The procession reaches the brow of the last hill and it is at this moment they turn as one, pale faces and lank hair hanging long in perfect synchronicity as if posing for the camera before dropping over the horizon and vanishing forever, clouds of vapour filling the space they once occupied.
A red signpost points in two directions, Anderson and Bloxworth in white letters. The left points across hills towards the coast, the right to the town where justice is served. Men in thin shirts are led in chains and manacles for all the townsfolk to see. The men keep their eyes to the ground and no-one shouts at this procession. There but for the grace of God go I … The men are heroes although no-one has the nerve to cheer them either. The march continues over the hills in a cold shroud of mist. Apart from an occasional cough the men are silent. There’s no audience now and the men still keep their gaze on the ground, their time in this land measured out in hours as the sea greyly rolls between spaces in the hills. Time in this land? It might as well be time on this earth, the voyage into the unknown like a one way ticket to the moon in return for stealing a shilling.