THE DRENCHING ARMS: PART FOUR
RAVEN IN OXFORD
Raven was at Oxford station, hours early for his reprogramming session. As ever, he was constructing fictional scenarios for the shabbiest looking people - including himself - wandering around this dismal place.
Pity was what he wanted to feel but anger was his unavoidable reaction, at what his country had become rather than the individuals he saw. Still, neither seemed possible starting points for literature. That was his limitation, not the world's. Hadn't some philosopher said we always confuse the two - presumably only the true artist could reconcile them.
What would they make of the man sat opposite, checking his watch constantly then staring at it with open admiration, even love? Possibly nothing, although the inconceivable filth of his clothes and the stench from them were incredible. No doubt this was why Raven had found an empty seat at his table.
'Nice watch!' he ventured.
'Couldn't you at least have attempted to disguise your surprise?'
The stinking man's voice was educated, almost aristocratic. Raven peered closely at the timepiece shown to him. To his delight, it was a Dirty Dozen British Army watch, clearly original, with patina and fading radium lume.
'Worn at D Day?'
'Possibly - everything they fought for has been lost.'
Raven's 'kindness counselling' took place on the first Monday of every month in his old college - despite his exile in Norfolk, or because of it. His car had been seized and handed over to a 'boat person' (some Somalian drug dealer) so this re-education necessitated an excruciating cross-country rail trip. If he refused, his beloved daughter would immediately be moved from her current school into one notorious for bullying and drugs. His meagre pension would also be cancelled.
Monday was chosen so that he had to travel up on the Sunday, staying overnight in some shithole chosen by the authorities. Usually this was in London but last night he'd been forced into an Iffley Road guesthouse, notoriously the preferred venue for Oxford’s Pakistani rape gangs. Of course, he had to pay for this travel and accommodation.
At the last session, he'd been set the task of using three ‘key-concepts’ in a PowerPoint presentation, explaining the dangers from the ‘far-Right’. The specified words were diversity; equity; inclusion. He’d added two of his own: ‘desultory’ and ‘deracination’.
The first was one of his favourites; for some reason, it evoked his school days. As a child, he'd had few friends and none he actually liked. Sundays had stretched out endlessly, ending with the comfort of a Vosene hair wash.
He made his way to Turl Street through the commuters, beggars and homicidal cyclists.