I am walking the grey streets. It is late morning in February, nearly lunchtime, and the weather is cold, dark, windy and desolate; a light drizzle is in the air, and the bitter wind blows against the backs of my legs, dampening my jeans.
- This is an English suburb of the twenty first century - modern, clean and soulless - neat semi-detached houses, tarmac drives, polished garages. I can tolerate this banality; when I go walking there is nobody else around, the streets are empty, and everything
becomes melancholy and bleak. This pavement is mine; I wander it as the good people work.
- I spend the rest of my time writing. I type the hours away, afternoons fade to evening, and night comes; I drink black coffee, smoke cigarettes, eat little, and continue to type; even as night drifts to early morning, I continue to type.
- I turn off the road and head up an alleyway. I hear the wind shrieking through naked branches, and the muted voices of young people. I stop and wait in the alley until they pass by. I recognise them. I emerge onto the street and follow them at a distance. I went to school with these kids, they were the thugs of my year. They rode motorbikes and got into fights, and sat at the back of class swinging on their chairs and spitting chewing gum at the backs of people's heads.
- They have not seen me yet. I slow down, I do not want to get too close. And now I have noticed something: the boys are wearing black suits and the girls black dresses, and they are all walking too slowly.
- It is a funeral procession.
- I watch them as they walk along, dignified and solemn. It is unnatural and I am finding it disturbing. The damp wind blows harder, and I turn away from them. I head towards home.
- I remember flicking through the local press and reading about the death of Ashley Jones, a yob who smashed his brains in falling off his motorbike. It was the usual story; he was drunk and speeding, it was a wet night, he skidded on the road and lost control of the bike. That was a fitting death, and it should have ended there - he did not deserve a funeral, and I cannot accept that these people, his friends, are paying him such respects. He was scum, and so are they. Scum do not deserve to be buried and mourned.
- Will I get paid such respects when I die?
- Ashley Jones lived near me, only a couple of minutes walk. I decide to change my route. The neat suburban houses watch silently as I walk. Now I am standing outside his house. Soon people would arrive and talk about him, eating prawn vol-au-vents and sausage rolls.
- “Yeah, he was a good lad at heart” they will say. Bullshit. I look around. The street is still deserted. I lean over a fence and pick up a pebble from someone's driveway. I throw it at the front window of his house and it smashes. I run.
- I am running into the wind and my breathing is heavy. My legs hurt, my clothes are soaked. Still the streets are empty. I reach my house, unlock the front door, and step inside. I lock the door and stare through the frosted glass. I watch the street for a few minutes; nobody walks past.
- I go into my room and switch on the computer.
