The Fugitive

The one-armed man will arrive into town, most likely by train, the train runs two fields

behind the house, Kimble will be on his heals; he had that twitch that I worked on.

I would jerk my mouth into my cheek, I had it perfect, practised in front of the mirror;

especially if there’s girls around; no one would guess that there’s a secret press behind

the mirror; it’s got a nice smell; I often open it to get the smell. The grassland over the tracks

was the place for men that had to keep moving, I could lose myself there. Cowboys ride

that vast emptiness, stopping here and there to slake their thirsts; I like the way they sweat,

the Virginian sweats a lot. I know the water hole just beyond the line, there’s a tree there that

I kitted out as my fort; my stash of stones; indians and germans creep through the grass,

and indians crawl up the embankment to ambush the train over by the elder tree where I get

my swords. It would be hard to see them; you can get a good view standing on the buffer.

Jesus threatened to come off his cross at three o’ clock on Good Friday. Mam hated thunder,

we said the rosary during thunder storms; men on bicycles were always getting struck by lightening

over near Tremane. I’d go into the cubby hole under the stairs, past the box of polish tins into the pitch dark.
There was a door there that opened into a cave; I keep some secrets in the space under the cylinder
in the hot press; I don’t think anyone in the world knows that hiding place is there.