sit tight on a slightly damp wooden bench. I am holding a quilted bag the colour of dry blood. The birch tree growing beside the bench is coming into leaf; covered in raindrops. The sun is out. My face and hands are warm. I am contented and uneasy. Three men walk past. Two of them walk swiftly, with easy confidence. The third hangs back a little, hands in pockets, head bowed and looking at the ground. I hear him say, 'I did not go. I stayed. The river told me to and I obeyed.' Then I see the river, quite close by, and I wake up.
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