Robbo wakes up with a start. A woman, in a yellow dress and floppy cotton hat, glares at him from across the courtyard. He jumps to his feet.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, just leaving,” he mumbles as he hurries past her on his way back under the arch and down the cobbled path.
Where’s he going? The path curves round and leads back to the bridge – that’s the wrong way. There must be another way out of here. But there are no other paths, just a high brick wall running parallel to the path he is on. And the white concrete building.
He tries a door. It’s unlocked.
Robbo walks down a corridor lit by recessed spotlights in the ceiling and lined by dark wooden panels. It is dim and shadowy in contrast to the bright sunlight outside. The floor is smooth and squeaks beneath his trainers. It smells faintly of something he can’t quite place. Some kind of polish or cleaning liquid.
There are plaques, with lists of names and dates, on one wall. Internal doors with frosted glass windows on the other. Light seeps through from the sun lit rooms, the ones with the big windows he saw from the courtyard.
The corridor ends with a staircase. He has no option but to go up and along a short landing. It forms part of an upper corridor. Robbo looks along it. There is a door at the far end in front of him, and one immediately behind him. He doesn’t want to double back on himself so he continues forward.
The door at the end of the corridor swings open as he approaches it and leads into a narrow, glass-enclosed, walkway. Looking out he can see a car park, with only one car in it, a gate and a street beyond.
He runs along the walkway, through the automatic door at the other end, and finds himself at the top of a staircase. It leads down to a crossroads of corridors going off in three different directions. He goes straight ahead to a metal door.
The handle is stiff, could do with a drop of WD40, but turns eventually. It opens with a creaky groan out into the courtyard. The woman in the light dress is sitting on the bench by the fountain, hat over her eyes.
Robbo quickly goes back inside and closes the door. Okay, try the corridor on the left. There’s a sign for toilets and a drinks machine. He pushes the machine, rocking it, but nothing drops. Further along the corridor it opens out into a bigger space, an unoccupied reception desk on one side, a large, clear revolving door on the other and in the centre, the bust of a bearded man with gloomy eyes, staring resentfully at the door and the world beyond.
He can see the car park and trees lining the street beyond. But the revolving door is padlocked. Robbo rattles the chain in frustration. Is this some kind of weird prison? Or a maze? There must be some way out.
He heads back down the corridor, past the drinks machine, to the crossroads. The third corridor has no lights on. But, in the shadows, he can just make out a sign on the wall – an arrow on a green background pointing along the corridor. Robbo follows it.
He gets his phone out, using the torch to inspect a row of three doors. One is locked, the next is a cupboard with cleaning equipment, the third door has a crash bar. He pushes down on it and the door swings open. Light floods in and Robbo steps cautiously out. He’s made it to the car park.
—
A curved street of three storey terraced houses with large gardens and tall windows stretches out in front of Robbo. Horse chestnut trees, flowers wilting, conkers just budding, give shade from the hot afternoon sun. It is quiet. A squirrel runs along a garden wall and leaps up a tree.
Robbo picks his way along the pavement, stepping over tree roots and past large parked cars. Two men in long brown robes walk briskly by, along the road, in deep conversation. Somewhere in the distance church bells ring. In unison, they quicken their step – still walking but at running pace.
As the street curves round, Robbo starts to hear the swoosh of traffic ahead. And, sure enough, a main road comes into view at the end of the street.
A steady stream of traffic hums past. There is a small row of shops opposite – ‘Sally’s Sourdough Surprises’, ‘Pawfect Petfood’ and a general food shop advertising ready made meals, an alcoholic selection and cuts of meat from local suppliers as well as fresh teas and coffees.
Robbo waits for a chance to dash across the road. The cars, mostly large electric or hybrid vehicles, plus the occasional supersized petrol SUV, pass steadily by keeping strictly to the speed limit, neither faster nor slower. And evenly spaced, making it impossible to cross. Then three identical black SUVs with darkened windows, wheels like HGVs, muted electric motors barely audible, sweep past in tight convoy.
