Prologue
Of the twenty-four hours that make up every day, there are a particular few of those that are apparently – for lack of a less theatrical term – magical. Typically beginning at that time where pubs and bars everywhere have finished kicking out their last patrons and ending at the first sign of the rising sun, the world becomes so serene that being alone with your thoughts in this time could be a truly enlightening experience. Sleep be damned. Whether this was actually true or not, it was the story “Old” Joe March began tricking himself into believing once he realised that last night bus wouldn’t be coming.
It was meant to be an easy six-minute walk from The Rising Sun to the bus stop, quick and easy and one he had done countless times before, often in much worse states of intoxication. But for whatever reason, Joe ended up losing all concept of time on this night/morning and was faced with using a mouldy bench for a bed until the first bus of the new dawn arrived; walking another step was totally out of the question.
Making at least six profanity-laden mental notes to buy a watch before his next venture to his favourite watering hole, Joe soon found himself surprisingly at peace with his predicament as he draped his waxy old coat around him and leaned back on the damp wood. He had never really spent much time outdoors – not for any reason other than his lifestyle never really calling for it – so he was surprised at how at peace he was. The extreme exhaustion and Disaronno in his system probably factored into this too but at that moment Joe liked the notion of the world not always being the hassled, noisy jungle it usually appeared to be.
After about an hour of claiming his rest stop, Joe was close to working his way through his last pack of cigarettes whilst properly thinking for the first time in years about just why he never bothered calling either of his sons. As his mind tried its drowsy best to recall the last conversation he’d had with his eldest, it dawned on him that his thoughts weren’t really going anywhere as he had begun to enter that state between “barely awake” and “not yet asleep”. The amount of time elapsing became less apparent than it had been when he was drunk and somehow the street lights had dimmed to faint glows and the sun had begun to make its entrance without him even noticing.
It wasn’t just the sights that had changed either. The near silence he had become accustomed to and even fond of had begun to be replaced by the occasional and unenthusiastic chirp of birds somewhere nearby as well as a tip-tapping. It was almost like dripping rain, Joe thought, before realising it had been dry all night. The tapping got louder. Not dripping, footsteps. Joe intensely hoped he would not have a guest, even more so than usual.
The source of the footsteps soon became apparent. Between the row of evergreens opposite the bus stop, Joe saw him moving. A man – could even have been a teen – running at a steady pace, grey hoodie and tracksuit trousers practically hanging off his bony frame. As he passed, Joe couldn’t help but scoff at the guy’s idiocy. He never quite understood why anyone would choose to run; that was usually reserved for a punishment for being late to a P.E. lesson at school. And at this time of the morning? Poor chap must have been a glutton for punishment.
Joe kept his judgemental eyes fixed on the guy as he emerged from the small patch of trees, his jog now slowed to a fast walk, moments later a leisurely one. He was almost a silhouette at this point as the rays of the slowly awakening sun had begun to break through the clouds. Joe glanced up, trying to guess what time it could possibly be while becoming vaguely aware out of the corner of his eye that the silhouette had stopped moving. And then it vanished.
It hadn’t moved. No tell-tale sounds of footsteps echoed from its departure. It had just gone. Or at least that’s what Joe thought he saw. He shrugged, half a dozen explanations for it springing to mind as well as doubt as to whether there had been anything there at all. It wouldn’t be the first time that a tired and possibly still tipsy man had imagined something.
No. Not imagined. The sun’s rays how lit up the space between the trees to the point where Joe could clearly see them there. Footprints.
The tired man shivered. “Old” Joe, now feeling very much his age, fastened his coat tighter around him and made another mental note to himself. As soon as he had bought a watch he would make a concentrated effort to not drink so damn much. At least not on weekdays.
Now where the hell was that bloody bus?
