After a minute or so I began to pull myself together, and with the relative composure, acute embarrassment set in.  What possessed me to do such a thing? I was normally so emotionally controlled.  Looking down, my pale khaki trousers showed numerous wet spots where the tears had fallen.  I got to my feet quickly, mumbling almost incoherently as I left the office, “Bob, sorry, I’m really sorry.”

I needed to get out. I was sick of the place.  I had slogged my guts out for the last fifteen years and they repay me with a fucking technician’s job.  Perhaps ironically, even in my utter desolation I suspected that the job probably wouldn’t be so bad.  It would provide a regular salary, and freedom from the stress of writing grants; but what upset me the most, and which I readily admitted to myself, was the sheer loss of face.  Just a few years earlier I’d been tipped as a future professor – and now look at me.  “What a pathetic waster,” I sneered at myself under my breath.

I hurriedly left the department, passing several of my colleagues in the corridor and stairway.  I kept my head down, not saying a word and ignoring their greetings.  I heard the mutterings of one of them – “ignorant sod” – but I didn’t care.  I headed out of the building and down the street towards the city centre.  The late January weather was bitterly cold and many of the loitering students had thick coats on and hats and gloves, but in my light cotton shirt I barely noticed it.  I may have stopped crying, but inside I was falling apart.

I walked briskly, almost jogging, for thirty minutes.  I tried to make sense of my life, and in my head I listed my achievements: A-level results, Ph.D, lectureship, research awards – but they all seemed meaningless.  I’d wasted my time and had nothing to show for it.  With no particular destination in mind I kept going and going, eventually reaching the train station and the main bus depot.  I passed numerous shops, a café, and a run of small B&Bs.  Then in the distance, a few car lengths or so in front, a dark blue Ford Mondeo pulled into one of the few curb-side parking slots.  A man in a grey suit quickly exited from the driver’s side, and as he walked around to the passenger’s door I recognised him as James Kentish, a former colleague of Helen’s.  I’d always despised the insincere little cretin, and the last thing I wanted was him seeing me in my bedraggled state, so I dodged into the doorway of a launderette.  While I waited for him to get to wherever he was going, I had the sudden need to talk to Helen.  About to press the call button on my mobile, I was distracted by a familiar voice coming from the street, and as I peered out of the doorway I was stunned to see Helen getting out of the Mondeo.  Struggling to understand what was going, I was about to beckon her over, but then I watched on in astonishment as she ran towards Kentish.  Both were laughing excitedly; then they kissed on the lips, briefly but passionately, before entering one of the B&Bs.  I stood shell-shocked in the doorway, my life unravelling about me and unable to do anything to prevent it.

After a minute or so an old lady pulling a small trolley behind her joined me in the porch, trying to pass me and get into the launderette.  I moved out of her way, stepping onto the pavement and then continuing down the road.  Passing the B&B, I cautiously glanced through the open door to see Helen and Kentish, their backs to me, walking up the stairs holding hands.  I felt sick, and wretched a couple of times, but my stomach was empty and nothing came up.

I continued walking down the street.  In the distance a cement lorry was coming along the road in my direction.  Going well above the thirty m.p.h. speed limit, it drove through a puddle of water that extended from the gutter and filled almost half the road.  A huge fan of dirty water leapt up, soaking two businessmen walking on the pavement, their golfing umbrellas doing little to protect them.  The lorry was forty or so metres in the distance and closing fast.  I knew what I had to do.  I bided my time, counting down the distance in my head: twenty-five metres, twenty, fifteen, ten ...  When the lorry was only ten metres away I stepped carefully and purposefully into the road with my eyes closed, directly into its path.  I heard a screech of brakes, and waited for the impact, but there was nothing but the sensation of a rush of wind and the sound of the heavy lorry passing by.  After an incredulous second I opened my eyes.  To my disbelief, the truck had taken the other limb of the forked junction where I was standing.  Stunned and rooted to the spot, I heard behind me the aggressive sounding of a car horn and turned to see a flashy Audi TT in front of me as I blocked its path in the road.  A young woman passing by on the pavement stared nervously at me, and clearly recognising my agitated state, said, “Are you … are you okay?”  No I fucking wasn’t, but I didn’t answer.  I turned away and started running.

I continued on with my head down, staring at the pavement just a few feet in front of me.  I was going nowhere in particular, just away, attempting in some futile way to leave my life behind.  After running and walking for close to an hour I reached a shabby residential area of town.  The road surface had originally been cobbled and then sometime later covered with tarmac, but much of this was worn away to reveal the old stones beneath.  I walked down the pot-holed pavements and passed a rusty street sign attached to the wall of the end house: “Station Road”.  I passed a chip shop, empty except for a plump serving girl who sat behind the counter, and then a small pub, The Earl of Arundel.  About to pass on by, I had a sudden desire for alcohol.  I stepped into the pub and immediately drew the attention of the resident drinkers, as I coughed loudly when the warm smoky atmosphere hit my lungs.  Clearly the smoking ban had not reached this part of town.  In soaking wet clothes and my shoes squelching with every step, I crossed the worn and dirty carpet and took a seat on a high stool at the bar.  The bartender, a man in his fifties, his arms and the back of his hands covered in tattoos, wearily came over, apparently unused to strangers dropping in.  “Can I get you something?” he barked.

I ordered a whiskey even though I hadn’t touched the hard stuff since drunken student days.  I took a sip of the unpalatable fiery liquid. “I’ll have a Carlsberg to go with it as well,” I added before the barmen had a chance to hand over my change.  The lager slipped down more easily and I quickly ordered a second.

Self-consciously I scanned around the pub, which was probably not much bigger than a good-sized living room.  It was a spit-and-sawdust type of affair, though only the spit was evident.  There were at most ten other patrons, a motley crew of drinkers ranging from a couple of elderly men to a group of youths in their late teens and early twenties.  The latter group looked an unsavoury lot, and from their furtive edginess they appeared to be negotiating a drug deal or some other dubious activity.  Certainly not the kind of place a sane man would consider for a quiet pint, but after the day I’d been having I was way past caring.  I thought back to the episode with the cement lorry and couldn’t help smile; what a complete an utter moron – I wasn’t even able to do a decent job of topping myself.  In disgust I knocked back the remainder of the whiskey and then ordered another lager.  I watched as the barmen pulled the pint; on the back of his neck were the words “FUCK OFF AND DIE”.  I wondered if he ever regretted his decision, though thought it prudent not to ask.  I was in the mood for self-destruction – maybe I should get a similar inscription.

I was beginning to relax into my surroundings as most of the other drinkers lost interest in me.  But unnervingly, I kept catching the eye of one particularly character, sitting alone at the far end of the bar.  Probably in his early forties, he had lank and greasy collar-length brown hair that lay plastered against his forehead.  With his pale, gaunt features and several days’ stubble, he had an appearance not unlike a sewer rat, although it was probably doing a disservice to rodent-kind.  To my ongoing discomfort, each time I glanced up from my beer he’d be watching me before quickly turning away.  There was a certain familiarity about his distinctive features, but I couldn’t quite place him – although CrimeWatch on TV was a distinct possibility.  As I pondered his identity there was a vibration followed by the ringing tone of the mobile in my trouser pocket.  The screen indicated “Home” and my first thought was to hit the red button, but I answered anyway.  I subconsciously held my breath as I waited for her to speak, but to my surprise she sounded no different to normal – clearly guilt was not weighing heavy on her shoulders.  “Hi, just checking what time you’re coming home.  Where are you?  What’s that noise in the background?”