Sunday 18 November 2007

Levi's Story 1

With a jolt eighteen year old Levi woke at a thunderous roar right by his head. He lifted his aching temples in shock and saw that the noise was coming from a convoy of juggernauts that were crashing along the carriageway beneath him. Relieved, he shut his eyes again: they were fifty yards away from where he lay dishevelled on the grubby slope of the autopista embankment.

Now conscious, but still confused, he touched his hair and his pale face. There was dirt in the wet corners of his mouth and an acute throbbing in the left side of his head. He lay still for a moment longer before pushing himself up onto his knees and falling back gingerly onto his dusty jeans. The sun was dazzling; he had to shade his ice blue eyes from the flashes of the glittering Mediterranean that stretched from the far side of the road on to the horizon.

‘Another night’; the familiarity of the situation steadied him. But even as it did he panicked again and felt his wrist anxiously for his watch. It was still there; his granddad’s old
Oyster. He took a deep, unpleasant breath of fumes and finally after a flying start, his heart rate had a chance to lessen.

He looked back down at the passing traffic, his shivers subsiding in the warm air. He could not recall the previous night as distinct from the others but he knew what it would have been like; he smiled knowingly.

There was certainly a girl involved, there always was: Levi fell in love, and out of love every second day. He considered Lucy, his old girl back in England, and shook his head. It hurt, and a flicker of malice momentarily dislodged the smile.

He brushed the grassy debris from his black shirt, casually noticing that it was ripped and ruined. Then he looked to his left knowing already what he would see. At a distance of two hundred yards along the scrubby noisy verge was the nightclub where he had spent most of the last week.

“So...” he said quietly to himself; his clear, correct accent was immediately drowned by the passing tyre roar. He looked at his watch, its face comforting him ‘… it’s ten thirty on Sunday February the 18th…’ and with a mental clunk he suddenly placed himself “…fuck I’m late for school.”

School started that evening than 1000 miles away in south east England, it was the end of half term.

No comments: