Left shoulder, right shoulder, hand-brake, blind spot and go. Going places going nowhere: incomparable, these drive-through dead ends, for the turn in the road, the left reverse, the parallel park. The Cop Shop container sits on the green, the youngsters sit on the Cop Shop. Chased through the streets by it, Eiffel took lunch in his tower to give it the slip. Perched on their box the boys are invisible to it, the twockers, the twaggers, the ASBO cases. They sit in a row and they smoke.
Some of their hood zippers go all the way up. All the better to. Set gas. We practise my manoeuvres to their noisy derision. Biting point. Come down here and say that. Observation. Children, children, have you thought of the joys of the open fields behind you, the free-roaming dangerous dogs and pasturing horses, the ditches and pylons? One left reverse later, proceed to:
* White-tie reception on traffic island.
* Dog-hanging competition from lamppost.
* Boarding up of occupied properties (occupiers inside at the time).
* Abandoned white goods, landscape gardening of.
The boys go silent, they sit there and smoke. No one is really bothered, about me or anything else. I’m not bothered. Some girls arrive and the boys share their fags and turn a stereo on. They mess around with some papers and fire. They unfurl a large banner and drape it over the Cop Shop. It reads ‘Welcome to [placename]. Twinned with your Darkest Thought.’ Except of course for the fact that. What. Unless. What. This already is my darkest thought. A pocket of antimatter tears open inside my head, I file my thought-twinned-with-itself away inside it, it seals itself in and dissolves. A turn in the road, a left reverse, a parallel park. That showed them. Mind the kerb. Stop. Stop. Stop. Now go. Go, go, go!
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