To say my father was good man would be a lie. I remember him in a series of flashbacks, moments of violent domestic mayhem and toothy smiles, followed by a gentle pat on the head. When he died of massive brain injuries I was relieved.
The carriage is quiet. I stare out the window beyond, at the endless service stations, mini supermarkets and used car dealers. Yes, I’m sitting on the Cleveland line…on the Cleveland Line everything is a sign I think.