A short story by Philip MacCann
Saturday Mother woke me this afternoon with sharp raps on the front room ceiling . My eyes opened wide and I shouted down in my best sensible voice. “Yes, I’m upstairs!” I had been having another flashback in my sleep and it was pleasant. I do not see myself as a bad person. I stood against my door and hurriedly pulled on my trews. Then I peeled back the edge of my rolled-down curtain and peered out through the pale yellow light . It was not the police. The kids were seated on the roof of another burnt car on the Walk. I stepped back and rubbed my face and moustache which were itchy with dry sweat. Everything was still and loud. I could hear the kids’ laughter and hammering against the car. It was vital I caught the local News on my television, though it was not yet evening. I had time to kill. From the room below I heard her panting and then a longer groan, so I went down. But why did the electric light have to be on when everyone can see us from the Walk? It was making shadows on th...