Twenty Years Later

He squinted, turned his face from the sun, then lifted his hand and used it as a visor.

Was this it? An open the gate and out you go? It reminded him of an opening scene from a movie, something Hollywood made up, but this really was how it happened. Unceremonious, sudden. If it were a movie, there would be a girl waiting for him. He pictured it: she’d be leaning on a car, smoking nonchalantly, looking a little older but still good for the twenty years that had passed. He scanned the street. No, sign of her. He laughed to himself for even having thought it, a bitter, cynical laugh, persuading himself he’d not expected her – nor anyone else – to be there. Why would they when he’d not seen hide nor hair of them in two decades?

He’d been given a pay-as-you-go phone topped up with £10, the £57.82 he had come in with, and a holdall with a couple of faded tee shirts and a pair of jeans that were too big. Physically, he was in good shape. You could go one of two ways inside: slob out and go to seed, or take control of one thing and exercise. He’d done the latter.

His face was lean and etched. Not sun damage, he’d seen little enough of the sun for years, bitterness had given him those lines, years of brewing anger and resentment, listening to the snide ‘aye, right – course you didn’t do it,’ that others would say to him in the canteen, sniggering. He would clench his teeth and feel the bile corroding his stomach wall. Then he stopped saying it. After a while, the bile subsided and he hoped some of those deep lines on his forehead might have softened too, but they didn’t.

He never gave up hope of family coming to visit. It stopped mattering to him that they didn’t believe him, but he would have loved a visit.

‘They’re at the same address,’ he was told at the release meeting. ‘And they know you’re getting out today.’ The Probation Officer told him the bus routes had changed. He pushed a timetable across the table. ‘When you get a smartphone, you can download the app, until then you’ll need this. A standard single is £2.10.’

He had a plan, of sorts. Walk for an hour, find a café, buy a cheap eat, then buy a bunch of flowers (an early Mother’s Day present), get the bus home, and give them to her. Surely her not coming to visit didn’t mean she wouldn’t let him stay?

Some of the cars looked space age. The buses were new; were they longer? Every kid he passed was glued to a phone. (What was an app anyway?) Anybody under twenty-five was wearing white trainers, as though they were all nurses on a ward. Greggs: he didn’t remember ever seeing that before. Vegan sausage rolls, £1.20. Would he risk it? Before his spell away (he laughed at himself for calling twenty years a spell), before he was sent down (yes, that was better) a sausage roll cost 30p in Storries on Leith Walk.

‘I’m going to try one of your vegan sausage rolls, please.’

Unused to handling money, he counted it out in the palm of his hand like a child. He noticed the server was wearing gloves, she lifted the food with tongs, then wrapped it in fine greaseproof paper before putting it in the bag. A far cry to how he remembered it in Storries.

‘There you are, Sir. Would you like anything else?’

He was so taken aback at being called ‘sir’, at being smiled at, that he froze. He didn’t want to spend more, but he loved being a customer, a normal man, well treated by a lady in an apron.

‘Is that coffee?’ He pointed to a sleek machine behind the counter.

‘Certainly is, sir.’

‘I’ll have one of those then.’

‘Americano, Flat While, Latte, Cappuccino, Macchiato, Espresso, Mocha?’

He had no idea.

‘Just coffee,’ he said.

‘Americano,’ she muttered to the man working the machine.

He stood back, allowing those in the queue behind him to be served while the machine hissed and steamed.

A child stopped by the door, and he watched her lean her scooter on the windowpane and peer inside. He caught her eye, then looked away quickly. They’d have you for anything.

He was considering the Mexican chicken flatbread, regretting his rash vegan choice, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun fast, reflexes sharpened from his time away.

‘Hello,’ it was the child from outside. ‘I saw you from out there.’

He looked at her: white-blonde hair tied into a high ponytail, wisps of fine, flyaway hair around her hairline that glowed like a halo. Her countenance was so laid open, so truthful that he was afraid he might cry. If he didn’t engage, she might go away. He shrugged and looked back at the sandwich counter.

‘You look sad,’ she persisted.

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Away and get your scooter before someone runs off with it.’

‘It’s kindness week in school,’ she said, as though he had asked, ‘and we have to do one good act every day this week. Today, I’ve picked you.’

He began to panic. He could feel his face getting red. He wanted her to go away. He didn’t need to be picked, not by a child, not today, not any day.

‘My Grandad bought an extra scratch-card in Scotmid. I’m not old enough to buy them. Here you are. I hope you win.’

Her voice was high like birdsong and out she flitted, bouncing like a robin, then back on her scooter before he could say anything.

‘Americano,’ someone shouted. ‘Sir, your coffee.’ He grabbed it, slipped the scratch card into his pocket and left, perturbed.

He crossed the road to a park filled with banks of purple and yellow crocuses and he found an empty bench. The vegan sausage roll was disgusting, waste of pound. He pulled it apart and fed it to the sparrows who were soon joined by starlings.

He thought about the little girl, perky as a bird.

He pulled the scratch card from his hip pocket. ‘£20,000 a month for a year’ it said above a picture of pots gold and a rainbow. He took out a two pence coin and began to scratch. One by one, slowly and precisely, he uncovered the little icons.

His mouth went dry, he shook, he dropped his coffee. The last time he felt like this was the day he was sentenced. He could barely breathe. He had to hold both hands to his chest and press hard to stop his heart from exploding.

He had won.

He had won.

He had won!