by Nick Corbett
The two men run off towards the platforms, they manage to jump aboard the last train to Woking.
The brown-eyed boy turns around, he stares at a noisy group of young revellers swigging from bottles of beer. They’re heading towards the remaining taxis and then on to a club in Hoxton. Glass doors open automatically. As the clubbers leave, a very smart couple enter, pulling their suitcases on wheels. There is some banter between them and the clubbers; it’s good-natured. The smart couple are cocooned in expensive coats. They laugh as they stroll towards Platform One. They’re headed for the sleeper train to Penzance and the caressing Cornish sun. Suitcase wheels rattle loudly along the concourse.
Archie is almost comatose. He’s been standing in front of the information screen for about ten minutes. He has given up trying to focus his eyes upon the floating words. Suddenly, a very loud female voice penetrates his consciousness. There’s something familiar about it.
“We’ll get a taxi you imbecile!”
“It’ll be quicker to get the tube!” replies the man accompanying her, in a French accent.
“They’ll have finished. We’re getting a taxi!”
“I don’t think that’s right. It’ll cost fifteen pounds and it won’t be any quicker.”
“I don’t care how much it costs! She’s been waiting for us in bloody McDonalds for two hours, so just come on! I can see a taxi waiting through those doors.”
Archie’s heavy eyelids slowly open. A pair of large, bouncing breasts is rapidly approaching.
“Archie! Archie! Is that you?” demands a raging woman with red hair. Archie slowly focuses upon Cathy’s face. Cathy embraces him in a swift hug.
“How are you?” she asks, in a slightly more caring tone.
A stream of words is forcibly ejected from Archie’s mouth;
“Pissed, solo, can’t focus.”
It’s obvious that Archie is very drunk. An awkward conversation follows. Cathy’s main concern is to get to Bayswater, to meet up with Hannah, who’s going to stay with her for two nights. Cathy and her boyfriend, Jean-Paul, have just disembarked from the Eurostar after a trip to Paris. They recently got engaged and they’ve been to visit Jean-Paul’s parents. Their train got stuck in the Channel Tunnel, that’s why they’re so late.
Archie mumbles to Cathy and Jean-Paul incoherently, offering his congratulations on their engagement. He continues in the same confused manner.
“I’ve lost Joe. Luke and Joe went out together recently…They didn’t tell me. Oh, Deefor’s gone…” Then he becomes tearful.
“Oh, Archie, I’m really sorry to hear about all that. Poor Deefor. But, we’ve really got to get to Bayswatwer, for Hannah.”
Cathy whispers something into Jean-Paul’s ear, then she turns to Archie again.
“Do you know what your address is Archie?”
Archie tries hard to remember where he lives.
“I think it begins with the letter c. It’s on the tip of my tongue…” He belches, loudly, accidently; he is loosing bodily control. “Oh, no, hang on. I used to live there, now it’s a p…lived in so many places…I’ll be alright in a minute…it’s just that my legs don’t work…I might have a nap…I could get the first morning train…feel a bit sick...”
Cathy resolves to take Archie home with her. He can’t be left in this state.
“There’s only one spare bed, it’s a single, Hannah’s been promised it,” Jean-Paul reminds his betrothed. Archie revives a little.
“I’m very close to Hannah, it won’t be a problem, we’ll sleep head to toe.”
Jean-Paul and Cathy grab hold of Archie’s arms, they escort him through the glass doors and into the back of a black taxicab.
The red tail-lights of the taxi disappear into blackness under a railway bridge. The glass doors fling open again. The family, who earlier stood beside Archie on the concourse, come trundling through. The brown-eyed boy struggles with a battered suitcase. They all stand still for a moment, breathing the chill London air. The boy looks up at his father, he smiles back reassuringly.
“You have to change! All change! It’s the end of the line!”
The voice bellows in the dark. Joe passes from one level of consciousness to another. A slit opens in a puffy eyelid; light streams in. He focuses on a dirty window. Above is an intrusive, glaring light, it hurts, makes his head throb. Joe is on the upper deck of a modern London bus. An old, wrinkled face appears in front of the blinding light, which forms a halo. It speaks.
