Sottopassaggio by Nick Alexander

Author:Nick Alexander
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books Ltd
Published: 2011-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

The town centre is quiet; few people walk the streets. Young men in big shirts and shiny ties head to their day’s labour behind the tills of Next, Burtons, Nationwide; girls with tied blonde hair wear little black dresses and disappear into French Connection.

I head up past the clock tower and as I cross the broad pavement towards Churchill Square, I wonder if Sports World will be open yet.

I glance around for a clock, but something else catches my eye, someone I know. I slow to a stop. I watch him step from the bus, watch as he crosses in front of me.

My heart starts to race. Steve!

It’s can’t be Steve of course. Wrong town. “Steve is in Nice not Brighton,” I think. “Steve is dead.”

But he has Steve’s walk, Steve’s hair. He’s even dressed in the same casual sporty clothes that Steve wears. “Wore,” I correct myself.

He disappears into Dixons, and I stand, insanely routed to the red pavement, watching people criss-crossing the space before me.

Realising that I am holding my breath, I consciously force myself to inhale. Then I start to follow him, drawn, zombie-like towards the store.

I peer in through the window and see him swipe a package from the shelves – a pack of blank videocassettes. He places these on the sales counter, glances at his watch and nods and smiles in response to the salesman’s joke.

A few minutes earlier I would have been hard put to create a coherent mental image of Steve. It’s been months since the accident, and it feels like much longer. Even when we were together, well, it didn’t last long.

But as I watch him smile, I remember. And the memory makes me smile myself.

I watch the gesture as he nervously runs a finger around the collar of his tracksuit top as he talks. Every inch of him, every gesture, is Steve.

He laughs again and hands over a banknote. I can hear my own heartbeat. He lifts the bag from the counter and turns slowly towards the exit, towards me.

He vanishes behind a huge red sale poster in the window, then reappears only feet away.

I step forward. I have to speak to him. “Excuse me?” I say.

He stops and turns to me, raising an eyebrow. And the instant I look into his eyes I see that it is not him. It is not him at all.

“Yeah?” he asks. His voice is deeper than Steve’s. The language is English. His accent is pure East Sussex.

“Sorry, I… Have you got the time?” I ask.

He glances at my wrist and frowns. I realise that I’m wearing a watch so I lift my wrist and wrinkle my nose.

“It stops all the time,” I say.

He nods, unconvinced, and pulls a mobile from his pocket. “Five past nine mate,” he says.

I nod. “Thanks,” I say, croakily.

The man frowns at me, forces a smile and then hurries away.

I stand in front of Dixons Biggest Ever Sale and watch him walk away; watch the man who is exactly like Steve, and yet is nothing like Steve slowly disappear from view.

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