The Folded Man by Matt Hill Page B

swallows up the past – the way it grows outwards or simply makes everything else grow in.
    The fire was the best thing that happened, the locals might tell you. Because proper markets come far and between.
    The sheen’s off it now, course. The enamel is cracked. They threw the Metrolink through here before they binned the timetables and then the trams, and now when you pass the decaying station you kind of hold your breath – it’s an essay on the council’s messy policies in very few words. Suburban Manchester left to the worms. The main railway into town where the worst kind of people do their business – usually Wilber gangs bartering over people they’ve caught that week. The brothels across the road doing a fine trade.
    Brian and Kenneth, they cross a roundabout by a shattered dual carriageway. A gentle incline and overgrown weeds roll out in front. They pass through a gated checkzone with cameras for sides, and into the bays where the CHU has a sign to go with the acronym. CONSOLIDATED HEALTHCARE UNIT, it says. 500-point words down the side of the main office. Signwritten by amateurs who couldn’t afford the neon.
    In the quiet, in Kenneth’s pig, Brian’s preoccupied with Noah and Colin and death. The calls and the sorting. Still stuck in yesterday – in last night. Sick as a parrot because he’s meant to be home, isn’t he. Meant to be waiting for the door and the skinny man fresh from his bunker. More drugs. Success stories and cash. Rewards. Garland happy. A bit of talk about the man they saw – Colin, who got shot twice in a night. Whose face came off in his cabin –
    Unloaded, refolded. Brian, the origami man, back in the chair. The lumpiest man you ever saw.
    And Kenneth wheels him to the entrance, whistling some tune or other. About all you’ll hear of music since nobody has the disposable income to afford frivolities like instruments. With the internet off, it’s pretty hard to listen to anything, either.
    Brian, well he makes out like enough is enough. Kenneth says to him, I can wait, or you can grab a train back and brave them Wilbers. ’Cept there aren’t any trains today, so actually it’s best you’re nice.
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    It’s not a new building – hardly a building at all if you’re pedantic – but for a temporary structure it’s obviously been round a while. Close enough to the satellite towns to the east of Manchester, and not Stockport, which burnt for six savage months at the height of the riots. Course, there’s the odd scorch mark you can’t paint over. Bits of it coloured with big stains; bits where the glue’s gone and panels are flapping about. Many ramps – ramps ­stapled over steps owing to some kind of rehabilitation programme for the amount of smashed infantrymen coming home from the fronts.
    When they go inside and see the faces, they both remember Ashton CHU is also the borough sex clinic.
    Kenneth nudges Brian. He opens his hand and rubs his thumb and forefinger together.
    Give, he says.
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    So on account of sex, this place is where latent guilt and responsibility meet – where people of all years and no obvious symptoms collide.
    Brian’s been sitting here five minutes having told the smug receptionist his name. On account of sex they tell you it’s all anonymous, but the blushing from all corners says more than a surname ever would, and anyway, you’ll usually see half these people on the bus ride in.
    They breeze about him in reception. People coming, going, big arguments between couples trying to keep it all so quiet. A lot of tears before noon. And all about, they’re wondering how to tell the boyfriends and the partners; the girlfriends, the wives and the mistresses.
    All accepting that if you put private things in other people’s private places, you’re accountable.
    This tall lad springs from the double-doors, jolting the whole reception