Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [13]
‘What do you think people see when they look at you standing there? By the side of the road.’
Jimmy sniffed and creased his forehead. ‘Probably think I’m gonna rob ’em or somethin’.’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno, mate.’
‘You’re a distance they’ve never been to.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Maybe I don’t make sense sometimes. My English.’ He switched on the wipers and spoke his name. All Jimmy heard was a muddle of sounds. ‘And yours?’
‘James. But most people call me Jimmy.’
He nodded. Weighed it like it was of the greatest significance. The traffic was slowing in the rain and he changed from the inside to the middle lane.
‘Life is very curious, you know. When I was a boy I had a rifle of my own but no shoes.’
He stopped and thought about his words, looked ahead, through the rain-splashed windscreen.
‘At your age, I lived in a village of sticks and stones. I collected firewood for my family, threw rocks at snakes, played cricket with a bat made from a banana tree. How could I imagine all this, right now, driving in this rain, this car, seeing these people, speaking this language. How am I here?’
A white van cut dangerously in front of his bumper. He hit the horn with the heel of his palm.
‘Is this what I wanted? Driving in British rain thinking of Pakistan?’
The motorway turned into a swirl of blue and yellow lights, mobile signs with flashing arrows. Policemen in fluorescent jackets were slowing and filtering traffic along the hard shoulder. Each space was contested and tight, and he slowed to nudge through.
It was raining hard as they passed the first ambulance and fire engine. Three cars had piled into the back of a truck and lay crumpled like a buckled concertina. Firemen cut through the roof of a crushed Mini with hydraulic scissors. The trailer had been carrying a load of steel girders that now lay skewed on the mangled cab. Jimmy looked for the switch to put the window down. It was the same truck he thought had stopped for him an hour ago. When the driver had slammed on the brakes, the weight of the steel had slipped and cleaved off the cab. Twisted metal lay beneath the slant of toppled silver. Blood drained from the wreck and pooled thinly on the road. It seemed too much for just one man. Jimmy looked at the diluting pool, losing its colour in the rain.
Paler than the life he had leaked from a man the previous night.
The traffic fanned out and they drove on through pouring rain. The sky was lighter to the west and the sun fell bright and sudden on a new estate. It looked like some mirage of town that would disappear if they ever turned towards it.
‘We’ll be at the services soon.’
The black clouds cleared. Sun blazed up from the road in a dazzle of watery reflections. The driver indicated to the slip road that led on to the services and turned towards the main car park.
‘I think you’re a good man, Jimmy.’ He pulled up before the entrance to the shops. ‘Listen,’ he said as Jimmy lifted the lock. ‘When you run from somewhere you never really leave. People hold us like ghosts in their memories. We hold people like ghosts in our memories. We’re forever haunting or being haunted.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘When you understand, then it’ll be true.’
Jimmy said thanks for the ride and that he would try to remember his words.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the driver called through the open window. ‘You’re a young man and can’t be stopped.’
Missing Person
MISSING IN ACTION
A year on from the vanishing of Billy K, music journalist Connor Scott, long-time fan of the elusive singer and guitarist, looks back on the turbulent life of a rock prodigy, Missing in Action.
I slide the vinyl from the sleeve, swivel the disc in my fingertips and carefully place Billy K and his band on the turntable. They hiss and crackle, come alive in the groove. I have goose bumps. I close my eyes and I’m there again, in the Dog and Gun, reporting on my third ever gig. When I hear his plaintive cry, my soul sails from my body. Billy K is alive.