As I stood at ease beside the lamppost, I could just make out the tinted white concrete which made up the buildings. From what I could see, the systematic street was simply two rows of attached, concrete buildings; the only sort of personality from the town came from an occasional lit window- nothing else. That slight yellow shade which came from artificial light brought back so many memories.
Not long before, Heller City had been drowned in bliss. People would spill into the city in the early hours to their place of work. The sun was glistening. A hum of city noise formed like music to my ears. The clicking of high-heeled shoes blended so tastefully with the hum of car engines, stuck in a whole chorus of other vehicles. The crackling of fish frying at the ‘Watton Café’, a dog barking at Rising Park and a slight gushing breeze formed a background noise which is unnoticeable to the average man, yet impossible to live without.
And I remember the people- Oh! The fantastic people. Some wore elegant pin striped suits, ties brandished with ‘Mr Men’ or other cartoon characters. If I remember correctly, many simply wore a pleasant, refreshing shirt which would
Joshua Martin
keep them cool in the mid-day sun which was intensified by the large modern glass windows of sky-high buildings.
A cat stabbed at my concentration as it shot past the tip of my toes. The cat fired a suspicious sure glance from her glowing grey eyes and then was off again, lost in the darkness. My instincts told me to move on; perhaps he was not going to turn up. Perhaps I’d have to kill him.
I began to walk towards where I had been so many years earlier- perhaps he would remember.
I continued to reminisce about the glorious city of which I used to be a part. The noise of the city continued to roar. ‘Watton café’ was just right of the town hall. To most people, it was considered a lavishly furnished ‘greasy Joe’s’; to me it has heaven. For £1.50 you could get yourself a carefully grilled bacon sandwich, draped in iceberg lettuce and dressed in a fine mayonnaise which could finish even the most determined of people’s dieting plans. And that is just the food- I haven’t even begun to mention the grand décor.
Thrones were used as seats and robes used as curtains; Watton café would have made a pauper feel like a king. Upon the walls lay eloquent pictures of various nobility dining in their palaces, feasting on dishes that matched the victuals of Watton café to a tea.
Watton café was a social centre; men and women of all shapes and sizes would meet and greet creating long term friendships and even romance. I had once spied a man and woman meeting after Church on a Sunday. The aged man sported a hefty grey beard and a pair of broad sunglasses. The lady holding his hand looked plastered to perfection, her face clearly fabricated in a modern age-defying substance. Underneath the cream and surgery though, it was no secret that there was a frail old woman. Her hand must have been given a disproportionate amount of attention as they sagged in the café lighting.
On one portrait a man sat at a long, brown, majestic, polished table, filled with goods such as grapes, turkey and bread. His long curled hair accentuated his imposing, rigid nose. The man wore what looked like a red velvet duvet. The portrait inspired all who saw it, bringing peace and virtue to every man and
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woman who entered the café. It was a constant reminder of what a proud city Haller city was.
I was sitting in the ‘modern’ Watton café on a clammy wooden bench which felt to have aged along with the rest of the city. Watton café had not been open in years, which was obvious from the removed windows and weathered walls. Only the outdoor furnishings remained; another clue which has never been explored into why Heller city was left to die. It is my job to find out how it happened.
By Joshua Martin 10L
