Evocation

And stepping out of work to come home at 7:00pm, and it's dark. Oh, take a breath in, and we're back there, and Joe might still be living in Brighton; 'pier coffee and then House of the Dead?' or Andy might text from the Battle of Trafalgar, and I might not have to be at work until the afternoon shift at the petrol station the next day, Guinness and then cheap Vodka bought from some late off-license, 2008 or 2004, or it might be 2009, and Tales from Bridge 39 already started. Searching not for memory but for resonance, and that month, that first month in the bedsit is rich with it. The dark cosiness of the long room evenings, buying comics from Dave's Comics, trying to read them in bad light, roll-ups with Pam outside of Telegen, singing Lovecraftian hymns with Tom, and that nonsensical rhyme we used to chant, originally from Andy's dream mate your onions are hanging out, hung for a sheep as well as a lamb. Then I walk up by Churchill Square and I taste woodsmoke, and this is old... my grandfather's house in Stone. Christmas cold, and someone in those sloping gardens of Stanklyn Lane, there's a fire, and the fire tastes of ice and fields and a house that had an open fire and no central heating, and those nights in that haunted house (the first haunted house) were deep and forever, and the attic-air of the landing seemed heavy with trapped stars...