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Colin Fenton prided himself on living a life that behaved itself.

His rent went out the first of every month, his bin was on the kerb by seven-thirty, and every USB cable he owned was wound into a little Velcro halo. People thought that sort of neatness was dull; Colin thought it was merciful. Chaos took energy. Order earned interest.

So when the coming week at the agency threatened to burst its calendar squares—three sites to launch, Matteo’s CSS “improvements” to mop up, and the twitchy promise of a Monday morning stand-up—Colin did what any sensible twenty-six-year-old web developer would do: he bought a cheap return to Blackpool and fled.

He booked the room on Thursday night with the professional care he usually reserved for version control. Three browser tabs, five hotel options, a filleting of reviews. One was two pounds cheaper but offered “continental breakfast,” a phrase Colin distrusted on sight. Another included a full English, but only between seven and nine, which struck him as unnecessarily doctrinaire. A third—slightly more expensive, though not offensively so—offered a buffet.

Colin had strong views on buffets. They were, in his experience, the only honest form of breakfast.

Once booked, he felt the small, satisfying click of a decision completed. The weekend existed now. It had a shape, a cost, a timetable. He printed the confirmation email, not because he needed to, but because it was, in a modest way, reassuring to have it in hand.

On a Sunny Saturday, just past noon, the Manchester–Blackpool train coughed itself out of Piccadilly on time, surprising everyone including, Colin suspected, the driver. He slid into a window seat, set his bag overhead with a quarter-turn of the strap, and let the city peel away.

For ten minutes he watched terraced roofs and satellite dishes recede, then let his thoughts drift to work. Next week would be carnage. Matteo would almost certainly ring. So might Steve, though the creative director preferred delegating panic downstream. Colin pictured the phone vibrating mid-seafront and resolved—without quite admitting it—that if they did call he would answer, but only after the third ring. Boundaries mattered.

Halfway to Preston a stray memory bobbed up: the last time he’d done this run. Five years ago, stag weekend, lethal volume of lager. He remembered laughing, definitely. He remembered Blackpool Tower tilting like a polite drunk. He did not remember boarding the return train, yet he’d surfaced at Piccadilly in a dead carriage sometime after midnight, disoriented as an unplugged toaster. A guard—arms folded, late-shift stoic—had been approaching to prod him awake. Colin had offered the man his sincerest apology, which, given the circumstances, had consisted of standing up and not vomiting.

A gap in the ledger, nothing more. Still, it twitched in his head as the train rolled into the same seaside station all these years later.

Blackpool greeted him with its usual battered optimism. Seagulls the size of house-cats wheeled over peeling façades; 8-bit chiptune music leaked from arcades; the air smelled of salt, vinegar, and a kind of municipal resignation. Colin loved it. Cities that admitted their shabbiness were honest cities; they saved you the trouble of pretending to be impressed.

He checked into his hotel—narrow stairwell, nylon carpet, a room whose chief feature was an obedient kettle—and set out again, pockets full of cash he’d withdrawn in Manchester. After twenty minutes of wandering he realised he hadn’t actually checked his balance. Small lapse. Easily fixed.

The promenade cash machine sat in the shadow of a greasy spoon that advertised “TEA LIKE MUM USED TO MAKE.” Colin inserted his card, typed his PIN, and waited for the familiar whirr.

CARD NOT RECOGNISED

He blinked, annoyed, re-entered the numbers with exaggerated care.

CARD NOT RECOGNISED

Behind him a man in a windcheater gave a sympathetic shrug. “That one’s temperamental, pal. Eats cards for breakfast.”

“Figures,” Colin said, tugging the card free. “Perfectly on brand.”

Windcheater laughed, wandered off. Colin pocketed the card—another item for Monday’s to-do list—and continued along the front.

By seven that evening he’d eaten fish-and-chips that tasted of nostalgia and hot oil, watched the tide scuff at the sand, and listened to a teenager on a BMX explain to a friend why donkeys were “basically obsolete.” What he hadn’t done was speak to anyone from work. No missed calls, no voicemails, no Matteo fretting about flexbox gremlins. Odd, given the looming deadline, but not unwelcome. If they were determined to let him rest, he would graciously allow it.

Crossing the road towards the neon throb of the North Pier, Colin caught someone’s eye. A broad-shouldered bloke in a wax jacket nodded at him—a mate’s nod, the half-second recognition you give a colleague in Tesco. Instinctively Colin nodded back, polite smile in place, then glanced over his shoulder to see whom the nod might really be intended for. No-one.

He walked on, faintly puzzled, the lights blooming ahead, the sea breathing its damp, briny approval. Blackpool, scuffed and shameless, seemed to fold him in without comment, as though he’d only stepped out for a moment and was now sensibly home.

It was, he told himself, exactly the weekend he’d planned: small, cheap, uneventful.

