Tony rode along Brighton promenade on his white Lambretta. He gazed at the monumental hulk of the rusty West Pier jutting defiantly from the sea and recalled the fight that broke out forty years ago. The acrid smell of burnt wood and metal permeated through the salty seaside air.

       The fire had been headline news the night before and the media mingled nearby. Scum, Tony thought. His anger towards them had not diminished over four decades and how they had staged the fights for sensationalism. The pier represented something of their Britishness, but Tony was tinged with sadness that another piece of his past was destroyed. It meant far more than that – whatever Britishness meant! It stood alone like a dutiful sentry stripped of uniform and rank.

       He parked the scooter and removed his helmet, as the first spots of rain tapped against the gleaming chrome bars and mirrors. He had searched for and bought his old scooter. After restoring it to pristine condition, he sprayed red and blue lines that wove into a union flag that petered out into the words ‘England Is Mine’.

       The faint tattoo of rain and low rumble of thunder broke his reverie. Above the dark grey clouds, sun rays filtered through a gap over the horizon, creating a silvery sheen on the muddy water. He closed his eyes and felt the bracing wind and rain beat hard against his face.

       Tony lit a cigarette and pulled up his green parka hood. The unmistakeable growl of a Norton motorcycle made him turn his head. Shit, that’s all I need. Tony tried hard to focus on the pier. The motorcyclist pulled alongside Tony. Waves of uncertainty ebbed and flowed through his mind as he sucked hard on the cigarette and looked at the biker. After he removed his helmet, Tony nodded at him – a simple gesture of acknowledgement and his unease.

       He ambled towards Tony and stood next to him. ‘Sad mate. Very sad,’ he said.

       ‘Yeah.’ Tony offered him a cigarette.

       ‘Thanks mate.’ He cupped his hands around the lighter to stop the wind.

       The two stood silent as the weather turned into heavy rain. Tony’s parka was defenceless against the elements. He shivered, threw the cigarette onto the road and placed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.

       ‘Were you here in ’64?’

       ‘Yeah.’ Tony shifted uncomfortably.

       ‘Me too.’ He exhaled smoke and stared at his cigarette. ‘What was it all about?’ he asked.

       ‘Dunno mate.’

       ‘Mike,’ the biker said as he offered his hand shake.

       ‘Tony.’

       ‘Where ya from Tony?’

       ‘London. You?’

       ‘Cheltenham.’

       ‘Long way to come.’

       ‘Had to see her before she goes forever.’

       ‘Me too.’

       Mike ambled towards the pier. Tony shrugged his shoulders and then jogged to catch up with him.

       A reporter spotted an opportunity as they walked down to the shingle. The waves broke against the shore and left a scummy foam at their feet. The reporter stood at Tony’s side as the cameraman wheeled around to Mike for a head-on shot. The majesty of the pier and all it’s halcyon days had gone forever, but it stood proud like an angry sea god. The skeletal ballroom looked impressive as Tony recreated the former image in his mind but the twisted, broken frame pointed towards him in judgment. Tony dropped his gaze and scuffed the shingle. Everything showed signs of erosion. His youth had gone and now he was part of the same process, buffeted fire, storms and decay.

       ‘How do you feel right now?’ asked the reporter with a sickly smile.

       Tony looked at him with disgust. The reporter held Tony’s gaze until his smile dissipated. He nodded at the cameraman to keep filming. Tony turned away and saw his reflection in the camera lens. He noticed, for the first time, how ridiculous it was to hold on to the past. His symbolic parka was the hallmark of his identity. But he’d outgrown it. He was no longer the teenager who had stabbed someone on the pier and caused misery for someone’s parents. He had grown old and bitter – a twisted burned-out wreck with a limited life span. Tony shuffled away and left Mike on the shore.

            He folded his parka and pushed it through the thin slot of the black rubbish bin that was near his Lambretta. The sun disappeared behind thick grey clouds and the horizon disappeared. Tony kick-started the scooter and the pop-pop-pop of the exhaust briefly drowned the noise of wind and rain but not his conscience. 

I placed my suitcase by the door and draped my jacket over the solitary chair.

Wallpaper peeled at the edges, exposing cracks in the plaster and ironic graffiti; ‘RIP all who enter this room’ scribbled in shaky handwriting. The faded flower motif carpet, threadbare with cigarette burns, almost covered the floor. Only the smell of nicotine unified the decor.

The chair rocked on its uneven legs as I slouched onto it and lit a roll-up in a vain attempt to repress the onset of depression. I pulled the photographs from my suitcase and arranged them one by one. Three smiling children’s faces stared at me but I couldn’t focus through the fog of tears.

the bleached spine
hides its name

and stains
discolour
its image

the pages
are torn
creased
and thumbed

from over-use
and abuse

now
it gathers
dust

and waits
to be
recycled

‘To the best daddy in the whole world. I love you.’
As he read again, the words on the card, tears spilled from his eyes.
Kneeling, he said, ‘I love you too Honey. I’m proud to be your dad. You’ll always be my little girl.’
Desolate, he kissed her image, leaving tears on her photograph and flowers on her gravestone.

Baldwin, D., (2009) The Library’s Best, ReadMe Publishing, North Carolina.

Nominated for the 2008 Micro Fiction Award.

lovers’ hands

warp and weft

seamless spun

red stripes

on white canvas

lashes

of father’s belt

between beds.

Same time each day

taking out dead,

and replacing

with fresh.

If she strolled

around my

flower beds,

and borders,

she’d

see me

as the man

I used to be,

with gnarled,

weather-beaten

hands,

and not the bony,

cancer-ridden

carcass

I inhabit today.

But

she’s arranging flowers again

to cover

the smell of faeces

on the ward.

etched into the bark

of our childhood oak,

recumbent seat for lovers

and climbing frame for children.

The wind has no luck

With our sturdy roots.

and knows
how to play
her tune.

She moves
towards me -
a slow,
deliberate
walk
and asks for a light.

I look at her
looking at me
while lighting her cigarette.

Then she’s gone,
leaving
traces of perfume
dancing in the air.

I watch
the rhythm
of her hips
until

she stops,
turns
and gives me
one more chance

but I can’t whistle.