Zoology v. Anthropology
You hit the pavement, stagger to your feet, steady yourself. The cold slams against your face and you swallow a lungful of frost-filled air. It was hot in there, too hot, and too loud. The humiliation, those girls. How were you to know you were expected to pay her? You thought she had dropped something – a contact lens? They’re okay, your colleagues, but they do some strange things. A stag party – this is fun? A Jager-bomb smoke screen obscures the shame. You just want to get back to him.
It’s uphill all the way. You set off, striding on your long legs. They wobble a bit but, in your mind’s eye, you look confident, suave even. You imagine the long woollen overcoat gives you extra height, broad shoulders. You picture the ironic “varsity scarf” billowing in your wake. You stumble a little. Oops, nearly went over. No-one is watching from behind the curtained eyes of the dour, grey granite buildings. Keep going. Six hours to sleep it off and sober up. That conference paper won’t present itself. You rehearse as you stamp forward; “Rethinking the City: Community and Isolation in Post-Industrial Britain.”
‘Hey pal, got any spare change?’ You can’t locate the source of the voice.
You falter, almost stop, but caution keeps you moving.
‘Ah said, got any spare change? Ah’ve got a wee dug t’feed, man. Ah’m speaking to you. Snobby basturd.’
Footsteps behind. Don’t look round. Your heart, already pumping from the climb, starts to palpitate. Thud-thud-thud inside your ribcage. The shuttered greasy spoon, the halal butcher, the charity shop rush by. The footsteps keep coming. Don’t look round.
‘I’m speaking to you, ya prick.’
Salvation. Headlamps brighten the icy fog. Distant drum and bass, closer, louder – a stretched limo. They know you. The night fills with catcalls and wolf whistles.
‘Hey, hey, Johnny. Hi babe. Looking hot. Woohoohoo, waahay…’ The hens’ night.
The pink car slides by, a cloud of noise and fumes, petrol and perfume.
Quiet follows. The footsteps silenced, the startled predator gone.
The welcome face of the Hilltown Clock, wavering in the wintry haze, a stolid landmark between tenements and high-rises. The stairwell stinks of cannabis and cat’s piss. You don’t care. Two flights and he’s there, behind the locked door. You picture him curled tight, his warm sleepy smell, comfortable. Safe.
