Student editors: what happened next?

Pritpal Tamber (1996-7)

I remember the wind, pushing me erratically, suddenly mocking me with invisible menace. I could feel the rain coerced into attacking me, the wind, whipping up the drops, beating me in the face. I heard footsteps behind me, slow, purposeful, and echoing in the empty street.

“You have to go back.” There was hesitancy in his voice. “Blend in. Keep your head... serve your time.” His voice--the drool of a cab driver muffled by the rain--occasionally drowned by the wind. But his message was clear. “They'll find you eventually.” His speech must have lasted a few seconds but it seemed an hour, the evening's blackness creating a void in time. The clouds contemplated thunder. The wind made me squint with resentment. I felt impatience swell inside me.

“Leave it, Smith.” I said, giving him a look. He smiled, a mixture of surprise and pity, his hair dripping in the rain but unmoved by the wind. I looked away, pulled up my collars, and placed some gum in my mouth. “See you around,” I said, walking away, the wind now assisting each step. Sure, I gave myself up, served my time, but I fell at a few hurdles. I even did the job, put in 18 months. Then put in six to help some kids. Then some lady asked me to help teach the world to sing; I didn't have any other plans.

I thought I'd left Smith's world. But then some fast talking Polish guy pulled me back in. And I've stayed here for the last …