Exactly that—and nothing else.

29:T15e1,

Colin Fenton prided himself on living a life that behaved itself.

Colin had strong views on buffets. They were, in his experience, the only honest form of breakfast.

A gap in the ledger, nothing more. Still, it twitched in his head as the train rolled into the same seaside station all these years later.

The promenade cash machine sat in the shadow of a greasy spoon that advertised “TEA LIKE MUM USED TO MAKE.” Colin inserted his card, typed his PIN, and waited for the familiar whirr.

CARD NOT RECOGNISED

He blinked, annoyed, re-entered the numbers with exaggerated care.

CARD NOT RECOGNISED

Behind him a man in a windcheater gave a sympathetic shrug. “That one’s temperamental, pal. Eats cards for breakfast.”

“Figures,” Colin said, tugging the card free. “Perfectly on brand.”

Windcheater laughed, wandered off. Colin pocketed the card—another item for Monday’s to-do list—and continued along the front.

It was, he told himself, exactly the weekend he’d planned: small, cheap, uneventful.

Exactly that—and nothing else.

2a:Tffd,

Colin slipped into the studio kitchen of Quick Pixel just as the kettle clicked off, hoping the hiss of sachet coffee might mask the fact he was ten minutes late. It did not.

Matteo materialised in the doorway, beard bristling with purpose.

“Mate,” he said, “where were you Saturday? I rang six times. Steve rang twice. Radio silence.”

Colin’s head was still half-full of sea air and cheap chips; it took him a beat to translate.

“I was in Blackpool,” he said, stirring the coffee so vigorously it frothed. “Weekend, remember those? Thought I’d be allowed one.”

“You’re allowed to breathe,” Matteo snapped. “You’re not allowed to ignore the entire front-end when the client’s demo is Wednesday.”

Colin produced his phone, more for show than necessity, and frowned at the lock screen. No notifications. He thumbed into the call log—and stopped. A neat red column of missed calls stared back: Matteo (4), Steve (1), Matteo (2). Saturday afternoon, Saturday night, Sunday lunchtime.

He blinked.

“I swear these weren’t here yesterday.”

Matteo rolled his eyes. “Do-Not-Disturb?”

“No.”

“Signal?”

“Had bars all day.”

“Possessed by the spirit of a landline from 1993?”

Colin managed a weak smile. “Look, it’s weird, but it happened. Or didn’t. Either way, we’re where we are.”

“Which is two days behind.” Matteo shoved a stack of wireframes into Colin’s hands. “Hero slider’s mis-aligned in Safari, checkout falls over in IE—yes, we still have to care—and the mobile nav opens sideways if you so much as sneeze at it.”

“IE?! Jesus, that ghost still stalks me. That’ll be the flex container,” Colin muttered, scanning the screenshots. “Probably needs a min-width clamp and a forced repaint.”

“Great. Explain that to the client at eleven.”

“We’ll wing it,” Colin said, trying for breezy and landing somewhere nearer anaemic. “I’ll hack a patch by lunch, stay late tonight, refactor tomorrow. Demo will sing on Wednesday.”

Matteo exhaled through his nose, half relief, half disbelief. “You’re lucky you’re good.”

“That,” Colin said, heading to his desk, “is the repository of my self-worth.”

Friday, 5:48 p.m.

The week behaved the way unmaintained codebases do: one fixed bug generating two siblings, every quick patch exposing a new, faintly ridiculous edge-case. But by close of play Friday the demo stack compiled, the client was pacified, and Steve declared it “solid work, team,” which in Steve-speak was practically an embrace.

Colin packed his rucksack under his desk: one change of clothes, toothbrush, paperback novel he knew he wouldn’t open. He’d placed the bag there at eight that morning, just in case the idea returned. Now, waiting for the 192 in Piccadilly Gardens, he felt it tug again—a muted but definite pull westward.

Rain freckled the paving slabs; buses hissed like temperamental beasts; a group of teenagers took turns shouting lyrics at a bluetooth speaker. Home was three miles south and full of undone laundry. Blackpool was an hour by rail and full of... nothing, really. Nothing was attractive.

He looked at his watch, then at the rucksack, then at the bus lurching into view. Decided. Stepped back from the curb.

Forty seconds later he was walking uphill on Oldham Street, past the vegan bakery and the shuttered record shops, cutting the familiar S-bend toward the station. The decision felt oddly frictionless, as though it had been waiting for his body to catch up.

Inside Piccadilly the departure board flicked laconically: Blackpool North 18:23 On time. He bought a ticket, found a seat, and watched the city unspool again in reverse. No colleague calls now, no crisis pings—just the faint vibration of the train and the thought, both comforting and inexplicable, that whatever lay ahead would require nothing more from him than his arrival.

