photo wallet. I don’t remember ever getting prints developed at Harrods. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Harrods. Department stores aren’t really my thing. The distinctive Harrods colour is still the same, but this packet looks quite old. Julia might have gone there a few times. It’s probably one of Julia’s. ……. That’s strange. All the photos all seem to be of Dr Gauguin. That looks like Lyme Regis. I don’t recall ever going to Lyme Regis. I only recognise it from that film with Jeremy Irons. There’s one of Julia with The Cobb in the background. What is Julia doing there? I’m sure I’ve never seen these. There’s one of Dr Gauguin and Julia together. Oh my God, they are kissing in this one. Kissing. With arms around one another. And she had the front to get someone to take a photo of the two of them together, like this. And here’s another one of them in a telling embrace. …… I am in shock. What is going on? Did they just end up in the photo box by mistake? Julia and I split up in the mid nineties. They must have been there for over twenty years, being transported from cupboard to attic. Perhaps she meant that I should find out.

That this happened a long time ago doesn’t seem to matter. If anything it makes it worse. I try to work out how the affair could have happened, without me realising it. Julia seemed to have a disproportionate number of relatives in remarkably poor health. They would suddenly become ill, and it would be better if I didn’t go with her to see them. They only had small houses with single spare beds. Or caravans, even. And she took up new hobbies with consistent regularly, canoeing, geocaching, ghost hunting, pursuits that seemed to take her away at weekends. Why hadn’t I been more observant?

These photos would have to have been before the children were born. Julia wore her hair shorter later on. In one photo, I notice there is a poster advert for The Marine Theatre. The production of The Importance of Being Earnest it says begins on May 14, and elsewhere it refers to other entertainment taking place in 1991. May 1991. I do a quick calculation in my head. ………. Oh My God! May 1991. That would make it nine months before Dean was born. He was born in February 1992. I feel faint. …….. I always wondered why Dean looked so little like me. But it would explain why we saw so much of Dr Gauguin. He was always around the house after Dean was born. Any excuse. If he’d had any sense of decency, he would have stayed well away. And then there were extravagant birthday gifts that used to arrive for Dean’s birthday. ….. Wait! There are more. …… I think I’m going to be sick.

What’s the matter?’Rachel says. She is not used to seeing me like this. I am usually the embodiment of composure. ‘Are you all right?’

I show her the photos I have just found.

Oh! I see!’ she says. ‘I always thought you knew.’

© Chris Green 2020: All rights reserved

The Way We Were


The Way We Were by Chris Green

It was Monday morning and I was not particularly pressed for time. I was off work as a result of an old Pilates injury flaring up. I had been told to rest. I was sorting out some matters that in my busy schedule at the kite repair workshop I never got the chance to attend to. I had updated all of the firewalls, spyware programs and virus checkers on the computer, cleaned the hard drive, and found five friends on Facebook. I had arranged for a tree surgeon to come and take a few feet off the weeping willow in the back garden, contacted the council about the broken streetlights, booked the car in for its MOT, and cleared the mouldy vegetables from the back of the carousel. Although my partner, Danuta, was on the face of it very thorough in cleaning the house, the kitchen cupboard seemed to be one area that escaped her attention.

I spent the rest of the morning watching a welcome repeat of The History of the Harmonica on one of the new Freeview Channels, and over a light lunch, a special report on the prisoners’ strike. This was now into its fifth day with no signs of the prisoners’ demands for an extra £5 per week and a shorter working week being met. ‘The cost of drugs has gone up loads,’ one prisoner who was interviewed had said as justification for their action. ‘Why don’t we just beat the bleep bleep out of them?’ a warden had said not realising that he was on camera. In summing up the presenter, Giles Trevithick took the view of Foucault that perhaps prison was part of a larger carceral system that could not fail to produce offenders, and did nothing to offer a place in society for them if they reformed. It was surprising only that standoffs such as the current one did not occur more frequently.

