All night the wind had flung
rubbish at him; no rain, no thunder, no lightning, just whispered secrets one minute and shrieked demands the next.
He woke as Helly slammed the cottage door behind her. He watched as she made her way past, picking through debris from the skip which had scattered itself across the street in bizarre attitudes.
Then he stood up and stretched. He was stiff as hell and had run out of Smarties. He worked his shoulders backwards, trying to loosen up, then peered out at the sky: crisp, cold, a little smokey.
He pulled a face, then he slipped out of the railway arch and began to follow.
Joan awoke to the ringing of bells. There were several, all clanging frantically in different pitches, a small mad cacophany that seemed to be growing in a corner of her head.
She reached out a hand to touch the ‘off’ button on their bedside alarm. Her fingers brushed the plastic. The ringing didn’t stop. She struggled upright on one elbow and peered at
the alarm resentfully. It wasn’t making any noise at all. Nor was it showing the time. Her fingers scrambled for her watch. Eight fifteen: the alarm should have gone off over an hour ago.
Next to her, Alun stirred briefly, snuffled once into his pillow and continued to sleep. In the early days of their marriage, his shifts had caused problems. After all these years, they now
slept soundly through each other’s routines. Whenever Joan cooked dinner, she made a double portion and left the rest in an oven-proof dish in the fridge. The food always went, although she
would often not catch sight of Alun for days, other than as a bulk beneath the blankets, a heaviness that made the mattress slope, a male smell, a warmth.
She swung herself heavily out of bed and went to the window. The room felt cold. She placed a hand on the electric storage heater beneath the sill. It had not come on.
She pushed the curtain aside with one finger. The street below was in chaos. A wild wind was blowing a huge cardboard box down the road. It tripped and tumbled past a small ash tree which grew
opposite their house and was now snapped half-way down the trunk. The branches were whisking to and fro, blocking half the road. Number eight’s metal bin had blown over and several empty
catfood tins were pirouetting in mad swirls a foot above the pavement. The ringing sounds were coming from the direction of Denmark Hill – shop burglar alarms, several of them.
Joan went to the door and pulled her dressing-gown off the hook. She tied the belt as she went downstairs. In the hall, she dialled her neighbour’s number.
‘Lydia? It’s Joan. Have you got any electricity?’
Nobody in the street had electricity. It had gone down an hour and a half ago, setting off the alarms and causing mayhem. Lydia was surprised Joan had not woken earlier. She had been up half the
night with tiles slithering down her roof. She was worried sick about the chimney.
Joan ate cornflakes for breakfast and drank a small glass of orange squash. Then she splashed her face with cold water and dressed quickly, feeling cold and grimy. She was going to be terribly
late. She left a note for Alun in case he woke up and wondered what was going on.
Denmark Hill looked a riot. A tree and a signpost had come down and the police had cordoned off one side of the road. The burglar alarms were still ringing, some of them flashing like demented
Christmas decorations. She saw the red hulk of a bus stuck at the traffic lights and began to run. Half-way there, she realised the bus wasn’t moving. The traffic round the Green was blocked
solid. Some drivers had got out of their cars and were wandering around, shaking their heads.
As Joan approached, she could see that the bus platform was packed with passengers. There appeared to be a fairly high turnover; some were crowded round trying to get on while others were
crowded round trying to get off. As she got nearer she heard the conductor calling over their heads,
rubbish at him; no rain, no thunder, no lightning, just whispered secrets one minute and shrieked demands the next.
He woke as Helly slammed the cottage door behind her. He watched as she made her way past, picking through debris from the skip which had scattered itself across the street in bizarre attitudes.
Then he stood up and stretched. He was stiff as hell and had run out of Smarties. He worked his shoulders backwards, trying to loosen up, then peered out at the sky: crisp, cold, a little smokey.
He pulled a face, then he slipped out of the railway arch and began to follow.
Joan awoke to the ringing of bells. There were several, all clanging frantically in different pitches, a small mad cacophany that seemed to be growing in a corner of her head.
She reached out a hand to touch the ‘off’ button on their bedside alarm. Her fingers brushed the plastic. The ringing didn’t stop. She struggled upright on one elbow and peered at
the alarm resentfully. It wasn’t making any noise at all. Nor was it showing the time. Her fingers scrambled for her watch. Eight fifteen: the alarm should have gone off over an hour ago.
Next to her, Alun stirred briefly, snuffled once into his pillow and continued to sleep. In the early days of their marriage, his shifts had caused problems. After all these years, they now
slept soundly through each other’s routines. Whenever Joan cooked dinner, she made a double portion and left the rest in an oven-proof dish in the fridge. The food always went, although she
would often not catch sight of Alun for days, other than as a bulk beneath the blankets, a heaviness that made the mattress slope, a male smell, a warmth.
She swung herself heavily out of bed and went to the window. The room felt cold. She placed a hand on the electric storage heater beneath the sill. It had not come on.
She pushed the curtain aside with one finger. The street below was in chaos. A wild wind was blowing a huge cardboard box down the road. It tripped and tumbled past a small ash tree which grew
opposite their house and was now snapped half-way down the trunk. The branches were whisking to and fro, blocking half the road. Number eight’s metal bin had blown over and several empty
catfood tins were pirouetting in mad swirls a foot above the pavement. The ringing sounds were coming from the direction of Denmark Hill – shop burglar alarms, several of them.
Joan went to the door and pulled her dressing-gown off the hook. She tied the belt as she went downstairs. In the hall, she dialled her neighbour’s number.
‘Lydia? It’s Joan. Have you got any electricity?’
Nobody in the street had electricity. It had gone down an hour and a half ago, setting off the alarms and causing mayhem. Lydia was surprised Joan had not woken earlier. She had been up half the
night with tiles slithering down her roof. She was worried sick about the chimney.
Joan ate cornflakes for breakfast and drank a small glass of orange squash. Then she splashed her face with cold water and dressed quickly, feeling cold and grimy. She was going to be terribly
late. She left a note for Alun in case he woke up and wondered what was going on.
Denmark Hill looked a riot. A tree and a signpost had come down and the police had cordoned off one side of the road. The burglar alarms were still ringing, some of them flashing like demented
Christmas decorations. She saw the red hulk of a bus stuck at the traffic lights and began to run. Half-way there, she realised the bus wasn’t moving. The traffic round the Green was blocked
solid. Some drivers had got out of their cars and were wandering around, shaking their heads.
As Joan approached, she could see that the bus platform was packed with passengers. There appeared to be a fairly high turnover; some were crowded round trying to get on while others were
crowded round trying to get off. As she got nearer she heard the conductor calling over their heads,
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