The Journey

Lightning flashed through my window. A raven squawked somewhere close—sharp, sudden—then vanished into the dark. I fumbled for the bedside lamp and flicked the switch, but the bulb only glowed weakly, a thin, dying yellow. Barely there. My chest tightened. For a moment the room felt wrong, smaller somehow, like the walls were leaning in. Then I jolted awake.

Morning light bled softly through the curtains. No storm. No raven. Just the pale grey hush of early November. But my heart was still racing. The cold in the room had teeth. It bit at my arms and crept down my back, so I pulled the duvet tighter around me and lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather the last scraps of the dream before they dissolved. It slipped away like smoke.

And then, like always, my thoughts drifted to Alejandra. Not deliberately; they never were. She just appeared there, the way certain things do, without invitation. Her long dark hair. Those black Spanish eyes that never seemed to give anything away unless she wanted them to. When she looked at you properly, really looked, it felt like something had shifted, like the world had tilted slightly toward her.

God, she drove me insane. Not in the way people say it jokingly. Something quieter. Something that sat in the chest and stayed there long after she’d gone. I’d have done just about anything just to have her really notice me. And the worst part was, sometimes she did.

Eventually I forced myself out of bed. The floorboards were freezing under my feet as I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a jumper, then shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. Kettle on. Bread under the grill. The small rituals of morning. Toast with too much butter—the way I liked it—melting into the corners. Strawberry jam would’ve made it perfect, but the jar was empty.

Shopping could wait until I collected my winnings from the bookies. After breakfast I decided to walk into town. No rush. Just a slow, hands-in-pockets kind of morning. Her arcade was on the way. Maybe I’d pop in for a coffee. Maybe not. I wasn’t feeling especially sociable.

The air outside was crisp and smelled faintly of damp leaves. The town centre was just waking up—shutters rattling open, buses sighing at stops, pigeons picking at nothing. As I reached the arcade, I saw her. Alejandra stood outside cleaning the windows, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back loosely, the glass catching the weak sunlight behind her. For a moment I just watched her. She moved with an ease that didn’t belong to the place, like the arcade existed around her rather than the other way round. Even something as ordinary as wiping a pane of glass seemed deliberate, contained.

She looked up, saw me, and smiled. Not the polite smile she gave customers. Something softer. Quieter.

“Hola, Shack,” she said.

My name was Jack. For some reason, she always called me Shack. I never corrected her. Not because I liked it, but because I liked that it came from her.

“Coming in to play later, Shack?”

Oh, most definitely, I thought. But I didn’t want to sound too keen. “Maybe, Alex,” I said, trying for casual. “Got a few things to sort first.”

The truth was I didn’t have much planned beyond picking up the Racing Post from the newsagent and checking my bets, but it sounded better than admitting I’d probably spend half the afternoon hanging around just to see her. “If I’m free, I’ll pop in.”

“Okay,” she said, leaning on the squeegee. “One of the machines is due. I can feel it. We’ll have a go.” She lowered her voice slightly, like we were conspiring. Technically she wasn’t meant to play the fruit machines while she was working, so most days I played for her. We’d split whatever came out. I liked that about her—the little bit of risk, the gambler’s streak. Made everything feel like a secret. Like we were on the same side of something.

The bookies didn’t open until ten, so there was no rush. I drifted into town when I felt like it, hands in my pockets, breath hanging faintly in the cold air. The high street was only just waking up—shutters rattling open, delivery vans idling, the smell of damp pavement and yesterday’s rain clinging to everything. They’d barely unlocked the doors when I stepped inside. I handed over my slip and tried not to look too hopeful.

Five hundred back from a hundred-pound double. Six-to-four and even money. Not bad for a Tuesday morning. Enough to keep me comfortable for the month. Money had never really weighed on me the way it did for most people. Mum and Dad had left me the house when they passed—only child, late-in-life surprise—and there’d been a decent bit tucked away besides. No rent. No mortgage. No one breathing down my neck about work. At thirty-something, life felt more like something I drifted through than chased. Mostly I followed the horses. Form, odds, tracks. Quiet little rituals that made the days feel structured.

I folded the notes into my wallet and crossed next door to the newsagent. Grabbed a copy of the Racing Post, the pages still fresh and faintly inky, then wandered home to study the form properly. By the time I got back it was half ten. The kitchen felt cold again. I filled the kettle and flicked on the little portable TV while it boiled. The screen hummed to life, colours washing in slow and soft.

“…and once again officials are reassuring the public there’s no need to panic about the so-called millennium bug…” the newsreader said, calm as ever. “Computer systems nationwide are being updated ahead of the year 2000.”

Same thing every morning. World might end. World might not. Have your toast either way. “Nothing to worry about,” she added with a polite smile.

Good. I glanced at my old Nokia 3210 sitting on the table—scratched to bits but still alive. Built like a brick, that thing. If anything survived the millennium bug, it’d be the 3210. Might even wake up angry and take revenge for all the times I’d flung it at the wall.

I sat at the kitchen table with the Racing Post spread open in front of me, a mug of tea steaming gently at my elbow and a couple of custard creams on a plate beside it. Did life get much better than this? Tea, biscuits, horses. Peace and quiet. I worked my way through the form, pencil tapping against the margins, circling names, underlining odds, pretending I had some grand system when really it was half instinct.

