Sandra
[Under development: 1 June 2005 ]
Emptiness reverberates in the hollows of yellow neon. Between the pools of yellow the night is black. The clouds are stained purple yellow by the neon. Distant sounds echo from the brick walls.
Sandra scuffs restlessly on the broken glass and gravel. Her ankle socks are as dirty as the shoes she wearing. The patterned dress is crumpled, its hem frayed. Bits of dead leaves litter her cardigan. A ribbon is missing from her hair.
Her eyes search the night, glancing from pool to pool of yellow. She sees the same scene. The nearby hiss of a factory valve startles her. Instinctively, she sucks her thumb.
Straining to watch for the least movement, to listen for the slightest telltale footfall, she is tense with waiting. The pools of yellow, emptier than the surrounding darkness, ache to be filled. Yellow is no comfort, merely a reminder of the void of the night. The emptiness has become claustrophobic: the night has invaded.
An hour ago she had stopped here, an alcove in a brick wall, fence-wire. Unable to bring herself to go back, she dared not continue. Night had come ages ago. Now she was sure of nothing. There was only ever darkness and emptiness.
Sweeping blue across the factory yards, a police-car speeds along the road beyond the pools of darkness. Shrinking back deeper into the shadow of the alcove, she listens to the sound of its engine until there is mere silence again. She'd once had a ride in a police-car: a blue and white one. They'd taken her to the police station and given her juice and a biscuit. After she'd told them her name and address, they'd taken her home. Perhaps they would again. The thought rouses her.
A large animal is standing in a pool of neon yellow. Sandra stops breathing for a moment. The animal is huge. She can see the shiny black gloss of its coat. Closing her eyes, images of film flash into her mind. The child ripped apart and eaten by the panther. She imagines the animal sniffing the air for her, coming for her... Her eyes again open, the animal is gone. An empty crisp bag fidgets indecisively in the wind.
It is cold. She looks at the continuous chain of empty yellow threaded to the road. The great pretence. What should she do?
The animal reappears, now in a closer pool of yellow. It has not sensed her presence: it seems simply to be prowling. It halts, sniffs the air and looks around. Sandra waits. Even now she is still tired from all the running. Over the dump and across the Common. Then there were the nice houses with gardens. The people there had looked at her. She was on a busy road. Boys, older than herself, getting off a bus had shouted at her, and she's run into the alleyways between some factories. The harshness of concrete and metal, acrid smells, dirty smoke, had left its impression. But she'd sought a refuge, and in this alcove she'd been alone. The whirr of an extractor fan intrudes on the silence. The animal is gone.
The alcove no longer comforts so caringly. The road offers a suggestion of hope. Uncertain, tired, stiff with standing, she lurches forward awkwardly. Gravel scrunches harshly beneath her feet. She realises how cold she feels. Especially her legs. The cold fluid of the night has been seeping in and filling her knees. They'll warm as she walks. She passes under a neon lamp. Things'll be better when she reaches the road.
A large dog enters the pool of yellow ahead. It knows. Neck thick with raised fur, it knows. Ears pricked, head jutting, it struts cautiously, stalking. She hears the growl of a car on the road. The dog is approaching. She watches the car pass, but the low growl continues. With the sound of blood in her ears, she turns back into the yellow. The dog yelps. Pounding the gravel she reaches the alcove, darting in once again. The dog is behind her, barking. She collapses to the ground, head buried. Barking. Barking. She hears the snarl as it draws breath. She knows its teeth, and the madness in its eyes. Barking.
Shouting. They were shouting at her, jeering.
"Darkie. Darkie Thieving Darkie."
She hadn't known what to do.
"Why don't you go back to the jungle?"
"Then you can steal the nuts from the monkeys."
"Let's see you run, Darkie."
Barking. There are two dogs now. Snarling. One of them is ripping at the fence. So many of them, chasing her. She ran in terror from school. Across the dump. Up onto the Common. Through the trees and down into the Bramble Den. Panting heavily, she'd crawled in, getting scratched, snagging her cardigan. Although the leaves were damp and the ground was hard, she felt safe. She crouched there until after school had finished.
Kevin's gang had spotted her when she was crossing back over the dump. She'd run and run. Passing an old woman with her poodle. A mother pushing her pram. Girls with their boyfriends. The people in their gardens stared at her running, they looked away. She was ashamed. She kept running.
Barking. She knocked over some fruit on a stall in a high street. The shopkeeper had tried to catch her, but she had run like a hare. She bumped into an old woman with a white stick. What could she do?
Barking. Barking. The dogs are jumping at the fence. Looking up, she can see the teeth. They were so horrible, the boys. She'd rather face Kevin everyday than meet them again. What had she done to them? She'd never seen them before. Why should they shout at her? Throw stones at her? Chase her? Why were they so nasty?
Barking. Barking. She sees saliva fly from the dogs' muzzles. Their barks have a high-pitched, hysterical quality. She'd've never come here if she'd known. She'd only come down the alley to escape, to get away from the horrible words the boys were using, at her. At me. Barking. Blue. She fumbles feebly with the gravel beneath her hand. Barking. They threw stones at her. Stones skittering round her feet. Stones smacking cars on the road. Blue. Barking. A dog is at the top of the fence. The distant scrunch of gravel. It scrapes her fingers. White. Barking. Running on gravel. Barking. Lying here. I draw back, and back, and back. Away from the barking. Away from the skittering stones. Away from them all. White. The animal posed to leap. A spring ready for release. White. Cord cut, catch flicked, a sudden snap and she ejects all her fear, all her hate, all the gravel. Blinded by white. Then by dark. She hears a cry. A torch clatters. An animal silhouette leaping from the sky. The other dog barks. A man beats the leaping dog with a short stick. The other dog barks. The torch is picked up and blinds her again.
"What you up to?" asks a grating voice.
"Who is it, Bill?" someone approaches.
"Some black kid. Threw stones in my face, the monkey."
"You hurt?"
"Not much. She a look-out, d'you think?"
Sandra is blinded my more white.
"Isn't she the kid we picked up on the railway lines last year?" asks the newcomer.
"Can't tell. They all look the same to me. Better get someone for this dog. I hit it a bit hard."
"Sharon, isn't it?"
"Sandra" she replies sheepishly. Everything has become false. She needs to go to the toilet.
"We can find out what all this is about down the station," says the grating voice.
"I want to go home."
"It'd've been better if you'd never come," replies the grating voice. She recognises the tone now.
"Come on, Sandra. It's late."