“Are you alright, son?”
Joe lowers his head, closes his eyes. After a while he looks again, squinting, narrow eyes. The man is still there.
“Where am I?” Joe groans.
“Croydon,” replies the bus driver. There is a murmur from the back of the bus. “Ah, there’s another one thinks we do bed and breakfast.”
Joe turns and his heavy head thumps. A lad is stirring on the back seat of the bus. The driver walks over to him, gives him a gentle shake.
“Come on, rise and shine!”
The lad looks alarmed.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Croydon too!”
“Where’s Croydon?”
“It’s here!”
The driver scratches the back of his head and then he walks back to Joe.
“Where do you need to get to, son?”
“Clapham.”
The driver nods, then turns to the other lad.
“How about you, where do you live?”
“Balham.”
“Okay, I’ll take you both home.”
Joe looks confused. Is the driver really going to take me all the way home? Apparently he is.
The bus tears through the emerging grey dawn. London’s streets are empty of traffic. The other lad is dropped off in Balham. Joe stands beside the driver’s cabin, giving directions to his street. They navigate their way around tight back streets, packed with parked cars. The bus pulls up in front of a Victorian terrace. This is where Joe lives, in a shared basement flat. Joe turns to face the driver.
“I’m so grateful for the lift, what’s your name, you didn’t tell me?”
The driver’s wrinkly face crumples into a smile, and he gives a wink.
“Take good care of yourself, Joe!”
Joe disembarks. He watches the bus speed off. It misses a parked car by about two centimetres. Keys are found in a trouser pocket, that’s a relief. Joe treads carefully down the little flight of steps that lead to his front door. He enters the flat quietly, drinks water out of the tap; collapses on his bed.
6 Luke’s Light
Joe’s eyes flash open; he bolts up in bed. He’s experienced a very vivid dream. He was crossing a river towards a light. On the other side of the river was the Gothic gatehouse, the one that stands at the entrance to Grandad’s council estate.
Did I make it to the other side?
Joe feels he needs to know. In his mind’s eye, he sees a picture of Luke talking to the young homeless guy on the street. Joe gets out of bed, stumbles across his bedroom; head still hurts a bit. He finds his wallet lying amongst clothes and other debris. He recalls the kindness of the bus driver; wonders what happened to Archie and Sam. He finds Luke’s card with the telephone number and address written on it. Deep breath. He dials Luke’s number. There is a very long wait. A sleepy-sounding Luke eventually answers the call.
“Hello?”
“It’s Joe here.”
“What’s happened?”
“You sound as if you’ve just woken up.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
Luke sounds rather confused. Joe hasn’t got a clue what time it is, it could be the middle of the night, he hasn’t opened his curtains yet. He glances at his watch. Oh dear. It’s half past five in the morning.
How long have I been asleep?
“I don’t know,” comes a reply down the phone.
Joe has actually been asleep for twenty-three hours.
“I’m really sorry Luke, ca
lling you so early, it’s just that I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Eh, what about?”
“It’s to do with all that stuff on the street, with the homeless people.”
Luke yawns loudly down the phone.
“Come around then.”
“What, now?”
“Might as well.”
“I’ll be there in about forty minutes. You’re sure that’s okay?”
“Yes, I’m wide awake now.”
Joe washes his face. He puts on a strange combination of clothes - jogging bottoms, sweat shirt and a suit jacket. He looks like a homeless person. He steps out into the remains of a cold night. He climbs the little flight of steps, onto the silent Clapham pavement.
Joe walks quickly, jacket collar turned up, breath visible in the air, toxic orange glow from the streetlights. A solitary star shimmers defiantly. At the end of the street, a fox runs out. It stares at Joe fearlessly, then scrambles, noisily, over a wooden fence.
Joe turns a corner and he looks along a straight street. It is tightly packed with parked cars. He spots a yellow Triumph Stag with a black hood. He checks the registration number. It isn’t the car he thought it might be. He continues walking. A distant memory swims to the surface. Grandad’s voice.
