Robert Handley pulled his coat tight and buttoned up; dark clouds were gathering and rain was on the way. He blinked steadily in the station forecourt because he couldn’t recognise a thing. Food shops, a newsagent, a place selling underpants: they hadn’t been here when he was last in town, fifty years ago.
He shuffled through the carpark, nostrils twitching at the familiar acrid smell of burning sugar. So, the breakfast cereal factory had survived. He shuffled to the road and turned left. It wasn’t far to walk.
What did he hope to achieve by revisiting the scene? It was a lifetime ago; he should let it be.
Some memories were best kept buried. Scars heal.
He hesitated at an unfamiliar roundabout. Was he lost? Why hadn’t he taken a taxi from the station? He knew why; he wanted to see it all, from the ground, just as if he was still nineteen. It had changed his life. He was never the same again. He could never forget, until the day he died, which, he knew, wouldn’t be long now.
The road sign: Attlee Lane. He had found it; unremarkable Corporation houses. Number 78, smaller than he remembered. A wooden ramshackle gate by the side leading to that patch of earth. The saws in the shed, plastic sheeting, shovels.
The front door opened and a smiling young man carrying a baby stepped out. The baby gurgled contentedly when Handley’s knees buckled and with tears convulsing, he tumbled into the gutter.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 