The Curfew

 

Five past ten, five minutes after curfew, and I was miles from home. The night had hold of the streets under the watchful lamps. It skulked in alleys and behind trees and houses. I felt the gentle caress of the rain turn to nails. A disgusting night, cold and dead.

I had to get back to my pit, back to my unmade bed, to my crummy carpet, to my sink filled with grimy pans and tea stained cups, to the stained stainless steel spoon.  

I could take the long walk beside the leaden canal or the short walk through town. The rain made the decision for me. I wanted to get out of the cold, it always feels colder when you are wet through. The rain stopped as quickly as it began.   

I made my way across the empty street. I could hear the sound of my worn shoes clap the concrete, clap-clap-clap the concrete, breaking the silence of night. I ducked into an alley.

Moments after I sheltered in the dark, a yellow and black armored personnel carrier drove by. The electric company thugs were out, driving around trying to catch a citizen with an overdue electric bill. I had paid mine, but they didn’t care, if they got no joy from the bill scan, they would run me in for breach of curfew.

I thought of Megan, big Megan with her flowing golden hair and cellulite ridden buttocks. Megan was worth getting stopped for breach of curfew, an hour with Megan was worth a night in the cells.

I heard a scratching sound. I was not alone. There was something else moving around in the darkness. I saw its yellow-green eyes and then heard its mew. A little cat had snuck up for a stroke. I petted it and it purred. Poor little bastard, out on a rainy night with no one to keep it warm. I picked it up.

            ‘Put the pussy down,’ said a voice from the dark. A light shone from a lamp on the edge of dark sunglasses, it illuminated the barrel of a pistol and I heard the hammer cock. He was ready to drop me. I put the cat on the ground.

            ‘Put your hands behind your back and face the wall.’

I followed the command. I felt a hand on my ankles, then up my legs, around my groin, belly, under my pits, and neck. The cold proficiency of his hand unnerved me. It was automatic, authoritarian and unmistakably piggish.  He pushed my head into the wall.

            ‘Don’t try anything, I am a click away from calling in back up.’

            ‘You got the wrong man, I’m just walking home.’ I said with muffled haste. He pushed my face into the wall so hard I couldn’t speak. Then I felt his gun press into the groove of my neck.

            ‘What are you doing walking the streets after curfew?’

I said nothing.

            ‘Answer the fucking question?’

            ‘I lost track of time, I am on my way home.’

            ‘Home? Home? You don’t look like a man who can afford a home. I could kill you right now and no one would care, you are one of those people the world wouldn’t miss, an unknown, a number.’

            ‘I live in tower seventy-four, room 348, I am on my way home.’

            ‘That’s not a home is it, that’s a holding bay, for numbers, if I had my way, scum like you would be kept in tents outside of town. You don’t deserve such a luxury as your own room. I’d bung you in a military tent, thirty to one, and you’d be fed on out of date military rations. That would save the tax payer money. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to work the night shift dragging scum like you in for breach of curfew.’

He spoke into his radio.

            ‘Bring a van to Friggle Street alley, I caught another night owl.’

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