But, alas, I am not alone. My floating, wandering thoughts are interrupted by noises up ahead, where the sloping path leads to the supermarket on the first floor.
There is a group of them. I count five. You could throw a blanket over the lot of them. Only, it is not a perfect five: there is four, and then there is one. Those are bad odds for some poor sod, unless he happens to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. The four are tall and broad and they all look the same - white shirts hanging over grey trousers and crooked ties dangling over their chests. They circle like a pack of wolves: jaws dropped, mouths open, teeth coated with spittle. Their prey has his hands up by his face, hunched over at the shoulders.
Reminds me of when I was a kid, just a nipper, maybe ten years old. It was a grey Saturday afternoon in October. The zip of my coat was pulled high to my chin, leaving my neck warm but my cheeks rosy. The long, curved stick in my hand was prised, ready to cause havoc. I pulled back with my arm, ready to strike. It landed in the soggy, overgrown grass without even threatening its target.
I turned around, cowering like a dog that has been clipped around the ear.
“Won't hit any conkers if you throw like a girl...”
The three boys approached, hoods covering their ears. I knew their names, recognised their faces, but had never spoken to them. They were older, bigger, stronger. They were often laughing, but their laughter always threatened and mocked. Now, they stood in a straight line, forming a wall. They looked me up and down, mouths slanted. I dug my hands in my pockets, tried to hide that they were pink, that they were shaking. I wanted to show that I was friendly. I released a high-pitched giggle.
“Something funny...?”
One of the boys took a single step forward. He'd been eating prawn cocktail crisps. The other two boys took a single step forward. I longed to take more than one step backwards, and quickly, but I'd been taught not to.
“You three going in for a hug? Maybe a kiss...?”
I looked over my shoulder, and when I turned back to the three boys, I swear to God I felt ten feet taller. It didn't matter that there were three of them and two of us: I was with my big brother. We'd be fine. We always were.
“Come on, put one on my lips if you really must...”
Luke pushed his neck forward, elaborately puckered his lips. He, too, was shorter than the boys, but his shoulders spread wider, his bravado spanned further. The toughest boy grimaced. His heavy-set eyes clouded over. None of them were sure what to make of this newcomer. They didn't like the uncertainty. He turned around, held up his hand for the other two to follow suit.
“Couple of weirdo's,” he said, picking up his pace.
Now, the lone guy is me as a ten-year-old. I know him. I often take this route. I always say hello (being the friendly guy I am) and he always nods his head. Sometimes he smiles. Usually he does not. He is always in the car park. That is his job, his life. He is paid to collect and put away the abandoned trolleys, of which there are many. He is probably a few years younger than me, but he looks a good few years older, partly because his face is lined and weather-beaten and partly because he walks with a limp, like he can't quite fully stretch one leg. His eyes are always glassy, like a punch-drunk boxer who isn't sure he'll make it to the bell.
He is, in effect, an easy target for four teenage schoolboys with time to kill.
Judging by their size and the sprinkling of angry red spots on their foreheads, I estimate the boys to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. It is, I think, probably the optimum age to be idly hanging around a supermarket car park in the middle of the day, bunking off school and causing strife.
"Here you go, Ken," one of the boys says. He dutifully wheels a trolley towards Ken, kindly gives him a helping hand. The boy halts the trolley just a few short feet away from Ken's black shoes. There is a pause. Ken considers his options. Stand still and wait, or reach out for the trolley? Ken is aware that he is damned if he does, and damned if he doesn't. He stands still, with his crinkled hands on his hips. The boy doesn't move. His eyes don't flinch. He dares Ken to move. Ken doesn't want to wait, for the humiliation builds with every passing second. He lunges for the trolley like Superman on incapacity benefit.
The boy swiftly pulls the supermarket trolley to one side. Ken stumbles past him, suddenly a befuddled Frankenstein. The boy kicks him on the backside. Ken loses balance and ends up with his hands grazing the floor and his face just inches from the tarmac. The boys are no longer wolves. They are hyenas. They jump around with bent legs and long arms, laughing hysterically.
I have time. The boys don't even know I'm here. Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I take a quick look at the photograph. Just a glance is enough. I pull back my shoulders, jut forward my neck, muscles tensing.
"You alright, mate?" I ask. Ken takes my outstretched arm and then he is back on his feet. He brushes down his shirt. The boys stop laughing.
