Driving through the city, overgrown mills and redbrick houses flanking the potholed roads, the sun strikes an angle on the wet tarmac that turns the whole world a searing white, and a flock of pigeons scatter from a roof, peppering the bright void of the sky in darts of darkness. Rounding a bend, we head down towards the estates. I sense where we are and an unease grumbles in my stomach. A dog eyeing an approaching hand.
These houses, washed by the cold winter sun, might seem for a moment animated by the shadows. They might appear to be living places. Places empty as you'd expect in the middle of the day, with everyone at work or school. But they're not living places. These houses aren't even abandoned. They don't even have the memory of people. We'd be foreign bodies if we were to enter them. They've never known the warmth of a person sleeping under their roofs. These houses have never been homes. They were never meant to be.
They're fly traps.
A cloud passes over the sun and the world is returned to its usual muted palette. The car stops. The woman nods to the door and I get out. I watch her drive away, then turn to the houses. She's fulfilled her obligations. I can't blame her for leaving now. I wouldn't stay either. Not if I had any choice.
I walk up to the nearest house and place my hand on the door. Unlocked, it swings open with eager ease. The doorframe gapes. The red carpet waits.
Paddy Dobson
1st March 2022