I had just switched over to the Fishing Channel to watch the semi-finals of the Mid Wales Regional Angling Championships when there was a knock at the door. I was not expecting anyone so, at first, I let it go, but Alan, our Giant Schnauzer, started barking feverishly, so I got up to answer it. Perhaps it was Danuta, home early from her part-time job at the Fridge Magnet Advisory Centre, I thought, but then, she would have a key. Unless she had forgotten it. She had been in a bit of a fluster this morning after Alan had vacated on the hall carpet. ‘You should take him for more walks,’ she had shouted up the stairs. I reminded her that I had been told to take it easy; Dr Shipman had been quite specific on this point.

I found the key and opened it. Standing at the door was Eddie. To say I was shocked would not be an adequate appraisal of the situation. I hadn’t seen Eddie since I was twelve years old. Not since the incident with the cat…… I did a quick calculation. This would have been 1966. The thing was the Eddie that stood across the threshold with a football under his arm still seemed to be twelve years old. He even wore the same red Manchester United football shirt that I remembered with long sleeves and the number 11 on the back and the same green and white Gola Harrier trainers that he had been so proud of back then. He hadn’t changed a bit. He still had the same lank ginger hair and freckles. And the small mark over his left eyebrow where Nick had punched him outside our house and the blood had run down his face. Dad had had to take him to hospital to have four stitches. This definitely seemed to be the very same Eddie. The same gap between his front teeth which seemed too large for his mouth and made him look a little goofy.

Hi,’ he said in a blasé fashion as if he had seen me yesterday. There was no hint of surprise or curiosity on his face. He did not seem to notice that I had changed. That I was over forty years older, with a fuller figure, less hair, and some unsightly facial scars.

Wanna come down the rec,’ he asked.

Eddie had always been the one to organise the kick-arounds. He was the one who owned the football. If his team was losing or if he was having a bad game, he would just say ‘it’s my ball’ and head off home with it, leaving me and Mart and Malc and whoever else was playing stranded. Before that, he had been the one who had the Scalextric or the train set. He was the one whose house we would be able to go round to. He was an only child so his parents had a tendency to spoil him. He was always the first one to have the new trainers or the new football shirt or the new Kinks LP.

Eddie was bouncing the ball now with some vigour, clearly waiting for a reply. I thought perhaps that going to the rec was a little impractical as the rec he was referring to was three hundred miles away. And of course, there was my Pilates injury to consider. I asked him to come on in for a minute, hoping that the improbable situation would somehow resolve itself.

He came in and made his way through to the kitchen. I offered him a glass of Tizer. He remarked on the groovy new bottle. This was the first sign that he might be noticing a time warp.

The phone rang. I let it ring a while thinking perhaps it would make Eddie feel that he was being ignored if I took the call. The phone kept on ringing and Alan started barking at it, so I went into the front room and answered it. It was Danuta to tell me that she would be working late. Magda and Kinga had not turned up for work and things were pretty manic at the Fridge Magnet Advisory Centre. Fridge magnets had apparently featured on a lifestyle programme on Sky and there was a bit of a run on them. She had to go, she said, as there was a queue of people at the desk wondering what would be the best thing to put on their Smeg. I did not get the chance to tell her about our visitor. I wondered momentarily whether Danuta might be having an affair. This was the third time this month that there had been a television-led demand for fridge magnet advice. I dismissed the thought. If she were playing away there would be other signs, like lingerie catalogues coming through the mail, or new bottles of perfume appearing with inappropriate names like Bitch or Hussy. I made a mental note to phone the centre later to see who answered. Meanwhile, I had to get back to Eddie.

On returning to the kitchen there was no sign of Eddie, just an empty glass on the work surface by the fridge. I quickly scurried around the house, then the garden, but there was absolutely no trace of him. He had vanished.

