3. The Ballard Opening
An Incident on The King's Way
Midday(ish)
At midday(ish) on a sun-spattered Friday that looked very much like any other day apart from the sun, a throaty pick-up truck broke hard on the arrow-line of the two-lane through-road that stretched across the front of the train station. It was slow traffic, but still the grinding mechanisms of the old truck shuddered under the heavy pedal and the whole thing slammed still one clattering panel of rusting metal at a time and the screech was all end of the world. The driver, shirtless, pink at the shoulder and the bridge of his nose, propelled forward in his cracked leather seat, his open Sun newspaper flung up onto the dash from his lap like a limp airbag, and he leaned out the window, his fingers extended to a V ready to express his anger, and he began spurting expletives at the old woman with the wheelie bag who had stepped out in front of him - in good time, it should be said - and forced his eyes from the naked breasts he was evaluating on page three of his daily. On seeing it was an old woman, shuffling and wrapped in layers of wool, he stuttered over his worst word, but he had started it now, and pedestrians were watching as he went for what was, in his mind, the best of a bad situation and finished by calling the old woman a “stupid cunt”.* She ignored him, or, hopefully, didn’t hear him at all, and shuffled on, perhaps half-hoping some grizzled old machine would speed through the lights and annihilate her, pass through her like a lace curtain and disintegrate her bones and flesh, all of it so light now, flesh like bacon and bones like that of a small garden-variety bird. The driver retreated back through the window to live with what he’d found himself doing - calling an old lady a thing like that, it would make him ashamed and angry for days to come and add to the card deck of shame and anger that was dealt inside him on a rolling whim. What if someone had said that to his nan? He’d kill then, that’s what. Crush their skull with his front tyre. But he held firm. His shame intensified his snarl, nothing other than that. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a fat man on a park bench stamping his cane in disapproval and he stuck the V at him too, added a “what the fuck you looking at, old man?” - they call that doubling down nowadays and nobody ever feels the better for it. And while the motion was paused and the insults were flung, and the old lady went down the bend of Cambria Street, two lads come up the other way, pass the old woman, oblivious to the halted truck, hands rooted into pockets, shoulders hunched, the hangovers written all over their sorry faces and sorry bodies. But we’ll meet these two boys later. Properly.
* don’t worry, this guy is not a recurring character and we won’t be following him on his journey to redemption as he probably doesn’t go on one.