Going Nowhere

I watched the sun set over the furrowed brow of the hills before I settled down for the night. It had been a long day on the road. I pitched the flimsy tent I was carrying before the dusk settled down in a dark mist to form the night. The moon seemed to sail upwards, as if someone somewhere played with a different yo-yo. The tent flap was zipped just in time, as mosquitoes swarmed towards my tent: their Mecca. I lay back with a cigarette clenched between my lips and prayed for the dawn of a new day.

As the sun broke through the early clouds, I awoke and clambered from my sleeping bag to greet it. I unzipped the flap, stepped out, unaware of my own nakedness, and lapped up the new warmth hurled forth from space. I examined my nude body for mosquito bites and found none; a first on my travels. Awkwardly, I pulled on my clothes and packed the tent away, clumsily. I spied a stream one hundred yards or so to my left and, kettle in hand, I went to get breakfast started.

The water felt cool against my hands and so I decided to swim before I ate. The stream of water barely covered me as I lay on my back, but occasionally it caught my by surprise by rearing up like a frightened horse to infiltrate my nostrils as I took a breath. I coughed and floundered in the shallow depths.

Drowning, drowning, I thought before my senses could take control and haul me into the air. I attempted to appear nonchalant but my fluster stood bold. Nothing could see me, near me, but still I felt something watch my predicament. The pangs of hunger that drifted from the hills and I instantly forgot my foolhardy attempt at drowning. It was shallow as the water I was lying in.

I filled the kettle, gathered some sticks with which to construct a fire and headed off back to abstract collection of artefacts I needed when travelling. I lit a cigarette on arrival; then I lit the chaotic bundle of sticks, watching as the flames licked around the base of the pile. I placed my kettle on a stand over the fire and prepared my tea.

Reaching into my rucksack, I produced two thin slices of bread – white and threadbare. I pushed a stick through one slice and held it over the flames to toast, while the kettle began to build to a whistle. Soon a prominent tune was breaking the silent haze of the morning. Breakfast was ready.

I finished eating and washed up in the stream. I re-packed my battered rucksack and trudged back to the road. It would be a long, hot day and I exercised my thumb as cars sped past. My heart sank as the brake lights failed to glow. I had better luck at my fourteenth attempt and found myself climbing into the bucket seat of a red saloon. I turned to face my new chauffeur.

She was definitely going my way.

I was sucking on a joint she had rolled, sparked and then passed to me. Her name was Sheila and she was "just driving to nowhere, looking for some fun." We were kindred spirits, except I was without the wheels. I passed the joint back and lit a Marlboro.

We stopped off at the Petit Café at the roadside and took a seat. I ordered scrambled eggs, butter-soaked toast and a pot of tea for each of us. Over the next half hour we discussed our private lives and the distant years I thought I’d forgotten were dredged up, as if to prove that pain could never be relinquished. Sheila remained quiet as I told of my past. The skeletons in my closet weren’t few and far between, by any means. Honesty hurts sometimes, but lying makes honesty feel like a holiday in paradise so I spare her the bullshit and lay all my cards on the table.

Now, it was her deal.

I could see she sensed my being honest and she spilled out story after story, spewing out thought after thought until finally she was spent. Our lunch arrived to break the spell and we both ate heartily to fill the void we had just opened.

Hell might be hot, but it’s no comparison for a paradise lost.

Back in the car, another joint was passed back and forth and looming black mood shrank back. The rear view mirror was clear, nothing bad was following us. The laughter emanating from the car overshadowed the noise of the engine. We looked for somewhere to pitch the tent.

Today was a day the Gods would forever remember.

We both woke to the sound of rain on the tent, our sleep shattered. One of the seams had started to leak and Sheila laughed as a solitary drop of water slithered down my forehead and sat on the bridge of my nose before plunging off the precipice, headlong into the sleeping bag. I packed my belongings and stepped out naked, into the rain. The pins of water stuck in body as I showered.

We left the tent standing in the clearing; a monument to our travels together. I knew the trees would stand guard on the treasure if we should ever have to return; Sheila said "X marks the spot" and had drawn a huge cross in the mud with a stick as the rain lashed around her.

I made tea in the car and rolled a joint for Sheila; I lit a Marlboro and watched the cross she had drawn disappear in the marauding quagmire. She laughed. That was a morning not forgotten.

I drove as Sheila took a nap in the passenger seat. She smiled even as she slept. I could never sleep in the day but Sheila, well, she could sleep at any time. I was feeling hungry. I pulled the car into a lay-by and cut the engine. Sheila didn’t stir.

I reached over into the back seat and hunted around for some food, a packet of chips I knew was lying back there. My hand came across something cold. I gripped it and pulled it over to the front.

That was the final thing I care to remember. Now, I am prisoner 6439916/B and I sit alone in my cell. They wouldn’t let me attend her funeral. It was an accident. Twenty-five years is all I have to look forward to now. I’m going nowhere.