A Journey In The Storm

Here,' I say in the car, giving him the sweets that Edna gave me.

I tell him not to have any more than a couple before supper and to save the rest for later or another day. We barely talk on the way home. Jazz FM plays on the car radio, my favourite station. Those harmonies and dissonances calming my mood, my mind, and distracting me from Stan's talk of police corruption.

The journey home is rough, the steadily darkening sky warning of a prairies-like storm. Rain falls in pails down the windscreen, making it difficult to see through the glass. The rain sweeps across the surrounding grass verges in a downpour, splattering on the road ahead, blowing against fences and pylons and signposts.

At Kiddlestone village, lightning streaks across the horizon, capturing a frozen shot of The Factory in the valley: brown, muddy-red brickwork with turret-like windows and a tall chimney to one side.

Thunder, then more lightning and another glimpse of The Factory with the metal fencing surrounding the car park and the cooling towers and pylon grid further on. Austere.

Torrents of rain, gusts of wind. Snapping branches and soaked leaves strewn along pavements. The steep winding road to the bottom of the valley glazed from the rain. Tiny streams of waters trickle down the hill to join the river at the other side.