Hiding

When this wind came in, we had to hide. But it happened too soon to go and close the door, the one that swung about and let the cold in. When you're cowering behind the furniture, in a fort you've made as quickly as you can, like being forced back into childhood out of necessity, you know that going out there, and not just outside the fort but around the whole house practically, is out of the question. It would be better with the door closed though. It would be warmer for one thing. We're hid in here against the wind, seeing just a slice of the grey skies moving outside, and having a door open goes against what we're doing. Sarah kept saying so, kept repeating it. That wasn't helpful and could get annoying. Still none of us went to shut that door. This was a wind that dropped into you and compressed your hope until there's wasn't anything useful inside. This wasn't just a drop in pressure, this was the world eating itself, and when you're just a passing flicker of something on the surface of a world that's eating itself, you don't feel safe. This was a wind that took away all the joy and ease that was there before. We were paralysed, not even able to help ourselves. Sitting there thirsty and cold, what were we supposed to do?

14

Them days you looked one way and there was nothing but sea. This was before the bridge of course. If you looked behind you, you saw nothing that way too. Only fields going all the way up the hill. Up toward the parish church they were marked out, but toward the point it was all windswept, rough land. You were forever on the edge of emptiness. The sea rose up, white foaming, while the gales wrenched trees out of the earth and went almost to pick you up from where you stood. Still, when it was calm and you were out in thick darkness, it was like your blood was running slower and slower, threatening to turn to stone.

The bunkers were a series of playgrounds to us. There were even old ovens built into the walls, where we burned stuff for a laugh. Our favourite hangout was in one of these war relics, hidden by overgrown brambles. We'd mess about until smoke poured out of the hole in the ceiling where the gun turret had been.

Hard men lived up there on the point. They must have froze and thawed out time after time. We'd come up the track, heading for a swing rope of ours and discover them cooking rabbit. They wouldn't chase us, just stop us with a stare. They'd shout "Get out of it" and we'd scarper.
Up to our bunker one clear day, we found a dead tramp. A mess of flies rose up when we got too close to him. We watched him in silence before running off and never reported it.

10 minute Keith Richards 'Life' extract reworking.