He could smell success, just like he had smelt Hollywood, all the way across the country. Now he was here, having just stepped off the bus. His eyes still full of hope and want, eyes that hadn’t been dulled by having a heart stamped on and rolled into the gutter. It was the face, his face that was the selling point. A beauty that had got him anything he wanted back on the East Coast. But this town was awash with such creatures, and he was going to have to offer something more – perhaps his soul would be a start.
Night after night, he’d sit on the front row and by his side a bottle of champagne and some rose petals. A man obsessed, but then what was new in that? It was always the same, he’d pick out a pretty dancer and bestow on her a cleverness and personality that were of his own making. Things that he never actually found when he got to know the creatures. The chosen one would have the petals thrown at her feet and the girls would smile to each other. The rich man, the rich lonely man had picked you. Be grateful.
The suitcase had been thrown in the cupboard under the stairs and from what he could observe, the owner was getting ready to leave. He unclicked the little cardboard case and could see his father’s best shirt, socks, and underwear, inside. There was a letter explaining why he was leaving the family, one that was to be left on the fireplace one early morning before anyone woke up. He’d prayed for a miracle, that his father wouldn’t leave and it had arrived. That evening England won the Football World Cup and his father drunk and happy came home and unpacked.
bobby stevenson 2014