I did not think I would be able to concentrate on the Mid Wales Regional Angling Championship, so I decided to pop to the supermarket to buy some garbanzo beans and some taboule. I had also noticed when I was cleaning out the carousel that we were getting a little low on guacamole and cactus leaf strips. Although Waitrose was not far, I decided to drive. I had recently, against all advice, bought a Chrysler PT Cruiser. The Honest John website had likened it to ‘a Ford Prefect on steroids’, and this was one of the better reviews. Now, even the novelty of its retro styling had worn off, which is why I had got it so cheap. It seemed to get from A to B though, albeit with alarming under-steer on corners.

I had not seen Ros since the spring of 1974 when we had had a brief fling. So imagine my surprise when there she was at the delicatessen counter. With her shoulder length reddish blond hair and flirtatious smile, she was unmistakeable. She was exactly as I remembered her. She had not changed one bit. Her eyes still sparkled the way that they had and she still wore the same pale blue eye shadow and a light coat of black mascara around them. Everything about her seemed suddenly familiar. She even had on the same cheesecloth top that I had bought her from Jean Machine and a pair of flared FU’s jeans with a wide Biba belt. I remembered our first date. We had gone to see The Way We Were, and half way through I had said, ‘this film is rubbish, let’s go back to my place’ and to my surprise, she had agreed.

Back then she was studying to be a chef and around May time, she had found herself with a heavy schedule of exams. With Ros busy revising, I had time on my hands and one night went to the Uzi Bar and come home somewhat worse for wear with a barmaid called Lola. Ros found out that I had slept with Lola when she came round next day and found a bracelet in my bed. I had not heard from her again.

However despite the intervening years, she now appeared to instantly recognise me. And despite my erstwhile infidelity, she greeted me with a big hug and seemed keen to ‘catch up’. Still in a state of disbelief, I struggled hard to find the right words to say, in fact, any words at all. When finally I managed to ask her what she was doing now, she said she was studying to be a chef and had a heavy schedule of exams.

I don’t know if Ros became distracted by the range of Scandinavian furniture and modern art prints in the store or if she was just spirited away, but during the time the delicatessen assistant was weighing out my pitted green olives and taramasalata, she disappeared. I searched the store high and low and even got the shift supervisor to ask for her on the tannoy, but there was no sign.

As I drove away from the store my head was in turmoil. I ran through a red light by Marcello’s All Day Breakfasts, narrowly missing a Murco tanker, and almost mowed down an old lady and her Jack Russell on the zebra-crossing by the Fat Elvis Burger restaurant.

I had read enough of the self-help books that Danuta brought home from the community library to know that I had to pull myself together and get a grip. Perhaps Louise L. Hay or James Redfield had not expressed it exactly in these terms but this seemed to be the general gist of their message. I put my Brian Eno CD on to relax me and tried breathing deeply as I had learned in Yoga. I pulled in by the stretch of water by the leisure centre and sat there for a few minutes, listening to the calming cries of the coots and the moorhens. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts. I told myself that whatever was happening I was not in a life-threatening situation. Everything could be resolved in fifty-five minutes. This according to someone, whose name escaped me, was the amount of time it should take to adjust to a new situation over which you had no control.

I stretched my legs with a gentle stroll around the park, gradually gaining my self-control. A few joggers were out taking their early evening exercise and one or two people were out walking their dogs. When I noticed that the black collie-retriever bounding towards me looked a lot like Barry, my first thought was that I must have been daydreaming. A lot of dogs look alike. I made a quick calculation. Barry would be about 35. He would surely have died years ago. The dog barked excitedly as he approached. He nuzzled against my leg and then stood on his hind legs with his front paws against my chest, licking my upper arm affectionately. I quickly identified the heavily chewed black leather collar and the gouge on his neck where the fur was missing, the result of Barry’s tussle with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier in the car park at The Gordon Bennett. In the next instant, we heard a loud whistle and Barry went bounding back across the park. I called out to the disappearing figure of Janice in the distance. Janice seemed not to hear. I called again. She did not look around. She was perhaps a hundred yards away but I felt sure it was her, even though she had to the best of my information moved to France shortly after we’d split up in 1983. The tie-dyed green denim jacket and the hennaed hair gave it away. This was how Janice would have looked in around 1983. She had a Walkman on. Probably, although I could not be sure, the one that she used to listen to her Joni Mitchell cassettes on. I stumbled on a patch of rough ground, and before I knew it, she and Barry were getting into the blue Chevette estate that we had bought together at the car auction. I remembered us bidding nervously. Neither of us knew much about cars. We had bought it for £550. I hadn’t seen a Chevette in years; they were not renowned for their durability. This one though seemed to be running well. It moved away with a healthy purr. I looked back. My car was parked too far away to think about driving after her.

