Memory and Integrity

David Walkin alighted the commuter train carrying his black leatherette briefcase in one hand and matching umbrella, dry and compactly furled, in the other. As he turned into the high street he swung the briefcase forward and back in time with his paces. The air was mild and dry for October and the soles of his shoes squeaked on contact with the paving slabs that lined the older part of town. Before reaching the taxi rank, where big Hackney cabs jostled to pull out into the dense stream of traffic, David turned off in the direction of the new development where he lived, walking rapidly and carefree, having made a decision.

Wednesday night was always gym night, so David stayed at home and looked after their seven year-old boy. He stood at the back door of their small house smoking a cigarette, Joshua having been settled for a half hour since. Looking around his garden he thought, “bare”. The grass on the lawn was thin and wispy, overtall and bending like babies’ hair not fully hiding the light loam beneath. How long before Denise would be home? He hadn’t listened when she had told him – was it Step? Tai-bo?........