Squatting the Ivory Towers


I’m living in a squat. I’m looking after it for a guy called Chris. His dog is there too, an old, brown Labrador. The place is a mess. I’ve started to decorate, to change black walls to white. The council knock at the door. We are to be evicted. They offer to help me find somewhere more suitable. Chris’s girlfriend visits. We have guilty sex, knowing that neither of us will tell Chris. 
He returns. He’s a dyslexic at a bible college. I remember how much I like him. We discuss theology, and his dog, that sleeps inside my hoody with its head out of the end of a sleeve. 
I decide to go home. Stepping through the door, I find myself on the moss covered roof of a castle. Like three Haldon Belvederes, melded on different levels. I can’t get through the tiny gap that is the shortcut. I wander across the mossy roof. Children play. Front doors are in the turrets. People live up here. 
We slide down a stairwell to an exit. 
S is waiting for us in a van. We drive across a bridge. The toll is a game. 
First, a hangman game based on how fast you pass checkpoints, second, a re-enactment game, where a passenger has to dress in era appropriate clothing and cross ahead of the vehicle at certain points, and finally, Commando Drowning, which is an off-road race through the flooded, muddy grounds of a former Soviet college. 

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