The Writers' Circle

She shuts her eyes as a biting breeze washes over her face, stinging her ears. A strand of hair catches itself in on an eyelash, and she plucks it away with a gloved finger. Her eyes open to the assault of the wind, and they begin to water. There is one other man at the bus stop, his papery arms quivering in the breeze. He frowns at her, and she turns away. The bus is late. 

Dark clouds fight like children in the sky, fat and discoloured and foreshadowing rain. She'd spent the last, hungry hours staring listlessly around the room, until a decision crept through her sinuses and settled itself behind her eyes. She'd moved slowly, careful not to use up all her purpose at once. It hangs over her head now, in a thin, pulsing stream of red and silver. The man with the papery arms is still frowning at her, his small head tilted slightly. 

An angry, metallic rumbling squeezes itself round the corner and up the narrow street, dragging behind it an old, battered fishmonger's van. The gnarled stench of rotting fish clings to the air in its wake, stroking her hair and face with sinister, spiked fingers. She coughs, and the man smiles. She turns to him slightly, to share in the joke, but he is still frowning through his smile, so she turns back. 

                "Jennifer?" The sound reaches out slowly, reluctantly. It does not want to reach her ears. 

	"Jennifer Ripley?" The reluctance has gone: he knows now. The sound wraps itself around her face and neck, constraining. She shakes her head in quick, jerked movements. 

	"It is, isn't it?" The man takes a step closer. The words squeeze tighter around her throat, forcing their way into her ears, pulsing thickly. 

	"No." The word is choked, thrown out as though disgusting. The man stops, frowning deeper. "No," she laughs; hitched, high and awkward. Desperate. The laugh hangs in the air, twisting and turning with the grotesque forms of left-over fish. There is a pause. 
	
               "Oh." The man takes a step back, dragging the seconds with him. They crawl slowly on the floor, tired and old, and settle at his feet. "Sorry. You -"

	"Look like her." His sentence snaps off, and falls to the ground, brittle and shattered. She smiles that awkward smile, aware of the confusion pushing itself out of his eyes. "Yes, I'm, er, told I look like her." An awful, choking sound follows this, and she frowns. It stops. She realises it was coming from her. 

	"Right." The man continues to frown, and she is struck by a sudden desire to snatch it off his face and throw it in the gutter. She is used to frowns like these, or else confused stares, or disapproving head shakes. These people believe what they read far too easily. Worse still, they judge upon it. 

They check their watches at the same time. Eleven minutes late. Damn buses. She watches him out of the corner of her eyes: he has turned away now. He runs a hand through his hair as she sighs delicately. This sound floats out to join the others, and swirls itself above the street, watched by the man and woman. It tells them the bus is late. 

She stares across the street as a cat pads its way slowly across a garden wall. There is a bird at the other end. The cat stops when it reaches the bird, and sits beside it. The bird takes no notice of it. She smiles. A fat, grey raindrop launches itself from the sky and lands theatrically on her lapel. The man looks up, craning his thin neck. He stays like this for a moment and she wonders what he has seen. He coughs, and lowers his head. Fourteen minutes. 

He turns to her again and opens his mouth, and she turns away quickly. Perhaps if she pretends he is not there he will go away. Another raindrop falls, catching on her forehead and making its way slowly down towards her eyes. She wipes it away, wetting the finger of her glove. 

Finally, mercifully, a low grumbling sounds from around the corner. The top of a bus appears, colourful and friendly. Like ice-cream. She darts forward quickly, desperate to get on and leave the nosy man behind. He stays where he is. The bus stops a few feet in front of her with a lethargic hiss, and the doors open reluctantly, as though eager to humiliate her more. 

A man sits at the wheel, with large hands and smooth skin that is almost blurred. Dark ink strips above his eyes curve into his hairline, and his earlobes hang down as though stretched. He smiles at her expectantly, his small eyes squeezed further into his face by soft, pink cheeks. 

                  "Single to the train station please." Her voice reaches out in a thin stroke, quivering as it tightens. She hands over her money, wincing as their fingers touch. He smiles again as she takes her ticket. She opens her mouth to thank him, but her voice clings to her throat. She smiles thinly and takes a seat. 

                  "Alright, Gabe, return please." The nosy man with the papery arms looks at her again, before muttering something to the driver. She looks away. A young girl sits at the front, with copper hair and a child's hands. A white wire winds its way from her ear to her coat pocket, and she fancies for a second that she is a spy, hooked up to twenty men at computers in a sleek, glass-fronted London building, whispering messages and commands through the mouth piece concealed below her jaw. She smiles. It's just an iPod. 

A man in his mid-fifties sits in the disabled chair, facing her. His carved fingers clutch the corners of the local newspaper, 'The Reader's Digest'. A bristling moustache hangs on his upper lip lazily, looking as though it may die of boredom at any moment.  The hair on his head coils away from his face as though frightened, seeking solace in the crown. His eyes flick up to catch hers, and she looks away sharply. The man looks back at his paper, then frowns deeply. His eyes flick back again, and this time she does not look away. Has she met him before?

His left hand reaches over to join his right, and he peers at the front cover, squinting. He looks back again. His confusion sits unashamedly on his face, and it makes her uneasy. He brings his hands up again and her stomach is pulled out of her body and strewn across the floor. A face looks out of the page. A young, female face, with long brown hair and green eyes. A weak smile. It screams at her; cries with rage, storms and stamps its feet. The tall letters of the headline nudge her eyes, keen for their share of the attention. 'Inquest continues: Daughter goes free'. She is too far away to read the subheading, but she knows what it says. 'Jennifer Ripley, 19, was released yesterday after being held for two weeks following the brutal murder of her parents and three siblings. Police were forced to release the suspect after it was declared that circumstantial evidence rendered them unable to make a conviction.'
 
The man from the bus stop has taken his seat opposite the copper-haired girl, and is talking loudly to the man with the paper. They glance at her, and the copper-haired girl turns to stare stupidly. The words wrap themselves around her, grabbing with blackened, clawed fingers at her eyes and ears. Her vision blurs as she rises and the motion of the bus sends her rocking sideways. She stands for a moment, her breath swelling in her lungs, clutching the bell pole. More than ever before, more than the time in the shop, or when she picked up her niece, she wanted to disappear. To die. To be whisked away by a gale force wind and thrust down on an island in the middle of the ocean where newspapers didn't exist and reporters with sneering faces and judging eyes were banned and her family were still alive. To be free from these words that held her in place and tied her down. 

She walks swiftly to the front of the bus and the driver looks at her sharply. "You alright, love?"

                 "Sorry. I got the wrong bus. I'll get off at the next stop."
                 
                 "But I go to the station." He turns a corner and she is hurled into the window. "Sorry. You needn't get off, I'm going your way anyway."

                  "Yes. I left the oven on. As well."

He looks at her, his blurred skin furrowed above his small eyes. He nods. The next stop is only three hundred yards ahead; she can see the mossy green hiding behind a high, grey wall. The men are talking about her. They don't even try to lower their voices. They are scandalised that once again, the justice system has failed them. Circumstantial evidence their arses. In their day, life was life and murder was murder. The bus driver clears his fat throat. 

She counts eighteen, dead seconds until the brakes are pressed and the bus begins to slow. There is no one at this stop. She pushes herself out as the doors sigh open. A biting breeze washes over her face, stinging her ears. Her breath in her lungs deflates, and she drinks the cold, fresh, beautiful air in deeply. She begins the short walk back home. Perhaps tomorrow, then.