I am going to a restaurant in Hanwell, stopping first in one of the side streets to drop off both Siobhan and Liam. It is badly lit. And there is thick brown mud everywhere.
“I will park and meet you there.” They go on ahead. But I don’t need to move the car, I am already in a good spot, though my Citroën 2CV is pressed perhaps too close to the curb, hub caps and tires covered in mud. It is between a motorbike and some tree branches that have been thrown into the road. A tow truck hauls a dirty red skip past me, it blocks the view between the 2CV and me.
The car will be fine, I think and head off.
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I walk through a dark alley, boulders and thick mud everywhere. I head down a tunnel. I hear noises, people, threatening. The tunnel winds round to the right.
“Why don’t you come into my restaurant?” a young man says.
To the left I spot a neat diner in an alcove, a row of seats, clean with red and black décor. Originally I did not see it.
“You need a better sign,” I suggest.
He is writing today’s menu on a blackboard. The blackboard is hung up against the mud wall next to his restaurant.
“…And I have to meet up with my family.”
There are others there too.
“We wanted to stay away from the crowds as it’s Saturday night,” they tell me.
“I am lost,” I reply.
In chalk, they draw out a map on the mud floor. But the map only shows the town center, scrawled with stick figures, it doesn’t make sense.
I walk back the way I came, up through the tunnel and out into the alley. With relief I recognize the rocks and the mud. I make my way over them but suddenly the dark closes in. I can barely see. The blackness descends over the alley hiding the path. I scream.
(Do I imagine a glimmer of light appear in the distance?)
Image by inkflo
