The Piper (Part 2)

Thursday 23rd April

So here’s the second part of the story of “The Piper”. You can find Part 1 by scrolling down or clicking here. The final part will be with you tomorrow – provided I can finish it!

It took me a week to work out what was wrong with Hamblin (Pop 55,000).

Late one evening, I was trawling around the web, revisiting sites about the town that stubbornly refused to reveal anything to me. The webpage for the Hamblin Herald had been updated that day to reflect the new edition of the thin freesheet I’d seen lying in neglected piles in various shops.

It was the usual diet of small-town news – predictable and unengaging, unless you knew the people involved.

And then it struck me.

I clicked back through previous editions. More of the same: the endless debate on whether the town needed another bridge across the wide river that ran on its southern side, an ambitious tree planting scheme, the ups and downs of local sports.

I started to see a pattern.

I hopped across to the page for the town council and scanned the directory of local services: kindergartens, schools, health clinics, parks, rubbish collection. A well-run, well-resourced community; photos of smiling faces, flushed with civic pride.

But no photos of older people. No care homes. No seniors clubs.

The next morning, I walked the streets with new purpose. I knew what I was looking for now. Where were the old people in this town?

I headed south, wandering through streets I had never been down. This was clearly the poorer side of town: warehouses, small workshops, car breakers’ yards. I kept going till I came to the river. In the distance I could see the one bridge leading into town. I decided to walk along the river bank towards it, thinking it would give me a different perspective

It was a hot day and down by the river the air was heavy, with a strong smell of rotting vegetation. By the time I got to the bridge my shirt was clinging to my back. I stopped to wipe my neck and looked round me. A familiar scene – empty beer cans and bourbon bottles. Cigarette butts and roaches. The remains of a fire, the stones around it still warm to the touch. A smell of piss in the air.

I retreated into the shade of one of the bridge’s concrete pillars and sat against it to rest. The cloying, heavy air pressed down on me.

I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke, I felt stiff and uncomfortable. Standing up was a slow, painful process.

“Hot day,” said a voice behind me.

To be continued…