2b:Td48,

Friday night found Colin in The Shipwreck Inn, a pub that looked as though it had missed the last ferry out of 1979 and decided to age in place. The wallpaper was nicotine tartan, the carpet patterned in what a sign called “nautical roping” and what Colin suspected was just damp camouflage. He loved it on sight.

He’d planned a single pint to mark the work-week’s burial at sea; by pint three he’d reached that gently buoyant stage where deadlines felt like legends from another culture. He was contemplating the menu’s promise of “Loaded Chips – Includes Absolutely Everything” when a broad-shouldered lad in a faded away-strip squeezed in beside him.

“Colin, you menace!” the stranger boomed, slapping the bar for emphasis. “Thought you’d vanished after that screamer last time.”

Colin’s brain went full blue-screen. He managed a slow smile. “Alright… yeah. Been a week, hasn’t it?”

“More like a fortnight,” the lad laughed, passing two pints to friends behind him. “You saved the Pier Wanderers’ skins—eight seconds left, you twist, top corner, bosh. Any chance you’d jump ship and play for us? Kidding, kidding. Loyal to the Wanderers, aren’t you?”

Colin’s mouth said, “Course,” while his mind rifled uselessly through memory. He hadn’t set foot on an AstroTurf pitch since February—six months ago—too many late nights babysitting Matteo’s CSS mutations.

“We’re head-to-head again three weeks Tuesday,” the lad went on. “Seafront cages. Half seven. Try not to break anything before then, yeah?”

He winked, hoisted his drink, and melted back into the crowd where someone immediately called him a jammy git.

Colin exhaled. He replayed the exchange twice, found no foothold, and downed the rest of his pint in the hope it contained answers. It did not.

Saturday, 10:06AM

Rain fretted at the window of his hotel room while the wall-mounted kettle performed its best impression of a jet engine. Colin sat on the bed, thumb-typing.

pier wanderers football blackpool

Top result: a local five-a-side league page out of Blackpool, complete with fixture lists, pint-sponsored match reports, and, two clicks in, the photo album titled “Champions Night.”

He tapped. Thumbnails of lads in mismatched kits loaded, all beer-flush and plastic medals. Fourth picture...inexplicably, there he was.

Same half-crooked grin. Same mole under the jaw. Caption: Colin Fenton – MOTM, 6–5 Final v Seafront Rangers (May 2016).

A full two years a go.

He zoomed. The face didn’t blur into coincidence; it sharpened into certainty—sweaty fringe, scuffed knee, and his own battered Casio watch ticking away on the wrist.

Colin stared until the screen dimmed for lack of interest. He re-lit it, half-expecting the image to correct itself, perhaps swap in a stranger with kinder proportions. It did not oblige.

He switched to his calendar, half-expecting the little square to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Pier Wanderers v Seafront Rangers, 7:30 p.m. blinked back at him—three weeks Tuesday—along with half a dozen past fixtures he was certain he’d never played.

Colin stared until the screen dimmed, the dates still faintly visible in the glass like something printed underneath.

2c:Te20,

Colin had chosen the The Crown & Cushion in Heaton Chapel for two reasons:

- It possessed a screen large enough to qualify as a minor civic building.

- It was fifty-eight paces from the 192 bus stop, thus limiting unscheduled exercise.

United were busy failing to break down attacks on the left wing. And the right wing. In the real world, pints sweated gently, a fruit machine blipped like a needy child, and Colin occupied a stool with the air of a man determined to do absolutely nothing constructive until further notice.

The match should have washed over him like any other Saturday broadcast—but every clipped pass, every mistimed volley, made his mind loop back to the Pier Wanderers. Three weeks Tuesday. Half seven. The stranger’s grin. Drag-back, top corner, bosh.

He still couldn’t fit that sentence anywhere sensible.

On impulse he fished out his phone and opened the calendar. It was peppered only with work commitments. No five-a-side fixtures. No Pier Wanderers.

Did I… add them drunk and delete them drunker? he wondered, shoving the device face-down against a beer mat. Unsettling, yes—but also weirdly flattering. He’d never considered himself imaginative enough to fabricate a football schedule.

An ironic cheer burst from the television—some long-distance sighter into row Z—prompting scattered groans around the bar. Colin flipped the phone upright again and typed Pier Wanderers football Blackpool into the browser. Result: local five-a-side league homepage, garish as budget confetti. Fixtures, standings, a blurry crest involving a seagull doing something anatomically implausible with a football. All real.

Facebook next. Same album, same trophy night. He scrolled—thumbnail, thumbnail, thumbnail—until the photo bloomed: teammates shoulder-to-shoulder, medals winking, but where Colin had once been...grinned a complete stranger, occupying his outline like a souvenir stand-in.

Colin leaned back, letting pub noise wash over him. Work had turned vicious, and in recent months alcohol had slid from treat to habit. Under stress some people looped into odd obsessions—he might just be one of them.

