Algae

It quickly darkened and soon Little legs was in that trance like motorway night driving state. The cats eyes and lights formed a visual rhythm broken up by the sonic flurries of wind and rain. He passed the Clock motel blazing like a campfire in the prairie of grey drizzle and remembered passing this way in happier times.
He was a boy again, sitting in the red camper van purchased for two glorious summers by his parents before their acrimonious divorce saw it sold off in the big divide. He could recall the new vehicle smell and the feel of his finger on the AA map following the route up the country to that childhood Mecca -Blackpool. No Disneyworld then, euro or otherwise. Blackpool with its golden mile of smutty postcards and glittering arcadia was the best you could get and the most anyone expected. He knew he was rose tinting it. He blotted out the terrible weather, traffic jams and rows. In his version there were always blue skies, Ed ‘Stewpot’ Stewart with his mix of silly songs and glam rock on the radio, dog eared I-spy books in the glove compartment. His dad allowing him to hold the wheel as they drove and if he was lucky put the petrol in at the stops (only for Quadruple green shield stamps of course), he loved the smell- still did. They used to sleep over at Lytham St Annes railway station car park, a special spot only they knew about-quiet but just a stones throw from the action.
A blaring horn and flashing headlights brought him back alert to the present; he sat up straight, lit a Rothmans and opened the window. Yes! that was where he would go. He would stay there until the flak died down. He had enough money to last a few weeks; he could even stretch it out a bit by sneaking in some work if he bought a local map. A plan! There was always a plan.