The irregularities of spacetime were disturbing. Supernatural forces should remain in the realm of the imaginary. But this temporal upheaval was seemingly real. It was happening, now, and to me. I was scared. I felt like vomiting, my hands were shaking, and I was sweating like a Brazilian on the Victoria Line. Had I unwittingly uncovered a portal for parallel worlds, been sucked into the hypothetical wormhole? I had read about such things in Asimov and J. G. Ballard short stories and, but not given them much credence. It took a good deal of Pranayama breathing and another fifty five minutes of consolidation before I could get up from where I was now crouching. People were coming up to me and asking me if I was all right. A gnarled old crone with a bichon frise attempted to call an ambulance, a scarecrow with a limp offered me a pull on his hip flask, and a rangy Goth with a hair lip tried to sell me some ketamin.

No amount of deep breathing, philosophical principles or stress management techniques could have prepared me for my next encounter, however. Returning to the Chrysler and noticing that the fuel gauge was low, I stopped at the BP filling station to fill up. There, at the adjacent pump, someone was putting fuel into a black Fiat Uno. I recognised the registration plate instantly. It was the Fiat I had owned in 1997. It took a split-second, while I did a double take, before I recognised that the figure in the brightly coloured paisley shirt and combat fatigues bore an uncanny resemblance to me, as I would have looked around fifteen years ago. A lot slimmer and with considerably more hair. This was genuinely scary. I felt a chill run the length of my spine. This was not like looking at old photos of oneself or a video; this was watching a real living, breathing human being in real time. Wasn’t it? Reality was a fragile concept it seemed. Albert Einstein had called reality, ‘an illusion but a very persistent one’. But even this statement suggested there was room around the edges of reality for leakage. Facing myself over a few feet of garage forecourt defied any rational explanation. I was frozen to the spot; I couldn’t move.

I watched as my doppelganger slowly fed the fuel into the tank. I studied his mannerisms and his gestures in slow motion and one by one acknowledged them as my own. I recognised the flick of the neck, the squint against the light showing the lines etched on the forehead, the nervous shifting of weight from one foot to the other as he stood. I remembered buying those cream Converse Allstars cut-offs from a car boot. My heart raced and I felt a tightness in my chest. No doubt about it; the individual I was looking at was me. Amidst the inner turmoil, rational questions like ‘why hadn’t my 1997 personification noticed that the petrol was a little pricey?’ or ‘did the Fiat run on unleaded?’ tried to find a place in my consciousness. These were powerfully swept away by wave upon wave of blind panic as I sensed my whole life might be collapsing into a single moment.

He replaced the nozzle in the pump, and as he did he appeared to look right at me, or right through me. I couldn’t decide which. Could it have been that he did not recognise me? Or to look at it another way, should that be I did not recognise me – now that I was older. No one really knew exactly what form their ageing would take. It was not something you would give a lot of thought to. But of course, Eddie had recognised me, and Ros had recognised me,despite my having changed significantly. And my smell must have been the same to Barry, although this was conclusive. Barry had always been quite a friendly dog.

My other swivelled round. I thought he was about to come over. What would he do? Introduce himself? What would I do? I felt my legs buckle. This was not like one of those dreams where you dream about a past episode and the texture of the scenario as it unfolds is surreal. This was in clear focus in the here and now. I was watching me in an everyday situation in broad daylight. He did not come over. He seemed to hesitate in mid stride and turned to walk in the opposite direction towards the BP shop.