Then there’s a gap in the traffic. Robbo runs across the road.
The shop has a selection of water in the fridge – one litre bottles, half litre bottles, one pint bottles, still, sparkling, elderflower flavour, raspberry flavour. Robbo is very thirsty. He grabs two of the biggest bottles and takes them to the counter.
The shopkeeper, in a dark maroon shirt and beige tie, eyes him warily, “alright young man, just scan your phone will you?”
Robbo holds it up to the scanner. A red light flashes and the machine lets out a flat, low tone.
“Just try again will you. Just hold it steady there.”
It fails again.
“Okay one more time. If that doesn’t work, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the shop.”
Robbo’s phone payment fails for a third time.
“Looks like you’re broke, young fella. Can you leave the shop please.”
“Got paid this morning,” pleads Robbo, “not broke, just bloody phone not working.”
“I can’t help you with that. And can you mind your language please. Sounds like you’ve overstayed your hours?”
“Eh? Sorry…”
“You’re a worker not a visitor,” the shopkeeper looks Robbo up and down, “I take it?”
“Er yeah, working.”
“I’d head up to your checkpoint now if I were you.”
“Oh right, okay. Er, so, er, supervisor said to collect seedlings from Uni Parks. Which way is it?”
“Seedlings?”
“Yeah, for a garden. Need to take them to a greenhouse in Marston and pot ‘em up. Then bring ‘em back to Uni Parks when they’re grown.”
“Pot ‘em in Marston? Aye aye,” the shopkeeper smiles to himself, “down the Banbury Road here, a few hundred yards on your left. Can’t miss it.”
“Have you seen this man?” Robbo holds out his phone, which is displaying a photograph of Hank, grinning with a can of lager in his hand.
“No,” replies the shopkeeper, barely glancing at the screen, “take care now.”
Robbo nods a thank you to the shopkeeper and leaves. He follows the directions to the wide open park gates. A group of schoolboys, wearing shorts and carrying large sports bags, jostle past, slightly knocking him, “ha ha ha, sorry gramps!”.
He sits on the grass in the shade of a tall beech tree. And looks around.
The flowerbeds by the gate are a riot of colour, yellow and purple and orange. Tree lined paths run down the side of a large grassy space, where people and dogs are playing frisbee and touch rugby. Every few minutes they stop for a swig of water or coke. Robbo is very thirsty. The sun is as hot as he has ever known yet the grass is green and lush.
He heads along a path that goes slightly downhill, a cricket pitch and pavilion on one side, tennis courts on the other. A young man and woman sit beside the courts, beneath a parasol, and sip their drinks, racquets leaning against their chairs.
Robbo’s head is starting to feel light, dizzy and his legs feel like he’s walking through setting cement. But the path does eventually lead to water – the River Cherwell, roughly halfway between Marston Ferry Bridge and Magdalen Bridge.
He kneels down at the river’s edge and scoops up as much water as he can, both hands together. And tries to tip it into his mouth. Most of it splashes down the front of his t-shirt. So he lowers himself to the ground, lies prone with his arms outstretched and chin on the surface, and paddles water into his mouth, gulping it as best he can until he starts to choke. He pushes himself and coughs his airways clear, takes a few deep breaths and goes down for more.
Eventually Robbo’s mouth doesn’t feel so dry and he stands up, wipes bits of dead vegetation from his clothes and holds his arms out so his t-shirt will dry in the sun.
A woman, with a little girl in a pushchair, hurries past as quick as she can along the path, slowing when she is safely past the strange man. The little girl turns round and looks back at him with wide-eyed curiosity as she is wheeled away.
It doesn’t take long for Robbo’s t-shirt to dry and he heads along the path to where he can see people, both adults and children, gathered. They are queuing for ice cream.
“Excuse me,” he says to a woman in a loose floral dress and wide-brimmed straw hat, holding a little boy’s hand at the back of the queue, “have you seen my brother, Hank? He’s mentally disabled and he’s gone wandering off. Have you seen him?”
