Salvation

He ran as fast as his body allowed, breath rasping and lungs on fire. He could still hear their footsteps behind him. Trying not to fight for air because he knew that they would hear him. A stitch began in his side. His heart pounding, its sound seeming to echo all around him. Tears were streaming down his face, not tears of sorrow or joy but of exertion giving everything a misty, foggy appearance. He tried to wipe away the tears, to look for an escape route but managed to stumble over cracked paving slabs and almost fell. He pushed himself on, convinced that the footsteps were getting closer. Knowing that they wouldn’t give up until they found him and gave him the beating they’d threatened him with. He could feel himself slowing, snatching at breaths; he could go no further, legs burning and aching, lungs unable to fill with air. And then he fell; couldn’t get up and waited for hands to grab him and haul him roughly to his feet. He lay sobbing and gasping, eyes tightly shut, trying not to think about what was to come.
 

The canal was overgrown. Weeds fighting weeds to get a share of sunlight and nutrients. Hedges planted long ago as a protection from and a defence against the outside had grown to the extent that this was now a secret world. A long forgotten canal going nowhere. Once important, it had been an artery of industry carrying coal, iron ore and manufactured goods, and the lives and deaths of many. Now silted up, carrying nothing and no one anywhere; only its memories remained. The lives it once sustained and nourished no longer part of the sentient world.

A green corridor, a home to birds and wildlife. Its lifeblood - its water, slowly seeping away, taking its very nature. Where water had once been weeds and wild plants grew, vying to achieve dominance. A place neglected and forgotten with no purpose in the here and now. Not a place of conventional beauty, the almost empty watercourse clogged up with shopping trolleys, tyres, one wheeled bikes and who knows what hidden in the silt. A tribute to the throwaway society. Planners had come to visit with great schemes for rejuvenation, for its use by the community. The plans proved to be too expensive and were shelved, leaving the canal once again to itself. Conservationists demanded its protection and restoration as part of our heritage; nature lovers wanted it preserved for wildlife. Apathy resulted in – well in apathy. The character of the canal depended upon the season. Winter saw it bare of leaves and greenery. Trees silhouetted against grey shot silk skies, stretching their skeletal branches in acts of supplication to whatever gods governed their existence. Native British birds and migrants trying to survive on what they could find brought movement and subtle flashes of colour. A place of quietness and slumber, too cold and desolate for visitors to bother walking a path that went nowhere. Trees silvery white on the coldest of days, the sun unable to penetrate the depths and melt the frost. What little water was left remained frozen for much of the winter. Spring was an awakening, a green haze appeared. Trees clothed in blossom offering their beauty to watery blue skies. Bird song filled the air with a promise of what was to come. A time that seemed full of hope. Summer brought green lushness, the lazy drone of insects and a feeling of completeness. Autumn was a time of colour, trees fiery reds, yellows and orange. A world that had become still and calm preparing for winter’s sleep. The few people who knew of its existence came and marvelled at how nature could recapture what had once been its own and then cover man’s attempts to subdue it or to make it into an unpleasant place. Nature has a way of masking ugliness. People rarely visited, it kept its secrets. Of the few who came some were welcomed and they stayed a while and felt at peace, others felt oppressed and couldn’t wait to get away. It was a world that was of now and of then. Those of the ’now’ who strayed in and stayed too long became part of its mystery and magic, its past and its future.

Glen was fourteen years old, small for his age and had an uncared for look. He had deep, bright, cornflower blue eyes. They always had a haunted, wary look about them. Pale and undernourished, he was dressed in typical 'uniform' of the day. Not true brand names,funds would not run to these, but market stall ‘knock off'. Unpopular with other boys who picked on him because he was different. Not one to take taunts and laughter he would respond to these with his fists. Most of his time in school was spent outside the classroom, other children seeing how far they could push him, or push the teacher. His parents were summoned to school on numerous occasions but rarely attended. There was little the school could do especially with current practice stating that problem children should not be excluded but educated with the ‘normal’. Glen was punished at home, for any perceived wrong doings but not where it showed. Social workers had been to see the family but with no evidence could only keep a watching brief and ask the school to be aware. Teachers suspected that, when drunk, Gary, Glen’s stepfather did beat him leaving marks that were not obvious. As he got older this treatment got less mainly because Glen became wilier and more able to avoid the blows.

The school had labelled Glen a 'Special Needs Child' because of his lack of progress and because of his behavioural problems. This meant that for some lessons he was educated in small groups and had the dubious pleasure of having his own educational psychologist who visited when budget and time allowed. This was another reason for Glen’s bullying, another difference that could be targeted. Those meting out the treatment realising that if they were not part of the gang giving out the punishment they could well become the next victims.