The Periphery by Dave Rigby

I’m not sure I can run any further.  Henryk doesn’t seem to be following. Maybe I threw him off at the station gate. Not everyone can climb over.

My breathing is ragged, a mixture of breathlessness and fear. I slow to a walk, my feet soaked from the headlong dash through the lakes strung out across the deserted, potholed car park beyond the station. 

The curfew will start soon but I’ve nowhere to go. Zone 7 is unknown to me. Maybe I can make it as far as the Periphery, where shelter awaits.

He steps suddenly from the shadows, late-teens perhaps, automatic weapon at the ready as he demands my papers. It’s unusual for one of them to be out alone, no sign of a partner. He scrutinizes my pass. I’m not sure he can read. He tells me to take off my rucksack and tip the contents onto the pavement, under the dull orange glow of a streetlight, which zaps off and on at irregular intervals. The smell from the tannery seeps over me, making me nauseous. 

The remains of a sandwich, torch, street guide, pen, notebook and a photo of her. Until it’s all out there, at my feet, I can’t be sure, but I feel utter relief when the bolt-cutters fail to make an appearance. They must be back at the storage unit. The Guard prods the small collection with the toe of his unpolished boot, clearly disappointed. The contents of my pockets also fail to make the grade. I’ve learnt to travel light. He takes one of my cigarettes and lights it, removes the notes from my wallet – little enough – and gestures for me to pick up my belongings and disappear.

Momentarily, beyond his pock-marked face, I catch a glimpse over his right shoulder of a figure hovering in the shadows, just enough of an outline for me to know. I have to turn back, no chance now of reaching the Periphery. As I walk away, I know I’ll be safe for just a moment, ironically protected by the receding presence of the Guard. 

What would she do?  

I break into a sprint, my knee resenting the continuous pounding of the pavement. A dog barks in the distance, night clouds mass on the far hillside, the tower blocks are plunged suddenly into power-cut darkness. The bridge is high above the river. I’d expected the canal first but of course that’s beyond the railway line. Through missing stones in the parapet I can see Henryk moving quickly in my footsteps. 

She would jump. 

Swift currents swirl debris towards the Periphery. I cannot move. The waters closed over me that day, sucked me down, rescued only by chance. 

His smile drives me over the parapet. I know only too well what that look means. The torrent sweeps me away, plastic bags, tree branches, shapes I would rather not know about, the cold unbearable. On and on, barely conscious, teeth gritted until the river’s curve throws me onto the tiny shore.

In the half-light of the morning, rain dripping from the overhanging trees, I’m still breathing and Henryk’s not there.

Maybe she and I can meet again and we can start from the beginning.