A life that had no handbrake, only an accelerator, a throttle, it was jammed and going in the wrong direction. Stop the race, it’s a life that needs no victory. God. Please. But no one listened to the torment and the pleading.

Aren’t there too many screaming, pleading people, all screaming and pleading at the same time? All the noise. All the chaos. Seven billion screams.

And so, the father crashed, so to speak, let go of the grip on his own life. The fatal final autonomous disintegration – all the worry over.

He would never be made any younger.

His canvas could bring no joy anymore.

Ever would be forever bereft.

Chapter Nine

Lomita Nairn lay on the crisp white cotton sheet, having thrown off her lilac quilt. There remained almost no indentation as she turned her body till her legs were dangling over the bed. She reached for the Oban and pulled at the stopper. How much longer will these hands be able to prise the plastic-topped cork out of the bottle, with a twist-requiring grip? It was something that would end one day. She sat up, excited by the decision to have another sip of the Oban. The drowsiness had not taken over with the pill, her brain was still telling her things she did not want to hear. She would change that and think about what she wanted to think about until her peace came.

These nights developed in thought but she would always try to force them back to something happy, sometimes to Bobby Layne.

She finished the sip with a cracking smile.

*

Her town in the 1950s, Pittsburgh, was hell with the lid off.

The steel industry produced the dense fog of pollution that had clouded the city, creating a darkness of apocalyptic gloom. Lomita had grown up with the demoralising legend of the ‘valuable man’ escaping the city for New York or Los Angeles because he could no longer face life in the grime. Running away: and the concept of a new life would grow from this seed planted in her brain.

She plumped her pillows and lay back with the memory of playing outside and running around, simple enough but the air was filthy from the coal-burning steel works. There was a wheeze in the chest, a sting in the eye, and that smell in the air. Still, the pollution that caused the infamous midday dullness very slowly gave way to brighter days as natural gas was pumped in to provide energy. Buildings were being sandblasted to remove the grime. The transformation had started.

A second chance. Everything deserves that, she thought. And everyone.

Duquesne, just outside city limits, was where they moved to, so that her father had easier access to the factory. That was his world. Work and steel.

Then the dark-haired, doughnut-cheeked image came to her. Standing on the podium at her school. Glasses, slow talking, extremely shy, instantly forgettable, yet she never forgot.