“Don’t worry it’s just the traffic that’s keeping them.”
Joe tries to focus on the pavement in front of him. He passes under a blue and red London Underground sign, enters the station. The escalators don’t work; steep, shiny metal steps. He runs down them. The platform is empty, feels eerie, it’s utterly silent, not a soul to be seen. Joe sits on a wooden bench. Grandad’s voice comes again, almost real.
“It’ll just be your Aunty Rosie keeping them, that’s all… no point worrying.”
Joe’s head is feeling heavy, his chin droops; thoughts become dreamlike, drifting back to when he was eleven years old. His parents said they would collect him at five o’clock. At five thirty he put a chair beside Grandad’s lounge window, watching, waiting, willing the blue Morris Marina to appear around the estate road.
There is a distant rumbling in the black tunnel. Joe gets to his feet, unsteadily. The first train of the day approaches, tunnel roars, lights, the train is upon him. Doors rip open and he steps on board. He is the only person in the carriage. The train pulls off. He looks through the window into the next carriage. There’s a commotion, laughter. It’s the army of cleaners, heading into the City. Older West Indian women are with their daughters, some with granddaughters too. London is all theirs before the dawn.
Joe slouches into in his orange seat, thoughts drift back in time. He’s a little boy staring out of the window, clock ticks louder. Scenes are imagined of a happy reunion. His parents are like royalty and movie stars rolled into one, but where are they? Why don’t they pick him up? He’s feeling angry, he wants an explanation, he longs to hold them. They never arrive. Instead, at six thirty, a policeman comes to the door. Grandad starts wailing and thumping the wall. Grandad’s grief was the most frightening thing Joe had ever experienced. Nan had been very poorly too; she died a few months later.
It’s High Street Kensington station. Joe steps out. He’s the only person on the platform. The train pulls off. He jogs up the steps, smiling at the novelty of having the place to himself. He’s never been the only person here before. The pale light of morning creates long shadows in the vaulted shopping arcade. It’s all strangely quiet on the high street. A blackbird sings. Joe has never noticed birdsong on Kensington High Street before. The chill air holds the fragrance of spring gardens. Hands warm in pockets. He crosses over the empty road, snatches a glance at the offices of the Regeneration Company. It’s a rather ugly building. He continues along a residential street, fronted by white stucco Victorian terraces climbing up the hill. The terraces have portico entrances, tall sash windows and small manicured front gardens. There are fruit trees on the pavement, a profusion of pink and white blossoms, a heady perfume. Petals fall like confetti, covering expensive cars.
Joe stops for a moment, breathes deeply. He is reminded of the cherry tree his nan planted when they moved into their new council home. Joe can’t get that yellow Triumph Stag out of his mind. It was a beautiful car, but there are painful memories too.
After the death of his parents, Joe had to move in with his Aunty Rosie and her boyfriend Trevor. Their Edwardian terraced house, near the town centre, was very elegant. It had beautiful stained glass windows. Joe would sit for hours in quiet contemplation of the colours and patterns reflected upon the walls.
To begin with, Trevor was delighted with the arrival of Joe, a new playmate. Trevor had a bright yellow convertible Triumph Stag, which Joe thought was ace, but his rides in it soon diminished to zero. Trevor was good-looking, quite entertaining, but he was a mercurial character; he was a drinker. He was like a Jacobean manor house that looks wonderful from a distance, but when you look through the windows, you see the interior has been gutted. He was a façade. Rosie thought he would make a great restoration project, but Trevor didn’t want to be renovated just yet. He didn’t want to give up his drinking or his drinking pals. He had a horrible habit of belittling Joe. It would be many years before Trevor underwent his restoration. In the meantime, fortunately for Joe, he was away a lot on business.
Joe walks briskly, past the long line of stepped, terraced houses, still climbing up the hill. Then there are mansion blocks, manicured gardens, black railings, under tall rustling London plane trees. Joe smiles at the antics of squirrels, jumping on a dewy lawn. The cold sky fills with crimson light; bird song loudening, a perfect spring dawn. Joe has it to himself. He continues up the hill.