The woman shakes her head and turns away when he tries to show her the photograph on his phone.
“Sorry to bother you,” he lightly taps the man in front of him on his shoulder, “have you seen him?”
The man recoils and sweeps his hand down his linen shirt as if brushing away a piece of dirt.
“Can you just look at his picture,” Robbo persists.
“No, I haven’t seen anyone like that round here,” says the man without turning round.
Robbo tries the next people in the queue, a group of four teenage girls chatting and looking at each others’ phones, but as he approaches they go quiet. He tries to make eye contact with the nearest girl but she takes a step back, her eyes darting about to avoid his.
A woman in a pink and white apron steps out from behind the ice-cream stall, “Oi! Either join the back of the queue or buzz off!”
“I’m just trying to find…”
“I don’t care. If you don’t want any ice cream, you can buzz off.”
“Please can I show you…”
“Certainly not. Now go away before I call park security,” she gets her phone out of her apron pocket and holds it up for Robbo to see, “my customers don’t wish to be bothered by the likes of you thank you very much!”
‘These ain’t your folk, Pauly Po. They don’t know you or Hank. Be careful, Pauly Po, don’t go in too deep.’
Everybody here seems to be dressed in light, billowy dresses, or chinos and linen jackets, or sports gear. They have sun hats, sunglasses and clean, shiny faces. And a confident way of walking, as if they know exactly where they are going.
He sits for a while on a bench, shaded by the overhanging branches of an oak tree, looking at the river flowing, barely moving, past. Eventually his thirst returns and he goes down to drink some more water.
A faint smell of diesel wafts along the water, along with the gentle, rhythmic chugging of an engine. A canal boat is emerging from round a bend.
Robbo scrambles to his feet and retreats back to the bench. The boat moors just beyond a footbridge, and is soon joined by two other similar boats. Young men, all of them wearing sunglasses and with sharp side partings, come and go from deck to shore moving chairs, tables and crates of wine.
The bench is comfortable, relatively cool from having been shaded for most of the day. Robbo watches the young men for a while. Insects drone by the riverbank. The water continues to flow very slowly by. Robbo’s eyelids grow heavy and time passes.
A uniformed warden strides along the path, looking straight ahead and rattling a set of keys, “locking up time in ten, the gates will be locked after that time. Locking up is in ten, the gates will be locked after that time. I repeat, locking up time is in ten, the gates will then be locked. You’ve all got homes to go to gents so now’s the time to make a move. Unless you fancy spending a night under the stars. It may feel warm now but once that sun is gone… Locking up time is in ten minutes gentlemen.”
Robbo stands up, confused for a second as to where he is, and starts walking along the path, in the opposite direction to the boats, as if to follow the warden’s instruction but, realising why he’s there, doubles back, going from tree to tree, remaining out of sight. Eventually he settles beneath the tent-like branches of a weeping willow, kneels and peers out through the leaves.
Young men in sunglasses, four of them, are sitting, facing the setting sun and smoking cigars. Bottles of wine and glasses fill the table.
More young men join the group, some on deck chairs brought from the boats, others on the grassy riverbank. Wine is drunk, cigars are smoked and discarded, cocaine is snorted, voices become louder and more assertive. Robbo listens for anything that might be a mention of Hank but there is nothing – just stories about getting girls drunk and high, parties that turn into orgies and playing rugby with a hangover.
Kneeling, Robbo feels his feet and lower legs start to go numb. He shifts position, so he’s lying on his stomach, propped up on his forearms and peeking beneath the willow but a night breeze picks up and billows the feathery leaves, like a curtain, in his face. There is another, smaller, tree, branches forming a bower but not extending all the way to the ground, nearby.
Robbo creeps out from beneath his hiding place and crawls across a few yards of dark ground until he is once more fully under cover. It is further from the river. The view is less clear. He again lies on his stomach, raises his head and watches.
But nothing continues to happen.
His neck grows wearier and wearier. His head hangs heavy. He lets it drift down until welcomed by a pillow of fallen leaves and dry grass.