What’s in the bag, sunshine?

Stuck in Folkestone with an hour to kill. unfortunate expression, considering the plot of a novel that’s been filling my head for a week or more. I perched for a moment on the arm of a wooden bench. A brass plaque said, “In memory of Dennis Clarke 1938 – 2003. A true friend and a devoted husband and father. He loved his work. Presented by his colleagues at Johnson and Son.” Devoted husband and father who loved his work? A bit of a contradiction there, I thought, doing the maths in my head. Died at 65. Retired and popped his clogs straight away. Perhaps he really did love his work. He didn’t last long after he stopped work; that was for sure.

A small white cloud rushed across the sky like a runaway swan, but in the lee of the gleaming three-storey buildings the air was still and quiet. In the absolute silence, you could have heard a nun fart.

A man, twenty-five or so, walked past the bench and glanced at it without particular interest. Poor Dennis, no bugger cares. Including me. He had one of those fancy facial hair jobs that always make me want to puke. The upkeep on those narrow strips of beard and fancy curved sideboards must be a right pain. Far more trouble than the scrape of a razor now and again or three days of stubble. In my experience – trust me, I really study this stuff – facial decoration of this kind was the hallmark of someone who really loved himself. The man walked round the corner and out of sight, still believing he looked the dog’s bollocks. Pretentious twat.

A police car drove slowly down the road, the officer in the passenger seat looking at tax discs on car windscreens. He favoured me with a hard stare that I returned with interest. I’d have to check online, but as far as I’m aware, loitering without any discernible intent was surely not a crime. I checked my pockets. £3.56. That’s good, not likely to be picked up for vagrancy then.

The police car turned round and headed back towards me. This could go either way. I’ve never been one for turning the other cheek. I’m doing nothing wrong. What possible interest could they have in me? Almost without noticing, I clenched my fists. If they wanted trouble, I’d give it them. The car came abreast, slowed slightly, both officers favouring me with long, hard looks.

The car didn’t stop. Moved on. Attention reverting to parked cars and out of date tax discs. I relaxed. They wouldn’t be back. I picked up my carrier bag from the side of the bench, tied a further knot at the top. It wasn’t leaking, not yet anyway, but there was always the chance. Not recommended, especially when wearing brand new jeans. That’s the only problem with human heads when they’re still fresh. After a day or so, they’re fine, but the early stages are ruinous to clean clothing.