The top deck of a bus.
Looking down on the city. He looked, saddened.
He wanted to cry, but boys don't cry. That was what he was told by his mum. He was six at the time and fell over as he was walking back from school. There was blood everywhere and he could not help but cry then. But his mother picked him up and dusted him down. Told him everything was okay, and it was nothing to cry about.
'Boys aren't meant to cry, silly,' she said to him.
And all of a sudden, he stopped crying. He did not want to look foolish. His younger sister was in the pushchair asleep through all the commotion. His older sister was still at her school. It was the big school, in a different part of London. Unlike him, she had to take the bus to school, to the 'big school'.
But back on that bus, he looked on. Upset was an understatement. It was many years later. This time he had just finished 'big school'. His exams were over and he had the summer ahead of him. But he still wanted to cry. It had just rained and now the sun was shining, the temperature was rising and sitting in the stifling heat of the bus, he was uncomfortable. The people around him, the claustrophobia or the seat he was squashed into.
It had been less than a year since the funeral. Some of his friends had come from his school. But things had changed after that. People avoided him in the corridor, or pointed at him and whispered as he walked along. But now that summer was here, he had left that school behind. He was going to see some friends, but he phoned them and told him he couldn't make it He just didn't feel like it. He wanted to do something else, anything else, but most of all he wanted to be alone. On the top deck of that bus. And more than anything, he wanted to cry. But he remembered that boys don't cry...