Slipping Into The Shadows

He stumbles into the shelter, collapses onto the bench. Tries to stand, staggers, crumples. Chuckles, coughs. Attempts to rise, thinks better of it.

I say, ‘Bit rat-arsed today.’
‘Wha-’
‘You’re pissed.’
‘Eh?’
‘Not to worry. It’s ok. Careful there. Better sit down before you fall down, you might do yourself some damage.’
‘Shit. Am I pissed or what?’
‘The drink’s not dulled your senses.’
‘Eh?’

He coughs, spits, wretches. Slumps forward, leering at two young women passing. They stare at each other. ‘What a dick head.’
His head lolls forward, and I think he might vomit, but he jerks backward as though yanked violently, his head colliding with the partition. Screams, curses, and clutching his head, attempts to stand. Staggers, collapses, cracking his skull on the pavement. Twitches, then lies still, blood trickling from his nose. At first people avoid the prone body, but then as the blood becomes more noticeable they stop, stare, and soon a small crowd gathers.

I watch, wait for that slight disturbance in the air, the thickening of form that will signal his arrival. Wait until he’s beside me in the shelter. Watch him stare intently at his body on the pavement, at the small crowd gathered. Know how he’ll look at me. How no one will enter this shelter; nothing will disturb this solitude gathered round us.
We have some time together, sitting quietly, and then I stand, beckon. He follows. Around us the light falters, fades. Time slips away, but that’s ok. For him the length of a day no longer matters.

Standing on the pier deck we see traces of the day to come, a glimmer just visible on the horizon. I tell him this is as far as I go, at least this time, that from this point on he must make his own way. He hesitates, hovers. I’m used to this uncertainty; but to those that want to cling, that I find a problem. ‘Go’ I say. Hopefully with some kindness, allowing him some dignity, at this point it’s necessary. His has not been much of a life when all things are considered. I watch him drift towards the pier head, towards two prominent attractions, the Ghost Train, and the Booster Rockets. In the cold grey light I see other figures gravitating, some according to their inclination, while others loiter, in evident distress. They’ll take one of two paths, each already marked: towards the deep warm dark of the Ghost Train, or the aerial majesty of the Booster rockets, a sign by the entrance advertising the ride as THE CLOSEST THING TO HEAVEN THIS SIDE OF HELL. Outside the Ghost Train a sign reads YOU GET WHAT YOU EXPECT HERE-NOTHING MORE NOTHING LESS-THIS IS THE TRUTH.

I wait until he is mid point between the rides, stand a moment longer until he knows the direction to take, turn and walk away from the pier, along the promenade into the first rays of a struggling sun.

Game Over

Ragged clouds, brilliant light, squalls blowing in over the sea; people running for cover, seeking shelter in the arcade, they gather, waiting for the rain to pass over.
Standing at the entrance watching the sky clearing, families herd children out into the late sun. Tensions rise and fall, but with the rain passed over, the pier begins to stir again.

I watch shadows lengthen, the pier take on a more solitary aspect. Night draws in and others emerge, lonely souls, each gravitating towards the deep warm darkness of the arcade. Inside, games machines compete for attention. The air vibrates with confused, chaotic rhythms. Snatches of banal repetitive phrases cut across each other, insistent, discordant.
Two young men fall into the arcade; boys out for the night. One drops a can, spilling liquid across the threshold. He swears, his friend laughs, drinks, throws his can out into the night. They swagger and sway making their way deeper into the chaos. These young men, they don’t see, don’t register other drifting presences in the gloom, silently moving, beginning to encircle them.
They find a game, and one of them, let’s call him Jimmy, fumbles, drops coins. His friend, John, mocks him, shoves money in the slot, picks up the gun and begins to play. Jimmy’s sorted himself out now and has his gun. Both concentrate. Aim, fire short bursts, delight in screen deaths.
John’s money runs out first, the silent gun returned to its cradle. With nothing to do but watch Jimmy, he senses the pale figures hovering silently, expectantly, shuffles nervously waiting for the game to finish.
The money exhausted, game over, they retreat from the pallid faces, escape from the arcade out into the night.

Less certain now, with nothing of the warmth, the vitality of these young men, the silent souls disperse, leaving no one to witness how, across the screen of the deserted arcade machines, mute figures stir, shattered limbs heal, the dead walk, wait.