The drizzle seeped inside Daz’s hood and was now sliding down the nape of his neck towards the cavity between his shoulder blades. The smell of baking soda bread wafted from the fire exit of the Ormeau Bakery. Angry horns and flustered faces lined the road behind their steering wheels. Motorists weren’t moving anywhere; the traffic always got worse when the rain came out, as if it were a rare occurrence. The Belfast rain persisted even when summer was meant to push it aside. But summer was long gone, like the weekend, and yet again another Monday morning had arrived – the daily rush of steps to the bus stop at Ormeau Park.

The chestnuts had been falling recently, large spiky orbs scattered on the cracked footpath, their contents stolen by primary school children eager to have the biggest conker in their class. These carcasses created a slippery brown mucus that made navigating the footpath tricky in such a downpour. Several conker collectors had gathered beneath the tree that sheltered the bus stop. Sticks were hurled skywards to loosen those chestnuts stubborn enough to cling to the branch. A large wet stick brushed Daz’s black Doc Marten shoes as it plummeted from the tree above towards the concrete.

‘Watch what you’re doing, ya wee fucker.’

‘Sorry, mate.’

Daz regretted not putting on his jacket, it was a shite fake Parka his ma had bought him from Primark, only worn when it was genuinely freezing outside. The school had banned bomber jackets or anything that resembled a fashionable item, bloody priests. His blazer was proving to be more porous than he remembered. His stiff white Dunnes Stores shirt softened as water attacked it from all angles. He pulled the collar of his polyester blazer upwards, in a feeble attempt to create a barrier between his neck and his shirt collar. A droplet of water formed on the curve at the tip of his nose, where it turned towards his nostrils. He blew upwards, sending it flying skyward before it dropped onto his lips. He remembered hearing on the news years before about acid rain. His mate Spunk said they should lick the rain from the railings in the park to check if there really was LSD in it.

‘Where the fuck is the bus?’ he muttered. The bus usually drove past him before he got to the stop, not today, though.

Usually, the rain didn’t bother him much, but the weekend ended on a downer when he found out his mate Jamie was moving forty miles away; his parents had had enough of Belfast’s diesel fumes, traffic jams, and the glue bags left in their front garden every Saturday night. They didn’t realise that most of the time it was Jamie who left these items after a night drinking in the park.

A blue Ulsterbus emerged from the grey mist further down the road, but even with poor visibility, Daz could tell it was a number eighteen and not a number ten. When it arrived, condensation covered every window, hiding damp and soggy kids behind the opaque wetness. The students from the school in Ballynahinch boarded their bus, leaving Daz standing there, soaked to the skin beside three other pupils from his school. He didn’t really know this group, only their faces, and he felt no connection to them whatsoever. All they shared was a uniform and a bus twice daily. They had umbrellas and raincoats. Daz stood alone, gazing towards the yellow and red Chinese restaurant signage that faced the park: Happy Sun.