The organ solo from Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’ shrieks from the arcade as he dashes between rows of dark windowed caravans beneath an ozone heavy sky.
Carousel horse clouds gallop round a star-bulbed pavilion.
Reeds are rustling by the Naze.
Something is running in the night, alongside the falling tide.
He hears a muddied slap of footsteps; an echo between the embankment and tin-walled ablution huts.
He is lost.
There is a sick taste of toffee popcorn burning in his throat as his shadow splays across the grass.
Somewhere, a bingo caller asks who cried out ‘House’ and other children beg for coppers for the slots.
In his pocket, there is a fossil shark tooth and half a pack of Spangles.
So little.
