Taking it all back

It was cold, very cold.  It was close to the end of the year and the cold wind cut down from the North.  All around the sound of children screaming could be heard piercing the air. Sobbing mothers grabbed hold of their own young and drew them close to their chests. Fear was everywhere; you could sense it, cut it and taste it.  The men folk stood bewildered to one side unsure of what to do, caught in the glare of the strip lights, rooted to the spot and hopeless.  What was happening was way beyond their experience and their comprehension and they were like fish out of water. 

It was a post-apocalyptic scene with people strung out in a long caravan that twisted and turned as far as the eye could see.  Everyone was weighed down, laden with clothes and household implements stuffed into bags and makeshift carriers, the chattels of everyday life.  People had gathered what they could in the rush and were bent under the weight.  The better off had brought meaningless items based upon value rather than usefulness, things they liked rather than needed whereas the less well off, the wiser and more informed had brought mostly clothing.  They had heard the rumours coming back from the front, carried by neighbours and friends of the few who had survived and were better prepared.

The urge to flee was overwhelming but no one could move, the line stood still.  Up and down the rank those in uniform strode arrogantly, carrying clip boards and barking orders, wearing black, black shoes, black trousers and black shirts with only a small emblem on their breast that identified their unit and gave them their obvious authority.  An arrangement of barriers had been set up hastily to herd us and keep us under their watchful eyes, to keep us under their control.  It wasn’t true however that the line wasn’t moving.  At the front it was advancing forward glacially and that was where I was, clutching my bag for fear of dropping it. We inched forward imperceptibly slowly until finally there was no one else in front of me; I had reached the remaining checkpoint.

‘Next’ came the order and I took a few tentative steps forward being careful not to turn my back on the person behind the desk.  I did everything I could not to anger them or raise their suspicion while I lifted my pathetic bag and emptied its contents onto the pristine black counter. ‘What have you got here?’ demanded the uniform.  I lowered my head, held my breath and muttered ‘Just a few clothes, they weren’t quite what I had hoped for.’   After what seemed like an age, he raised his head and his grey eyes looked through me without a trace of empathy or emotion and through gritted but perfectly veneered teeth he said in an icy voice ‘Have you kept the receipt?’

I still feel a shudder down my spine when I think of it.  Never underestimate the horrors of the Marks and Spencer returns queue.