Has It Passed?
We had parked the car on a residential street half a mile away from the town centre. Finding free parking was always pleasing. I walked hand in hand with my three-year-old daughter while my wife followed us pushing our white pram with our six-month-old boy. That was the family situation; thirty-something with a wife and two children. I was still coming to terms with the elusive nature of contentment.
We headed to the park, through a metal gate. When the sun decided to shine, it drenched the green grass in gold. My sunglasses took the edge off the glare, but I kept them on even when the clouds hid the sun.
We walked over the cricket pitch which was not in use, but I was sure that the season began soon. Next time, I thought. Next time I would be able to sit on the grass with my family and soak up the sounds of leather against linseed-soaked wood and the occasional outburst of “howzat!”. I knew quintessential English life had something to do with contentment.
The Thames was busy with various rowing crews and the odd behemothic boat. The ducks and swans cared more about scraps of stale bread than the impressiveness of any boat and its accessories (human or otherwise). Stale bread floats on water just as well as money. I felt an affinity towards ducks and swans; most creatures, in fact, except humans.
We walked along the river bank for a short while, then we headed towards the main hubbub that was taking place in the park. It was a fête of some sort. Music, people, drinking, eating, selling, buying, playing, shouting. A collective attempt at attaining contentment — or possibly the dogged pursual of distraction.
We passed through the mêlée relatively unscathed. I maintained a fairly stern gaze behind my sunglasses and I think my demeanour was to thank for the lack of any stall owners trying to initiate a conversation. Navigating a crowd with no unwanted interaction was always pleasing. At the gates of the park, my wife asked me if I was ok. I responded in the affirmative.
As we exited the park, we waited for a gap in the traffic. My little girl’s hand had slipped free of mine. She was fiddling with the rubber band around my wrist. I softly clasped her hand again. I think I had begun to need her more than she needed me.
We crossed the road and began walking up the high street of this little town. We often came here as a family. The surroundings were generally pleasant and one could feel relatively safe. My sunglasses were still on and I had my daughter at my side. I almost felt safe.
About halfway up the high street, we crossed the road at a pelican crossing, waiting until the lights changed to signal our safe passage. As we waited, I suddenly noticed that the traffic had become heavier and was, in fact, at a stand still. It can happen, I suppose. Someone trying to parallel park in a space further up the road causing a blockage. A van parked awkwardly to offload a delivery. Any number of scenarios.
When the lights changed, we crossed. My daughter’s hand was still gripped firmly in mine. My sunglasses were still on. But I was beginning to feel ill at ease. It may have been the glance of a stranger walking past or the face of a driver waiting at the crossing. I was not sure. I could feel the pulling in my stomach, though. It came and it went; pulling and releasing.
We continued walking, this time down the other side of the high street. Shops upon shops. Bags filled with purchases. Then a bang. A loud bang and a pop. From somewhere. Ahead, I think. I could feel the pulling in my stomach. This time it failed to release. I didn’t feel safe.
Bang, again. Somewhere up ahead. My teeth involuntarily clenched. It was happening. What we saw on television and read about in the newspapers was happening. This was it. Terror had been unleashed upon us.
My mind rushed through the requisite actions. Grab the baby, abandon the pram. Keep hold of my daughter and shout to my wife. I had transfigured into a commander. This unit was not going to die under my command. Take cover in the nearest shop. Push through the doors, make haste to the store room. Don’t stop. Move. Move! Find safety and cling onto it. Keep away from the bullets. Keep quiet and stay low. Pull the door shut and don’t release. If an attacker approaches, stay quiet and stay low. If an attacker discovers you, have a blade ready. Kill without hesitation. Protect the children. Tunnel vision helped narrow the focus. Keep breathing, keep breathing. The tunnel may narrow, but just keep breathing. Keep breathing, keep breathing.
When I awoke from blacking out, I was alone. I was sitting in our car, my sunglasses still on. The sun was still shining and the leaves of the overhead trees sprinkled sunlight onto the bonnet of the car. An old man with a walking stick was pottering along the pavement. He stopped to flick something laying on the grass with his stick, then he continued pottering.
I looked down. My phone was in the sweaty palm of my hand. I opened my messages.
“Panic attack. In car.”
I checked the time. I had sent the message ten minutes ago. I looked in my wing mirror and saw a white pram moving slowly towards me. A white pram, my wife, and my daughter.
I opened my door when they got close to the car.
“Has it passed?” she asked with an affectionate tone.
I mumbled something in return and helped her get the children into the car and I loaded the pram into the boot.
I gripped the steering wheel hard as I drove home. The pulling in my stomach slowly waned.
At home, I fell into a chair and found my notebook which I had not touched for several weeks. I was going to write a story.
We had parked the car on a residential street half a mile away from the town centre. Finding free parking was always pleasing…
Thank you for reading. I document my life and other imaginings over at my “J M Jackson Writes…” publication if you dare to follow me down the rabbit hole…
