4.2

 

When Paul rolled his chip wrapper into a ball, wiping his greasy mouth and fingers with whatever bit looked cleaner than the rest he stood, offering to dispose of Roisin's. She nodded, digging into the ever-widening hole to dredge out the last of the potato-y goodness before adding its bulk to his outstretched hand. He crossed to the sink and dropped both packets into the bin in the cupboard beneath. "I'm going to bed," he told her. I've got to be up at six for my other job."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You have two jobs?"

"Three, if you count the stone carving, which I do," he said. "I'd do that full time if I could, but you've got to pay the bills somehow."

"Yeah, I suppose so. What do you do in your morning job?"

"Shop assistant in a newsagents on Sherwood Street. Not sure how long I'll have it, though. There's precious few sales in newspapers these days. Everyone gets their news through the internet. I know I do, so what's the point of carting bundles of paper to every door when a data stream is so much more convenient?"

"Is it, though? I heard data centres use more power than a small independent country and generate a bigger carbon footprint than a flight to Los Angeles."

"I can't speak for that." Paul yawned, wide-mouthed and loudly. "I've never been on a plane."

"Really?" She frowned. "But you came from Ireland to another island."

"By train and ferry." He shuddered. "Going home is a full twenty-four hours of misery, and that's if I'm not carrying any bags. With bags I may as well be traversing the Scala Sancta."

"I'm sorry, the what?"

Paul laughed. "The Holy Steps. You can only go up them on your knees reciting the Hail Mary."

"And that's worse than travelling for twenty-four hours?"

"Probably not. Good point." He grimaced. "The point is, I'm tired, I have to be up in four hours and I'm going to bed."

"Fair enough. I'm going to walk off these chips before I turn in."

"Rather you than me. On the other hand, I've just had a thirty minute walk from work. Do you need the bathroom before you go?"

"No, all good." She rose and grabbed her jacket. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Aye that." He trod slowly up the corridor and into the bathroom, where she heard the lavatory seat make its distinctive clunk as it was lowered. She went down the thirteen steps to the ground floor and opened the door, taking a deep breath of the night air before stepping out.

Pulling it shut behind her, she crossed the bin area and looked back. She'd left the light on in her room, which was wasting electricity but would be a welcoming guide to coming back. The downstairs flat was dark but for a single carriage lamp outside the front door, which seemed less of a burglar deterrent than a convenient gathering spot to exchange whatever passed as gossip between moths and other starlight insects.  Out of the gate, had there been a gate in place of the vacant space between two waist-high brick pillars, she turned left, away from the town and the brightly lit steeple of St Peter's church, currently shrouded in scaffolding and sheeting like a pirate galleon raiding along the shores of Spanish missionaries.

Ten minutes later she stopped at the junction of Dunstall Road and Gloucester Street, where a traffic island guided taxis and sporadic late-night buses past the tangle that was Evans Street. She stopped. leaning against a wall to sketch the tableaux of a lit bus stop against a backdrop of trees over a garden fence. The shelter was constructed of Plexi-glass and house a line the three rotating seats attached to the rear wall, neither low enough to sit in, nor high enough to perch on, barstool like. They seemed designed to specifically dissuade people from being in the shelter for any extended time. The scene was reminiscent of Hopper's 'Night Hawks', but the absence of patrons make it look desolate rather than a welcome refuge for insomniacs. She added notes for depth of colour and the impressions of the trees, both those framing the shelter and the one fallen and sawn into chunks as big as her torso in the centre of the traffic island.

A little further on, the pavement on the far side of the road was fenced off by a series of temporary hurdles bearing the words North and Wales Gas Company. Do Not Cross," with a temporary sign on an A-frame pointing the way around the obstruction. She considered it thoughtfully. As an A frame, it was sturdy metal, with struts bracing its width and a fold out rear prop. The Keep Left sign was attached to the stand with two cotter pins through holes drilled into the metal triangle, and she had an idea.