Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 75
arteries and capillaries crammed with glassy eyes and nanny prams. He bounces between
touts, numb to the shuffle, and on the 35 it’s a tap-tap and scrum to the top to fight for a front
row. From here he can see. Nobody gives a fuck if you crack a can. If they do, they’re well
behind you. Eyes ahead. But they give a fuck, Khalid. They do. They see you. Know you.
Lena knows. At 15km/h, a passing glance can’t be had with a wave from a darkened flat. And
was it even a wave? A raised palm. A start. She keeps the lights on now. Off and on. Her
gyrations fully illuminated. The red-tassled lamp dancing with the stomping of feet and
clapping of hands.
At Clapham Common, Khalid watches young money at play. It ogles and snogs and
considers the cinema. Bare backs are exposed at Rookery Road where shiny things lounge on
the lawn. At the T, Brixton’s killing kings and filling bins with bones of curry goat.
Before Gresham, what happens happens. Ginger’s taking the piss, Khalid. Over your
shoulder. Backseat ginger. He’s taking the piss.
Lena’s reverie accelerated by all-caps. BUS TROUBLE HUNGRY puts her to thinking. Puts
her in motion. Hungry.
At Western Road, the defenestration of Khalid Ali. Through the rear door. Rousted from the
daily drowse to cheers. Nothing as rapturous as the pimple popped. The splinter freed.
Sacrificed to appease uneasy equilibrium.
Khalid scrambles for footing in the glare of interrogating headlights, tossing a bicycle from
the curb to block the bus’s advance. He dissolves into bright white. Above him, Lena’s
silhouette strobes weightless – untethered.
In the glow, Khalid knows. He’s done something unforgivable. He’s done something.
Amends will be made when a name is put to the charge. The sentence served. There’s only
one of him now. Clearly outlined. Hungry. Gripped by a guilt that twists. Ex nihilo. Twists until
he sings. With an upward glimpse at Lena, a whispered scream.
Passengers grumble and jeer. Alone but not alone. Spotlit by false luminosities, we sing our
own sad songs. No one sings along. No one knows the words. Why would they? How would
they? What do they know? Bugger all, that’s what.
Lena knows. Night time south of the river is not a conversation. It’s the pleading robin’s lie of
streetlamp half-light. Foxes toppling bins to evensong of unheard choristers, wailing like
babies, wandering free and unmoved by howling passerby, grimacing, trying to find their way
home.
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