Marilyn tumbled off the bus at the Horsefair, and began her walk towards Temple Meads. She still questioned whether they’d done right in moving back out to Brislington after all the mess of the St. Paul’s riots; maybe they should have stuck nearer to Fraser’s family. Though she was used now to this changing bus malarkey, tonight she found it particularly unsettling. Why in the world could they not just coordinate the bus service like every other big city had by now? Bristol seemed to have been left behind in Maggie’s grand plans for economic growth. She understood why Pa had finally made the journey back to Jamaica after all these years. It wasn’t just the big things; all the little nuances of English life in the end wore you down. Like the way everyone kept themselves so much to themselves; building friendships could be like digging in quicksand. And people didn’t care enough about anything anymore; respect had become a rarity. Moving ‘back’ was not something she could do though; she’d never known any home but here. But how screwed up it had all become.

At 11.42pm, after a pretty frightening labour, Annie had given birth to a healthy and beautiful boy. She’d named him ‘Joe’ after her little brother who died aged two from heart failure. Marilyn had been amazed by her sadness, even in the wake of this new life. But she was still more amazed when Annie’s stern husband arrived and seized the baby, without even giving its tired mother a second glance. Marilyn had seen this so many times now. Later they would leave the hospital - she stumbling with her handbag, overnight bag, and the wounds of childbirth, he parading 50 yards ahead with his new son.

She crossed over by King Street and took the usual shortcut towards Castle Green. A black lad, no older that seventeen, came flying down the alley. He flashed past her, the coppers hot on his tail. Two of them - an older scrawny white fellow and a younger, larger black man. Marilyn sighed. They could easily be the same men who took in her brother Del, that harrowing night nine and a half years ago. Could well be these very men who swore unswervingly that Del was their man, got him banged up in Horfield prison for what should have been the best years of his life. While their identity was ‘protected’, Del’s was ripped to shreds. His only true crime - and she knew this with every bone in her body - the charge of being in the wrong place and at the wrong time. But possession with intention to deal narcotics meant twenty years, and twenty years meant just that for a black man. She’d happily have wagered her soul on his innocence, but the devil wouldn’t buy it. It was Fraser who had restrained her when they'd sent him down. He knew a sister's passion could only add pain to Del’s sentence.

Marilyn boarded the bus, flashing her pass behind the straggling late-night workers. She checked her watch. There wasn't a week went by she didn’t visit him, and watching the hope slowly seeping out of those big brave eyes was killing her. So, ten years and he’d be out. The world could be done with in ten years, for all she knew. Wasn’t that what the politicians were predicting? And in any case what chance would a middle-aged Jamaican man with a criminal record have of finding his way again? Pa said he was to go back ‘home’ and he was surely right. The church said they’d help, but Del didn't deal all that well with pity. And so it’d be Marilyn and Fraser - like it was now so it would always be. Family was number one, so how had she become so very alone?

‘Ain this your stop, Miss?’ The driver looked around at her, and sure enough they were on New Bridge Road already. More and more she found herself doing this recently, withdrawing from the day’s events.

‘Cheers, Lionel’, Marilyn said, ‘see you tomorrow’. Sighing again, she stepped down onto the pavement. Like many nights, she was the only person alighting here. Always the only black. But it had been their decision to move away from the trouble, to become a minority again.

This night there was something in the air, like the damp stillness between spring floods. A certain Valentine’s stillness perhaps - everyone in restaurants or in their homes, making love or arguing. She thought of her own Valentine, soon to be heading her way on the dawn bus. She knew their stillness would be one of love.

Inside the building there was broken glass on the stairs and the sweet smell of spilled wine and trouble. Marilyn bent down to pick up a sleeveless record, and discovered it was ‘My Special Dream’ by Shirley Bassey – Pa’s old favourite song. Looking back up, her heart now beating time in her throat, she saw the door of the flat open and realised what had happened. But it was worse than she'd thought. The pungent odour of urine emanated from the flat. Moving closer with her hand over her mouth, she saw the red paint on the open door: NIGGERS OUT.