The world, so Manny says, is a large and wonderful place; but standing here, it shrinks. Looking at the boarded and fenced house that stands on the corner of Wood Street and York Avenue makes everything that I've become focus down to the history held within a simple end terrace. Nothing special to most; it wouldn't even merit a second glance to passers by. Yet it has its own gravity. There's a certain magic here where the reality is thin and I have to try hard not to slip through into the past, or worse, step sideways and become a different me. Manny says there's no such thing as magic, but it's real enough. This is where I began, and in all likelihood, where I'll end.

~X~

Michael waits at the gate for his brother to arrive. Three-thirty sees two hundred or so children rush from the building and disappear into the neighbourhood in all directions. Some laughing and shouting, some in pairs and small groups, some making arrangements for meeting later after tea at the ‘rec.' All though, eagerly homeward bound after a day trapped inside a building constructed in Victorian times, surrounded by concrete and manned by discontented staff.

Michael sighs and guesses the time must be about twenty to four. He spots Charlie slump out of the junior entrance, head down and shuffling towards him. Late afternoon sun lights Charlie from the front showing scuffed shoes, too short trousers and a greying and stained untucked shirt.

‘'Bout time. Come on, we'll be late,' says Michael. ‘What's up?'

Charlie stops by his brother.

‘Nothing. Can we go to the park on the way home?'

‘No. Late already. Come on.'

Michael takes Charlie's bag, throws it over his shoulder with his own and walks off with Charlie following reluctantly behind him. Streets now quiet, swallow the boys into the miniature universes that exist unknown behind closed doors. They reach the corner and stop at the gate, watching the front door.

‘Quiet,' Michael says and gently pushes Charlie through towards the front door.

~X~

Why is it that while I'm talking to Manny, it all makes perfect sense, but when I leave, all those words seem hollow and far away? He tells me I should stay away from Wood Street, and while I'm with him, it all makes perfect sense. I know it does me no good. He tells me it's all in the past and I have to move on, start afresh. I know he's right, but nights alone in the flat, I can hear it calling me. More accurately, I can hear Mikey calling me back. Ever back to that fucking, dirty hell hole.

~X~

Charlie sits at the Formica table and watches Michael stir beans on the stove. This morning's breakfast pots still lay in the sink on top of last night's tea plates.

‘Toast Charlie. Put the toast on,' says Michael.

Charlie gets up and pulls out two white slices from an almost finished loaf of bread. He puts the toast under the grill, sits down and watches his brother again.

‘Is he coming home tonight?' he asks.

‘Prob'ly. Best get these dishes washed and put away after.'

Charlie looks at the sink impassively and back at his brother.

‘When's he back?'

‘Later Charlie, later.'

Michael takes the toast from the grill and serves the beans on top. They eat in silence.

~X~

Day times I'm fine. Traffic, TV, radio and inane chatter combine to all but drown out the pleading call that wakes me every night. Eight hours in the packing plant really helps. The noise in there screens all but the loudest calls - and those mainly come from the management via the loud speaker system. Manny's given me Nitrazepam to help me sleep at night but I can't live all the time in a dulled state. Every so often I miss a few days just to feel again. Those are the days the cry comes through loud, clear and strong and with regret I return to the drugs and a faded existence.

~X~

Charlie lies awake and listens. The soft, regular breathing from the bed to his right tells him Michael is asleep. He waits, and with a lurch deep in his stomach, he hears a key in the front door. Michael stirs.

‘That him?' he mumbles.

Charlie says nothing, only curls up tighter, shuts his eyes and hopes.

‘Just lie still.'

Footsteps, uneven, lurch up the stairs and the bedroom door opens to frame a large man leaning on the doorframe. He stands, stares, then eventually sighs and leaves. Another door clatters open and shut and bedsprings pop and strain then settle. Silence returns to the house. Silence, except for the muffled sobs of Charlie and the whispered comfortings of Michael.