All the stuff that had happened to me had happened, all the stuff that was going to happen hadn’t. Time was as still as the afternoon; May, like all memories become.
The Clash were asking ‘should I stay or should I go?’ from Hugh’s mono speaker, notes dropping down from the first floor windows onto the quad.
10 men sauntered past, whites camouflaged for blossom. Their leader cupped his hands around some words, intoned them into a request directed at Hugh’s room. I couldn’t make it out above the second verse. Answer was there none.
The man looked back at his team blankly then saw me for the first time.
‘You’ll do,’ he said. I was all in grey but he overlooked it.
Minutes later the red dot was hurtling towards me.
All the stuff that had happened to me had happened, all the stuff that was going to happen hadn’t.