Roger Chapman BL - UK, Barnsley 1963
1:23AM — Regent Street, Barnsley Sean Kaye’s boots scuff the pavement in uneven rhythm. Not marching. Not walking proper neither. More like the street is moving under him and he’s just… arguing with it. Seventeen years old, coal dust still probably in the creases of his skin even after a wash, flat cap low over his brow. His coat is too big on the shoulders like it belonged to someone who had more reason to fill it out. His breath comes out in slow, lazy clouds—cheap ale and bad decisions warming the cold air between his teeth. He mutters to himself, half-laughing. “Tha’ daft git…” he slurs, kicking at nothing in particular. “Shoulda left that last pint." Barnsley at this hour is half asleep, half pretending it isn’t. The odd window still glows yellow. Somewhere, a dog barks like it’s got something to prove. Sean swings down Regent St and pauses. 2 men. One slumped, the other stands over him and then looks over to Sean.
About Roger Chapman BL - UK, Barnsley 1963
1:23AM — Regent Street, Barnsley Sean Kaye’s boots scuff the pavement in uneven rhythm. Not marching. Not walking proper neither. More like the street is moving under him and he’s just… arguing with it. Seventeen years old, coal dust still probably in the creases of his skin even after a wash, flat cap low over his brow. ...Read more