I was not very good on dates but I determined that in 1997 I would have still been with Mizuki. We were very happy back then in our second-floor apartment overlooking the park. At weekends, we would take the children to the pool or go walking in the woods. I remembered Mizuki and I went to see As Good As It Gets at the Empire and realising how happy we were. Our contentment was of course not to last. I had been to see Mizuki’s cherry tree in the park recently. Someone had tied a ribbon around it with a bow. It had made me feel neglectful of her memory. I had lost touch with Sakura and Reiko a long time ago. They would have left school by now. At least, none of them were in the Uno parked at the neighbouring pump; their presence would have cranked my present nightmare up another notch.

My other emerged from the shop with an evening newspaper. I read the headline. It was about Diana’s death. Something about a mystery white car in the Alma Tunnel. As he passed he seemed to look directly at me, or through me again. He could not have been more than twenty feet away. He got into the car. As he wound down his window I detected a hint of recognition….. I didn’t detect a hint of recognition….. I wasn’t sure. My mouth opened to call out to him but no words came. He drove off. The exhaust from the Fiat was still blowing, just as I remembered it. I put the pump back without having put any fuel in the car and set out to follow him.

He turned left down Hegel Avenue. I used to live on the Philosophers’ estate. I had lived there for over fifteen years, and it occurred to me that wherever we were headed was a run that I probably had made many times. I thought back to the types of journey I would have made in the Fiat in 1997. Mostly on account of the Fiat’s unreliability these would have been short journeys. To and from work. To the shops at Kirkegaard Court. Where would I have been likely to have been going at six thirty in the evening? It must have been after I had been made redundant from Gadgets and Gizmos. I usually didn’t finish there till late. Perhaps I was going to visit Mick or Charlie. They both lived in the Schopenhauer Court flats. I might have been going to pick Mizuki up from the Sushi restaurant where she worked. I tried to recall if she had her own car back then. Memories of her came flooding back once again. We passed the Occam’s Razor pub where we used to sit out on summer evenings for a couple of halves of Old Poets.

The exhaust of the Fiat in front of me was now belching out black smoke. We seemed to be heading back on ourselves as we forked right into Rousseau Gardens. A Brimful of Asha (On the 45) read a poster outside The Codfather takeaway. This surely was an old poster. Shouldn’t they have taken it down? We passed the Mahatma Gandhi Primary School where Sakura and Reiko used to go, and then right at the Karl Marx roundabout. It began to dawn on me where we were headed. Usually I would have turned left at the Karl Marx roundabout, taking me home along Darwin Road. Turning right meant we were ………..

I woke up in the Lewis Carroll Memorial Hospital. I had sustained multiple head injuries in the accident. I could not remember very much about the actual collision, but after a few sessions with Dr. Trinidad, I recalled a little about the events leading up to it. An overweight elderly man driving an ugly black Chrysler had been tailgating me. It was a model I had not seen before. It was shaped like a hearse and its registration plate was in an unusual format.

I had first noticed this sinister character with his receding hairline and unsightly facial scars at the BP filling station. My attention was drawn to him because he was behaving very strangely. He stood there at the pump pointing the fuel hose into the air. He stared at me the whole time I was filling up. For a second, I thought he seemed familiar but I could not place where I might have seen him. The more I contemplated this, the more I imagined I had been mistaken. I put my imagined recognition down to the intensity of his gaze.

When I pulled off he got into his car, without putting in any fuel in, and started following me. He kept his distance at first. I took a right at the Karl Marx roundabout into Nietzsche Avenue and ducked into Spinoza Crescent to make certain that he was really tailing me. He was closer now. I slowed down to give him the chance to overtake but he stayed behind. I sped up trying to lose him, but the Fiat was not very fast. The last thing I remember I was driving down Descartes Drive. He was right behind me, driving like a madman.

… heading for Descartes Drive, where years ago I had been rammed by an old maniac in a forties style gangster getaway car. About fifteen years ago. I had been trapped in my …. Fiat Uno.

© Chris Green 2015: All rights reserved