Page 55 of Mayfly

“Who the fuck do you think you—” Just as quickly as he erupted, Issak cuts himself off, and calmly agrees. “Fine. I’ll have it approved by lunch. Now write down this code.”

My body is stiff, my mind is frustrated, and my heart is longing for this shit to be over.

Gripping the hotel’s monogrammed pen, I press into the paper so hard that the combination of letters will be dented into the wood.

R — E — P — O — O — R — T

It’s only the second train of the day and it’s already running late.

I check my phone and sigh. I've only been waiting nine minutes, but it feels like an eternity.

Slipping my phone back into the inside breast pocket of my coat, I reflexively feel for my gun with the back of my hand. I just know I’m going to need it today.

The chime of the incoming train rings, and within seconds my coat is flapping open as the charging engine breaks through the air. I dig my hands back into my pockets, and pull it together at the front so no one can see what they don’t need to.

“The train on Platform two terminates at Woolwich Arsenal. The next stop is Canning Town, then West Silvertown. Mind the gap.”

I audibly sigh as the phrase’s familiarity punches me in the gut.

How did I do it for so many years?

How did I wake up every day and keep going?

The doors slide closed behind me and I lean against the wall with my shoulder. The train is empty, but there’s no point in sitting down.

The subtle clack-clack-clack of the track’s hypnotic rhythm steals my focus for several minutes, just like it used to.

Getting up early and leaving for school before dad woke up was a routine I found that worked. With no breakfast and no business being there at 7am, I’d sit alone outside the front gates for the first teacher to arrive at 8:30. By the time I built up enough courage to talk to Curren, I only had one year to bring him with me before I started high school.

I think those mornings are what saved me; having him beside me, so tired he had to rest his head on my shoulder.

Once, when he fell asleep, I held his hand. I remember it being so cold. I tried to sandwich it between mine to keep it warm, but I woke him and he pulled away.

I never tried again.

Not till the night we ran away.

“You are now arriving at West Silvertown station. Please mind the gap.”

Fuck the gap.

I have to raise my arm to shade myself from the lingering sunrise.

Am I even in London?

It’s too bright here. Too cheerful. There’s early morning joggers, dog walkers, and a cafe already open.

If it wasn’t for the derelict eyesore that is the Millenium Mills wool shed and Silo D still standing on the giant plot of undeveloped land, I don’t think I’d believe it.

My shoes tap on each of the stairs as I trudge down them.

With no real intention, I swing my feet forward, scuffing with every step as I walk up and back along the footpath by the stairs.

I don’t want to search the area beneath the over-passing tracks.

I don’t want to open the locker and begin something that might never allow me to return to him.

“Nice morning.” An old man walking two French Bulldogs greets me in a very un-London way. With a surprised nod, I spin on my heel and march to the other side of the stairs.

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