We were stood in the livingroom. It was a Friday night...
A little baby was there, and tottered forward, dummy in mouth. This was the baby of a couple, maybe related to the Easeys. Ellen was there. She remarked at the baby "Oh, braw, etc, isn't it nice" but I was unmoved. The baby beamed brightly at us both. It seemed like a personal benediction, a blessing... I briefly saw us as a couple.
We bought cider at some shop. Ellen was with us. We wandered through streets and came to a darkened field on the hump of a hill. We sat in the grass. It was night.
The lake was nearby. We swigged the cider. I could barely stomach the taste of it, but glugged it down anyway. I'd brought a photo taken at school, of Mack, in one of my pockets. I showed him this and he briefly struck a match to see it.
The photo was taken in the winter, round the back of the technical block. A medium layer of snow was on the ground that day. Robert stood to the left, grinning, legs akimbo, rolling up a snowball. Mack was near him in a similar attitude. Jeremy Phelps was in the photo too, grinning, standing off to one side.
Immediately after taking the photo I got hit with a snowball and my camera crashed to the ground.
Where we were beside the lake it was completely dark, sinister, with a wide bleak sky overhead. On the horizon a flare of flame spurted up now and again. It was from some factory or refinery... You could hear it spurt and falter across the night.
From across and around the lake we heard loud yelling voices. They seemed distant, threatening, like bands of marauders. We heard echoing male voices, deep-throated. There was a feeling of danger in the air. Mack would grow uncomfortable. We moved on.
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