Long Journey's End | Mark Howard Jones
It had been a long train journey and he'd had to change at two rain-washed, godforsaken stations, huddled inside his damp jacket. But now Craig recognised the final stretch of line into Widowsham and he felt a sense of relief.
He hadn't seen Steve for a while. The phone call inviting Craig to visit had been brief as they intended to 'catch up' in the pub on the day.
Steve rarely left the town, making it to the city only occasionally on one of his 'escapes', as he called them, so Craig felt it was only fair that he should make the effort this time. He had only been to the town once before. Then they had driven straight through and out to a bonfire party at a nearby farm.
He had forgotten how small the place was. Just two lines of houses and shops, lined up like a row of uneven teeth at the foot of a hill dotted with a few farms.
For some reason the single platform station stopped just short of the town, as if the engineers building it had run out of rails before they reached their intended destination. So Craig was faced with nearly a quarter-mile walk in the drizzle.
By the time he reached the first of the shops, the rain had more or less stopped. Still Craig didn't hang around, wanting to get to Steve's place quickly. But he took time to appreciate the glories of Widowsham as he passed by.
The place was deserted. The shops were open, according to their signs, yet nobody was coming and going. True, it was a damp and grey Tuesday morning in autumn, but this was ridiculous. No wonder the place was dying, he thought. How could anybody live here?
Most of the shops looked badly neglected. While some appeared dirty and unkempt, others leaned over awkwardly where subsidence had no doubt begun to take effect. The gaps between them were clogged with rubbish and bits of wind-blown detritus.
Some of the shops were smaller than others. One barber's shop looked so tiny that Craig was amused to think that it must have started as a much larger shop, becoming worn down to a stump of its former self by over-use.
Finally he reached the address Steve had given him. It was an ordinary terraced house with an ornamental brass knocker on the door. But when Craig reached for the shiny object to announce his arrival, he was unable to grab it. His fingers hit something hard and flat. He leaned forward and peered at it closely, raising his glasses for a better view.
Then he reached out once more for the door knocker. It was painted on. As was the door behind it. In fact, the entire house was an illusion. Just paint on a wall.
He stepped back and looked at the house and shop on either side of him. They were painted, too. On closer examination he saw that the house to the right needed re-painting; it was starting to disappear.
The shops and houses all seemed to be made of the same thing. Beneath the flaking paint, everything was the same hard discoloured white material. The entire town was a fake; an enormous film set plastered in paintings that tricked the eye. He stood in the street, looking around him. Had he got off at the wrong place? Was this in fact a vast film set, only waiting for the actors and crew to arrive?
Just as he was thinking that this might explain the lack of people, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned in time to see a figure dashing into the narrow gap between two shops. Craig ran to the place and peered in. The shops leaned towards each other and the alley was piled high with old boxes and other rubbish. There was no sign of anyone. Then footsteps betrayed that the figure had doubled back behind the buildings (or whatever they were) and was running down the street. Craig turned and began to run after it.
He could see that it was a man. "Hey," he shouted. His cry seemed to startle the man, as he slipped on the still-wet streets and landed in a heap outside a shop.
Craig soon caught him up. The figure looked ragged and dirty. So much so that it took several seconds for him to recognise his friend. "Steve?"
Steve struggled to his feet, brushing long matted hair out of his eyes. "Go away. Quickly. Leave!" he hissed, urgently.
Craig continued to walk towards him. "But ... you invited me to come here for the day," he protested. Steve began to move backwards quickly, eager to get away. "I had to. Had to. I'm sorry!!" Then he turned and began to run. Craig was dumbfounded as he stood and watched Steve run the length of the street and start along the road leading up into the hills beyond. What sort of game was he playing?
He decided to follow his friend. He'd only taken two steps when the ground at his feet opened up like a giant mouth. As he fell, screaming, the buildings clattered in after him, crushing him between them like rotten teeth.
It had been a long train journey and he'd had to change at two rain-washed, godforsaken stations, huddled inside his damp jacket. But now Craig recognised the final stretch of line into Widowsham and he felt a sense of relief.
He hadn't seen Steve for a while. The phone call inviting Craig to visit had been brief as they intended to 'catch up' in the pub on the day.
Steve rarely left the town, making it to the city only occasionally on one of his 'escapes', as he called them, so Craig felt it was only fair that he should make the effort this time. He had only been to the town once before. Then they had driven straight through and out to a bonfire party at a nearby farm.
He had forgotten how small the place was. Just two lines of houses and shops, lined up like a row of uneven teeth at the foot of a hill dotted with a few farms.
For some reason the single platform station stopped just short of the town, as if the engineers building it had run out of rails before they reached their intended destination. So Craig was faced with nearly a quarter-mile walk in the drizzle.
By the time he reached the first of the shops, the rain had more or less stopped. Still Craig didn't hang around, wanting to get to Steve's place quickly. But he took time to appreciate the glories of Widowsham as he passed by.
The place was deserted. The shops were open, according to their signs, yet nobody was coming and going. True, it was a damp and grey Tuesday morning in autumn, but this was ridiculous. No wonder the place was dying, he thought. How could anybody live here?
Most of the shops looked badly neglected. While some appeared dirty and unkempt, others leaned over awkwardly where subsidence had no doubt begun to take effect. The gaps between them were clogged with rubbish and bits of wind-blown detritus.
Some of the shops were smaller than others. One barber's shop looked so tiny that Craig was amused to think that it must have started as a much larger shop, becoming worn down to a stump of its former self by over-use.
Finally he reached the address Steve had given him. It was an ordinary terraced house with an ornamental brass knocker on the door. But when Craig reached for the shiny object to announce his arrival, he was unable to grab it. His fingers hit something hard and flat. He leaned forward and peered at it closely, raising his glasses for a better view.
Then he reached out once more for the door knocker. It was painted on. As was the door behind it. In fact, the entire house was an illusion. Just paint on a wall.
He stepped back and looked at the house and shop on either side of him. They were painted, too. On closer examination he saw that the house to the right needed re-painting; it was starting to disappear.
The shops and houses all seemed to be made of the same thing. Beneath the flaking paint, everything was the same hard discoloured white material. The entire town was a fake; an enormous film set plastered in paintings that tricked the eye. He stood in the street, looking around him. Had he got off at the wrong place? Was this in fact a vast film set, only waiting for the actors and crew to arrive?
Just as he was thinking that this might explain the lack of people, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned in time to see a figure dashing into the narrow gap between two shops. Craig ran to the place and peered in. The shops leaned towards each other and the alley was piled high with old boxes and other rubbish. There was no sign of anyone. Then footsteps betrayed that the figure had doubled back behind the buildings (or whatever they were) and was running down the street. Craig turned and began to run after it.
He could see that it was a man. "Hey," he shouted. His cry seemed to startle the man, as he slipped on the still-wet streets and landed in a heap outside a shop.
Craig soon caught him up. The figure looked ragged and dirty. So much so that it took several seconds for him to recognise his friend. "Steve?"
Steve struggled to his feet, brushing long matted hair out of his eyes. "Go away. Quickly. Leave!" he hissed, urgently.
Craig continued to walk towards him. "But ... you invited me to come here for the day," he protested. Steve began to move backwards quickly, eager to get away. "I had to. Had to. I'm sorry!!" Then he turned and began to run. Craig was dumbfounded as he stood and watched Steve run the length of the street and start along the road leading up into the hills beyond. What sort of game was he playing?
He decided to follow his friend. He'd only taken two steps when the ground at his feet opened up like a giant mouth. As he fell, screaming, the buildings clattered in after him, crushing him between them like rotten teeth.