It’s quite quiet here. Tucked away in a little tree-lined street near the centre of the city. Two minutes away from every pub there’s ever been. Five minutes from a man who thinks he’s Jesus.
He’s not Jesus, he’s not even called Jesus. Parents don’t tend to be that cruel if your mum’s not a virgin.
‘I’m Steve…I’m fucking Steve’ he’ll shout and noone has any reason to doubt his sincerity. But when they ignore him, when noone can even muster the tiniest flicker of polite interest; then he’s Jesus. When he addresses the traffic; when he wanders out into the middle of the road, arms outstretched, eyes skywards. When he talks to Vauxhall Novas, his disloyal metallic flock with alloy wheels and unrepentant beeping. When they take him away.
And that’s what makes it quiet. When Steve’s gone and the streets are refilled with mortgages and semi-skimmed milk, motionless bus-stop standers and an unenthusiastic three-point-turn.