Still.

He ordered another lager (thirty-one paces to the bar, thirty-one back) and tried assembling a rational timeline. Blackpool last weekend: three pints, friendly nod, strange praise. Saturday morning scroll: fixtures, photo, calendar entries that seemed to pre-explain themselves. Today: fixtures intact, photo changed, calendar scrubbed.

A systematic hallucination? Unlikely, but “unlikely” was getting crowded.

Out the window the sky dimmed from pewter to slate. Rain needled the bus shelter like static. Three separate times Colin thought of catching the next service into town, walking the familiar S-bend, and hopping the train west. Each time he pictured that pier wind cutting through his coat—and something in him clenched, the way a hand closes over loose change.

No, he told himself. Enough seaside for a lifetime.

He finished the lager and shouldered his bag. At the door he hesitated, glanced at the silent phone one last time, then slipped it into a pocket as though pocketing the thought itself.

Tomorrow would be Sunday. Monday would be Monday. Manchester was real, rain-soaked, and sufficient.

As for Blackpool—he would simply stay away.

He stepped into the drizzle, counting paces to the bus stop, each one meant to land him further from questions the town by the sea seemed far too ready to answer.

2d:T1044,

Sea-mist fretted the office windows of Promenade Digital. Inside, keyboards clicked at a tempo that suggested productivity without panic, and someone had put the kettle on before the morning stand-up—evidence of civilisation.

Colin logged in, pulled yesterday’s branch, and felt the gratifying hum of a codebase that still remembered his shortcuts. A gull clattered along the sill; no one looked up. Blackpool life, he’d decided, ran on a slower gear and better manners.

Henna, his project lead, appeared wielding a Post-it like a summons.

“Need you to nip over to Manchester tomorrow. New fashion start-up—Northern Quarter, obviously. They botched a Shopify skin and want the grown-ups to fix it. Eleven a.m. meeting, hour on the train.”

Colin nodded. “Haven’t been back in a while, but fine.”

“Thought you still knew the streets.”

“Feels like I never quite left,” he said, surprising himself with the ease of it.

While cheap coffee dissolved into something drink-coloured, Marty the junior dev asked, “You off to Manchester? You ever miss it?”

Colin shrugged. “Left five years ago on a whim,” he said, as though reciting an anecdote he’d practised. “Lease ended, job dried up, mates dragged me here for a messy weekend. Woke up, still had cash, thought bugger it—stay and see what sticks. Found a flat, found this gig. Haven’t looked back.”

Marty raised his mug. “To good whims.”

“To better hangovers,” Colin said, and realised the story sat in his mouth with the ease of something he’d told for years.

11:03 a.m. — Thread & Needle Collective, Northern Quarter, Manchester

The start-up’s studio occupied half a repurposed mill: white-washed brick, racks of sample jackets, and a faint perfume of fresh denim and ambitious timelines. Two founders—a serene woman named Nuri and a man who looked like he’d been carved from espresso grounds—ushered Colin into a corner meeting nook wearing the hopeful expressions of people about to confess a costly mistake.

Nuri slid a laptop round. The storefront shuddered like a frightened animal when resized.

“The last agency bodged the theme,” she said. “Local outfit too—Quick Pixel. Ring a bell?”

Colin’s stomach dipped as though the floor had sub-stepped by half an inch.

“Name’s familiar,” he managed. “Can’t place it, though.”

“Lucky you,” Espresso Man muttered. “They half-launched, invoiced, disappeared.”

Colin toggled a dev tool, tweaked a flexbox rule; the hero banner snapped obediently into place. Both founders exhaled as though he’d just defused an artisanal grenade.

“Tomorrow morning,” Colin said, fingers already moving, “I’ll have a clean staging link.”

Nuri beamed. “Worth the train fare already.”

13:22 — Oldham Street

Lunch hour: drizzle, thrift stores, a mural he half-remembered but painted in new colours. He bought a pasty that tasted of first jobs and late buses. Every corner prompted a reflex—turn here, shortcut there—yet each street felt subtly re-aligned, as though Manchester had been updated in his absence and the patch notes hadn’t loaded.

Passing a café window he caught his reflection—same coat, same salt-spray hoodie from Blackpool—and felt a tug of homesickness he couldn’t attribute to the city he was standing in.

16:45 — Train back home

He emailed Henna a bullet-point fix plan, closed the laptop, and watched warehouse roofs leak into farmland.

Blackpool’s lights would be coming on. The code there opened first time, the kettle pre-emptively boiled, the sea threaded salt through the evening. Manchester receded like a dream whose outline he’d borrowed and returned slightly out of shape.

He pressed his head against the glass, letting the hum of the carriage settle in his chest.

Home, he thought—meaning the place he was going, not the one he was leaving—and the distinction felt natural enough not to question.

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