The celebrations of the Olympic torch relay were in full
swing a few hundred metres away from this man, who was sheltering from another
summer’s downpour.
He was with someone I’d met recently, Martin, and after we’d
chatted a while I introduced myself to Marc.
Marc has been in Northampton for 8 years and he’s known
Martin all that time, “He’s a fantastic bloke,” Marc says amiably.
Marc then told me about himself. He said, “I had two legs up
until last year, but I lost one,” he stops and pulls on his cigarette. “DVT,”
he continues in a matter-of-fact tone, “from the smoking.” Looking at the
cigarette in his ungloved left hand he says, almost wistfully, “I should give
it up ... but I don’t.” He then puts it to his lips again and inhales deeply
while looking out to somewhere far beyond the raindrops falling in the Market
Square.
He tells me where he lives and where he normally is to be found when he is in
town. Like with Martin, I know I’ll speak with him again. When you really see
people, they always remain visible.
Removing his glove from his right hand Marc shakes my hand,
smiles and bids me farewell. He repeat his name again, “Marc, that’s Marc with
a C.” “It’s important to get your name right,” I reply. “Thank you.”
When I eventually walk away he sits there with Martin standing
at his side. The downpour is relentless.
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