Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

4. Hard Times
Ihad spent many lonely, restless nights dreaming of
how I was going to greet my family when I was
released from prison. On the day, I settled for a
rudimentary hug from my mother and sister, and a slap
on the back from my old man. They hurried me out of
the prison gates and bundled me into the car. My mum
muttered something about a party and how the guests
would already be arriving. I smiled, seconds and even
minutes flashing past as a blur. My sister hugged me
again and told me how much she’d missed me. I forced
another smile. As we drew ever nearer to home the
conversation became stilted: I had little to tell them and
they had told me all in their letters. Slumping back in
my seat, I stared out the window and watched the birds
soar out majestically above the
hills, searching for food, secure in
their purpose.
We pulled onto our driveway
some thirty seconds later. The car
door was flung open and I was
coated in relatives. Some regulars,
others long lost. They grabbed
and prodded me, commented on
my weight loss, my muscle gain, my aged features. It
was as though I, their former golden boy, was a rough
diamond they were determined to polish up until I
regained my former glory. Tea was served soon after,
brought out promptly on the hour. As the wine flowed
more freely so did the chatter. I dipped in and out of the
conversation, riding it like a wave, jumping off
whenever things got too much for me.
At around ten-thirty my mother decided I must be
tired and ushered me up to bed. It had been made up
specially – duvets and pillows both uniform blue.
Thanking her, I cast aside my clothes and flopped down
on the bed, shuffling uncomfortably as the mattress
sunk down and threatened to engulf me. My mother
collected up my clothes and placed them in the washing
basket.
‘Breakfast will be at seven,’ she whispered, bending
down to kiss me on the forehead.
I murmured my acknowledgement and did my best
to sleep.
It was a rough night. Free from the catcalls of my
fellow cons and my cellmate’s snoring, I was left at the
I spent the rest of the day
being paraded around like a
trophy. By the end I had just
about perfected a false grin.
6
postgraduate fiction
mercy of my own dreams. Time and time again they
came and, try as I might, I was powerless to stop them.
Snippets of conversations, half-formed figures,
encounters long since forgotten. I saw my life before I
was sent down, I saw prison, and I saw my future. None
of it seemed all that different to me.
The next morning I slouched downstairs dead on
seven and was greeted by the glorious smell of wellgrilled
bacon. After bidding good-morning to all, I
pulled up a chair and sat down alongside my sister. She
smiled sweetly and offered to do something about my
hair. The bacon was placed in the centre of the table and
we all made a grab for it, laying slices out on slabs of
thickly buttered bread. The taste was unparalleled but
caused me to feel oddly nauseous. My stomach
churning, I left the table and
charged upstairs to the bathroom
to be sick.
I spent the rest of the day being
paraded around like a trophy. By
the end of it I had just about
perfected a false grin. After being
marched around the shops and
kitted out in the threads my
mother and sister agreed that I ought to be wearing,
and enduring a dinner of lamb and sweet potatoes, I
finally managed to slip away. Breathing deeply and
savouring every breath, I reached the edge of the street
and surveyed my surroundings, marvelling at how little
had changed in the three years I had been away. The
same people still scuttled around in the same houses,
doing the same things. I paused to admire the stars that
winked out in the night sky, stately yet ominous, the real
masters of the universe.
I pushed open the door to the ‘Jolly Bargeman’ and
stepped inside. The musty air hit me and I longed to
wipe it from my face. Over in the far corner sat my old
crew, drinking, smoking, playing cards, pretending not
to gamble. They hollered me a greeting and I raised my
hand in acknowledgement. The barman had already
poured me a pint when I got there. Someone must have
briefed him about my arrival. I paid for the drink,
fumbling my coins slightly, and took a seat alongside my
friends.
‘Great to have you back!’ One of them yelled
‘We’re up for a biggun tonight!’ yelled another.
‘Pub crawl next week? It’s Johnny’s birthday!’
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
World Gone Wrong
Ben Hart