Every so often my mind drifted back to Alejandra. Not to anything she’d said. Just the way she had looked at me. Like I existed in a way no one else did. It made no sense. I barely knew her. And yet something in me responded to her as though I had.

I glanced at the clock. Half twelve. First race was at ten past one. “Right,” I muttered, folding the paper. “Move.”

I grabbed my jacket and headed out the front door—

“Morning, Jack!”

Ah. No. Mrs Beaworthy. Local intelligence service. She was halfway out of her gate already, cardigan on, arms folded, ready for business.

“Morning,” I said, forcing a smile. “Bit of a rush today.”

“Did you hear that storm last night?” she asked. “Thunder shook the whole house.”

My stomach gave a small, stupid twist. Storm? “No,” I said. “Slept straight through it.”

“Oh it was awful,” she went on. “Thought the roof was coming off.”

“Really? Funny, didn’t wake me at all.” I stepped backwards towards the pavement. “Anyway, I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

“Oh, alright then. Bye for now!”

Not if I see you first, I thought, already halfway down the street. After placing my bets for the afternoon’s racing, I drifted back towards the arcade, hands shoved into my pockets, trying to look like I just happened to be passing. Truth was, something in me had been waiting all day.

With Alejandra, you never quite knew where you stood. Some days she was warmth itself, her attention resting on you like it belonged there, like you had always been part of her world. Other days she withdrew completely, her eyes sliding past you as though you were no different from anyone else. I could never predict which version I’d find. And somehow that made it worse. Because when she did choose to see you, properly see you, it felt like being singled out by something you hadn’t realised you’d been waiting for.

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. Warm air hit me first, then the familiar chaos—flashing lights, tinny music, the clatter of coins dropping into metal trays. She spotted me straight away. Her face lit up.

“I’m so glad you came in,” she said, hurrying over. “That machine’s due, I swear. Some bloke just lost two hundred quid on it. It’s going to pay out. Come on—play it with me.”

And just like that, I was hers. We stood shoulder to shoulder feeding notes into the slot. Spin. Lights. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Money disappearing faster than it should.

“Alejandra,” I said, half laughing, half wincing, “leave it. It’s not paying.”

“It is,” she said. “One more twenty. I can feel it.”

I sighed. “Alright. Last one. Swear.”

“Okay,” she smirked.

Cut to a hundred quid later and we were still standing there. Notes vanishing. Reels spinning. Me muttering curses at the machine like it had personally insulted me while she stayed bright and certain, like it owed her something. She had me on a string and we both knew it.

“Just one more,” she said.

“That’s what you said five ‘one mores’ ago,” I muttered, feeding in another note anyway.

And then—the reels lined up. Lights exploded. Sirens screaming. Coins crashing into the tray like a waterfall. Jackpot. We both stared. Counted it out. Exactly what we’d put in. Not a penny more.

“All that for nothing,” I said, laughing.

But Alejandra looked weirdly thrilled, like we’d actually won. Like the chase had been the point all along. I hovered by the change machine for a moment, watching her wipe down the counter.

“Fancy a drink later?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “What time do you finish?”

“Ten,” she said. “Long one today. No one to cover the shift.”

Ten. Too late. By the time she got out, everywhere decent would be shutting or dead.

“Oh… bugger,” I muttered before I could stop myself. She laughed.

“You’ll be alright getting home?” I asked.

She gave me that look. “Shack… I’m a big girl now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I smiled. “Alright. See you tomorrow then, if you’re around.”

“I will be,” she said.

And that was that. Outside, the air had turned colder. Proper evening chill settling in. By the time I got home the street was quiet, curtains drawn, blue TV light flickering behind windows. I stuck the kettle on out of habit, then dropped into the sofa and flicked through the channels. Nothing. Game shows. Shopping nonsense. The same old rubbish. So I pulled up Ceefax, the blocky little pages ticking over slowly while I waited.

Page… page… page…

Films. Point Break (1991)—9pm—Channel 5. Keanu Reeves. Never seen it. “Yeah, that’ll do,” I muttered. Something easy to fall asleep to.

Well, that was actually decent, I thought. Brilliantly shot, too. I checked the clock on the mantel. 11:00 pm. “Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire,” I muttered. Dad used to say that when I was a kid. Hearing it in my own voice made me smile. Made me weirdly nostalgic.

I killed the TV and headed upstairs. The house creaked the way old houses do at night, settling into itself. Wind had picked up outside. Branches scraped gently against the window like fingernails on glass. I slid into bed, still warm from the radiator, and let the day replay in fragments. Alejandra. The arcade lights. Coins spilling. Her smile.

I yawned. Closed my eyes.

Thunder cracked. Loud. Right on top of me. I jolted upright—

Rain. Cold. Freezing rain hammering my skin. I wasn’t in bed. I was standing naked in a field. Mud under my feet. Grass whipping against my legs. Wind tearing past my ears.

“What the—”

Lightning split the sky. For a second the world flashed white. Trees in the distance. Black shapes against the storm. Then—a deafening boom. Not thunder. Closer. Sharper. Like a cannon. Or a gunshot. My heart slammed against my ribs.

I ran. Barefoot, slipping in the mud, lungs burning, rain blinding me as I scrambled towards the trees. I ducked under a broad oak, gasping, trying to breathe, trying to think.

Where the hell was I? And how did I get here?