Banshee beat

The road slopes up way, way too far. How am I meant to climb that? An old lady in an unseasonal coat begins before me. Maybe it's not that bad. I count my steps, knowing I have a roughly half metre stride, so I can work out the angle from the top. I've lost count by the time I reach twenty, or seventeen or whatever. The houses are painted different colours so the stepped terrace becomes a radical pyramid of toy blocks. Mixed colours also distort my face; the forehead white as the blood puffs red to my cheeks. My feet slap on the rough, dry pavement, big feet in enormous shoes; I'm a breathless, tardy clown.

A beat is bouncing thickly down the hill, knocking on houses and regulating footfall. It could be coming from any of these tributary streets that pump life into the rising road. Children peer around corners, searching, festival ribbons tied in their hair and cat masks painted bright on their faces. My head slops left to right as I stare down the passing streets, a tired fan-head that can barely raise a breeze as it blows forlornly around the room.

I'm sure I haven't passed the marching band but they are rattling away from me, dragging me inland, uphill, closer to the end. There are banners taunting me from houses, draped flags that wave me on. A hat thrown high to hang up on a lamppost, signs that something was here but has now gone.

“You're late, you clown. Here, drink up, we're going.”

“Why?”

“I'm sick of all that drumming”