Archways * The Van * The King


The archways under the bridge were smooth and shiny and reflected the shimmer of moonlight from 

the river.  He did not feel afraid of the place, as he might have done on a previous visit.  

Shadows which would have contained drug-fuelled muggers waiting to spring were now just dusty 

corners.  He felt as if he had a supernatural vision which guarded him from fear.

There was an old motorbike parked on the far side of the bridge, with two helmets strapped to 

the seat, but no sign of its owners.  The night was still and the foilage behind the bike was 

motionless, like those mediterranean nightas on the coast where the wind has disappeared with 

the heat.

He could hear some sort of pipe music in the distance.  There was a traveller camp somewhere 

over in that direction, and he liked the idea of them not knowing he was here.  He was excited 

and relaxed at the same time, he felt like lying down in the corner and going to sleep but he 

knew he wouldn't be able to sleep even if it was wise to try.

"You look different."

He knew it was Julianne, had there been any doubt she would come?

"I feel different."

She walked over to the white metal railing looking over the river, and he joined her.  The 

black bridge streched away from us, directly overhead.

"Anyone else would feel ashamed."

But he wasn't ashamed, and he knew she wasn't shamed by him, just like the raw music from 

across the field had no shame of not being a concerto.  What he did and what he was going to do 

was not part of the concept of shame.

"This time, no."

She looked at him, leaning on the white rail, the moonlight painting spurious expressions onto 

his upturned face.  She wanted him to explain, but he didn't feel the need to fill the silence. 

The lack of fear was extending into his speech, and he savoured it for a moment.  But it soon 

turned into a sort of compassion, it was unfair to play with her for his own amusement.

"When I was young, the shop on the end of my street was a pet shop."

He decided being confounding was another new aspect to his character, but she didn't rise to 

it, but let him continue.

"Now it's not."

Silence.  He knew much more of it would induce anger.

"The shop is the same, the wooden frontage, the shape of the rooms inside.  The taps in the 

back room, the glass in the windows.  But it's not the same shop, not by a mile."

She put a hand on his shoulder.  "Everyone changes."

He knew it was going to be alright.


* * * 


Nobody has ever asked why he drove a van, or why a van was better than a car or a motorbike.  

For a start, it had three seats in the front.  Coolness.  Also, it was a van.  A van!  No 

further explanation was neccessary.

At that moment, the van was parked on a grass verge in a residential housing estate. His father 

was sitting in the passenger seat, and an empty seat was between them.

"You know you promised us some things when we let you buy this van.", he said.

He groaned and slumped forward on the oversized steering wheel.  

"Dad, I appreciate all this parental duty crap you keep trying, but I'm too old for it."

Outside, the world kept moving like television.

"It's not going to end well for you, that's all."

"You've been saying that since I was a kid."

Even in the heat of the summer's evening he was in a suit jacket and tie, like a throwback to 

the fifties.  He didn't seem to sweat like anyone else, he was an alien relic.  He had grown up 

in a time where you had to work hard just to stay still, and that ethic had never left him.

"Dad, will you miss me when I've gone?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose by the middle.

"We both will."

But he knew that his father would be relieved.  This last few years since he left school had 

been the hangover on the uproarious party of his childhood for his father.  And it was growing 

more bitter as it went on.  The truth was he had departed fmo the roadmap his parents had 

prepared for him some time ago, and now he was a failed experiment hanging around the house 

reminding them of their failure.

"You left me a message on my answering machine, Dad."

"Oh, I was half awake, I wouldn't take any notice of that."

"I did.  It was the clearest thing I've heard you say in a long time."

He had his hand on the door handle, only half committed to staying the length of this 

conversation.  I started the engine, hoping to force a decision.


* * * 


The King sat in a throne which was completely moulded to his shape and caused him no 

discomfort.  He had remained motionless for many hours, simply watching and waiting for the 

start of the battle.  He wanted for nothing, but his heartbeat was getting faster and faster as 

the hour approached.

Small movements out on the fields fooled him into thinking it was starting, but it was mostly 

preparations being made by noncombatants, just serfs carrying wooden pallustrades and clearing 

ditches.  Birds were wheeling above the field in the early morning sun, unaware at the carnage 

that was due.

There was no sign of the enemy, who were over the hill on their knees making their peace with 

their gods.  This would be their last attempt on the King, their armies had been weakened and 

beaten by repeated failures.  The remnants of several disparate armies were joining together 

for a last attempt.

Something changed in the air.  The birds flew away, and fires were dampened down on the field.  

A thundering of feet was felt, not heard, long before the tips of pikestaffs were seen on the 

low hills surrounding the fields.  His generals emerged from the tents behind him, and stood 

before him in a cohort in his defence.

As they poured into the low valley, the King swallowed down a moment of fear.  They may be 

beaten remnants, but there was something about seeing them which gave him a premonition of 

dread. 

They drew closer.