Usually it’s a smell that triggers it something experienced that day during my graft, the catalyst to send me back to places long since forgotten. Random stuff never remembered floods back.
I’m on the floor, I’ve got that dull ache you get when you’ve been smashed in the face but I can smell tarmac stones in my palms after a fall then it’s hazy sunny days, bark on my hands and arms, leaves in my hair, white dog shit in the street, spanish gold sweet tobacco from buckles, the worn bits of strap in the buckle on my satchel, warm milk with the blue straws. I love those places I go there when I’m wrapped up in the brown shroud. Then it fades, then the reality peels off the shroud of gear. “get up yer cunt, yer dirty fkin smack head”, he’s stood over me snarling like a pit bull in a vest, with shit tats and a big fucking choppa round his neck . He reeks of car auctions, tap rooms and bookies. I picked the wrong mush to rob. I’m in ball I can feel the fists at first an then the feet the heel of his dealer boots to my head but he can’t penetrate my hedgehog curl, thankfully I know these beatings don’t last, vest man wont want my blood anywhere near him. “if I catch yer round ere again yer fuckin dead yer dirty pikey smack head cunt”. Charming I thought, I only wanted his chuffing bird box. Cigs Julie from the Cramner wanted one for her auntie and was prepared to give a fiver, that’s half a bag, Not worth a beating but still half my days work done had that gloit not come back from the post office from getting his dole. Twat.