Free The Conspiracy Theorist by Mark Raven Page A

always worth a drive.   We passed Shoreham, Lancing, Worthing,
Arundel and finally made Chichester as the sun dipped below the horizon.
    I checked in at a budget hotel on the
main drag and asked where the nearest secure car park was.   I left my bag at reception and drove
the Alfa across town to a multi-storey that was about to lock up for the night.   That done, I went for a swift pint in a
local hostelry before walking back across the park towards my hotel.
    It was the usual city park after a
long, hot, late summer’s day: long shadows, the heat dissipating gradually.   There was the lingering aroma of cut
grass and the dry, yeasty whiff of cannabis resin.   Groups of people who had met and sat in circles with the
express intention of getting wasted were beginning to disperse and take their
growing belligerence home or to the pubs.   Some had lit disposable barbeques that would leave little squares of
charred grass in the morning, along with discarded bottles, cans, empty crisps
bags and all the usual detritus of a disposable society.   You could see where people had been
sitting, as the circle of litter remained as an outline of their presence.   Somehow they were just too important to
clear up after themselves.   I
wondered at the sort of mentality that meant you could just get up and leave your
rubbish behind.   Like it had
nothing to do with them, and that it was someone else’s responsibility.   It was the way such people lived their whole
lives, and it sickened me.
    It makes you grateful that our climate
is so poor, I thought.   Otherwise
this would happen all year round.
    Ahead of me, people were meandering in
the direction of the park gates.   I
noticed two youths stripped to the waist ; one with a
bullet-headed dog on a choke chain, the other holding a girl’s hand.   She had her hair pulled back in a tight
ponytail, what is known, I believe, as an ‘Essex facelift’.   The two men were carrying cans of
cheap lager, the woman a small bottle of a blue liquid.   The couple had matching tattoos at the
small of their backs, a Hindu inscription of some kind.   I felt myself staring, so I looked
away.
    Night was falling and bats were
beginning to flit amongst the trees.   It is so difficult, I thought, to catch nightfall in watercolour.   It is as if the colours conspire
against you.   You had to be very
good to do it well.
    I heard a can being scrunched underfoot
and turned to see one of the youths ahead undertaking this activity with great
accomplishment.   It was as if he
were known for this particular skill, a master of the art.   His companions laughed and swaggered on
leaving the can behind.   I
considered calling the young man back to point out that a bin was not ten feet
away, but I decided against it.   It
had been a long day, and besides, I told myself, I had not seen him actually
drop the can.   He could merely have
been crushing something that was already in his path.   So, when I reached the flattened piece of metal, I stooped,
picked it up and put it in the bin.
    It is what you do, I thought.   Pick up after children.
    ‘Oi!’ someone shouted. ‘What you
doing?’
    I turned to see the trio and dog
regarding me with a malevolence I felt I hardly deserved.   I approached them.   The one who had called out was a tall,
gingery lad, his hair cut close to his skull, a
spatter of freckles around a pair of dull, brown eyes.   He had the unwashed feral smell that
comes from drinking all day and pissing in bushes.   He took a step towards me so I could benefit from the aroma.   The other one and his girlfriend looked
less interested, and stood farther off.  
    ‘Can I help you?’ I asked politely.
    He looked me up and down as if he were amused
by my appearance.   The dog must
have sensed something from his master’s tone as he started a low growling.   It looked like a Staffordshire bull
terrier.   They were nice dogs, in my
opinion, but they growled far too easily.
    ‘So