As a child Joe harboured pangs of guilt about his troubled time with Rosie and Trevor. He wondered if his untimely arrival made things worse for them. He wanted to move out, but felt a sense of duty to stay with Rosie. He lived with them for two years. When he turned thirteen, he suffered from anxiety attacks. He didn’t really have any friends, spent a lot of time alone, riding his bike. His little life was slowly overtaken by a fear of people. One day, home alone, he looked in the mirror; troubled by his own reflection. He had a consuming realisation that one-day he would die. The sense of nothingness was terrifying. He ran out of the house.
An anchor for Joe during that time was his grandad, who regularly popped in to see him. He would do the gardening for Rosie, as an excuse to spend time with his grandson. The back garden was long and thin. At the end of it, was an area of slabs, where Joe and his grandad would have their bonfires. They spent ages out there, from dusk into the night, in their private world, delighting in dancing flames, staring into glowing embers. Rosie made them flasks of tea and potatoes were wrapped in foil to bake in the fire. They also made toast on the fire, then added butter and marmite. At a sombre time, these were comforting feasts.
After a massive drinking session, Trevor drove his Triumph Stag straight through the front bay window of the house. It was in the middle of the night when Rosie and Joe were asleep. When Joe opened his eyes, Rosie was standing over him. She grabbed hold of him and they fled, through the back gate, still in their nightclothes. They ran all the way to Grandad’s home. That was where Joe spent the rest of his adolescence, living in a much happier environment. A little later on, Joe befriended Luke and Archie in the technology class at school. Luke knew girls, including Hannah and Cathy. That was when Joe’s social life began its upward spiral.
Joe arrives at the mansion block where Luke lives. He knows this area well; passes it frequently on his way to the nearby pub, the Windsor Castle. Joe steps under a cast iron gateway and looks up at the building; fancy Dutch gables, ornate balconies, Arts and Crafts terracotta tiling. He’s been Luke’s friend for fifteen years, but he has never been invited inside this building before. He thinks about the massive contrast between it and the council block he grew up in.
Shortly after Joe moved in with his grandad, the local authority housing policy changed and they got rid of r
esident caretakers; Grandad was forced to retire. At the same time, the better off council tenants were encouraged to move off the estate into private housing or accommodation provided by housing associations. As soon as the homes were vacated, the council moved problem families into them, those with a history of rent arrears and antisocial behaviour. They screamed at their kids, threw rubbish out of their windows. The tenants were given the option to buy their homes from the council, with significant discounts, but the estate was falling apart. The only person who used their right-to-buy was Grandad, who had no intention of moving. The estate became increasingly unpleasant.
Joe shakes blossom off his jacket. He walks up to the entrance and presses the bell. Luke’s voice sounds bright and breezy through the intercom.
“Hi Joe, come on up, it’s the top floor, there’s a lift.”
The black front door buzzes open. Joe wipes his feet, then steps into a carpeted lobby. He passes an empty porter’s desk, decides not to take the lift, jogs up the elegant staircase, two steps at a time. He arrives on the sixth floor upon a bright, wide landing. He is breathless and needs a moment to recover. Luke stands in a doorway, hands on hips. The smell of bacon wafts through the air.
“Something smells good,” gasps Joe.
“You’re wearing interesting clothes. Come on in, breakfast’s nearly ready.”
Joe enters the apartment. It’s light and very spacious.
“So all of this is just for you?”
“You know my dad,” replies Luke. “It’s an investment. I’m just the caretaker. The view’s cracking; quick, come and have a look.”
They enter a bright lounge with a large bay window. French doors lead onto a small balcony, with a table and chairs. Joe follows Luke outside. They lean against the stone coping with both hands. The apartment stands upon the highest hill in Kensington. Stretched out for miles are thousands of roofs - pitched roofs, hipped roofs, gables, spires, bell towers, cupolas, distant power stations, countless chimney pots upon ranks of terraced houses.