The car practically rocks as I slam the door, hurling my bag to the passenger seat whilst unsuccessfully prodding at the ignition with my keys. He’s shouting and the roar unnerves me. I’d be useless as a getaway driver.
“Bo!”
The engines splutters, complaining as I jerkily shove the gear stick into first. My belt prevents me from shooting through the roof in fright as a palm claps to the driver’s window. It’s enough of a shock to have me press the universal lock on the doors. I don’t bother indicating out of the space because the street is quiet at this time of night and I have no desire to hang around. The hand smacks against the window again with more urgency this time. As I pull away the glass is streaked with hopeful fingertips, smudges that blemish any promises made.
I fail to shift into second gear because my brain has apparently disconnected from my feet and the mechanics of the car groan under my misguided pressure. The vehicle jolts and I’m left panting for breath in a stationary car. My hands come up to instinctively cover my face, using the philosophy of “if I can’t see it, it’s not there”. I haven’t quite mustered up to crying, so I sit here sobbing parched of tears.
The hand-break is yanked on and I cautiously swivel my head to check my blind spot. He’s not there. It’s not until I’ve unbuckled my belt and carefully vacate the car that I see him. Harry’s sat on the curb just out of range from the street lamp’s halo of light. Crowded in of himself, knees to his chest and head tilted down. All folded up, you’d never know the extent of his size.
It’s with a heavy heart I walk to him, sitting down to his right; just far enough away for us to look like strangers if anyone should pass us by. Harry’s head rises as if he can feel the air my body has displaced. He doesn’t look at me. The space between us is slowly being filled with all the things I can’t say. I’m afraid that any movement or vocal interaction will have Harry curl back up into his hedgehog position. We can’t sit here all night.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
The buzz of the world has fallen silent as if we’re the summit of existence. And it slowly kills me as Harry drags out the distance between spoken words. Please say something.
“For what?” he asks, as if there’s million things I could possibly be apologising for. There probably is.
“It was wrong of me to run. I shouldn’t have.”
He gently nods and I’m not sure whether it’s in confirmation that’s he’s heard me or if he agrees it was wrong of me to flee. I’m just happy for any sort of response as I delegate all concentration into observing the movement of his jaw, taking his lower lip to nibble between his teeth. A side profile is the best I’m offered.
“Are you –“ I begin, but my question is cut short.
“Why are you here?”
Even though the enquiry is addressed to the pavement, my crumbling exterior takes the brunt of it.
“I’m not really sure,” I admit.
Morbid curiosity I think, a lack of discipline and not possessing the strength to say, “enough, that’s enough”. I should never have returned.
“Bo, this isn’t the best of places during the day.”
Momentarily I glance down the road to see a few giggling women trip up the curb, handbags swing from their forearms, ignorant to the two us. They continue out of sight. Truth be told, I’m a little put out that that’s all he’s concerned with. I’m sat beside him and all he can think of to say is that I shouldn’t be here in the dark. Screw him.
