The streets of London bustle under a smoky night sky. I wade through the madness of pubs and clubs, avoiding the heavy temptation of slipping into one. Three women sit outside a flashy bar, one in a pink slip dress stares upwards as she drags her cigarette, a glass of red wine untouched on the table in front of her. I ride the tube, rats and dust, sweat and people. My ticket is declined from the barrier twice before I catch the attention of a small plump man in a hi-vis jacket. My bracelets jangle together as I fumble in my purse, searching for my phone. Rain falls aggressively as I walk out towards the exit.
Ten past eleven. I pick at my nails, deep conscious breaths. I’m always in a rush to leave the underground, late or not. Not long after, I find myself walking along the road to my apartment, my forehead throbs from the evening musk. All around me tower rich white buildings, old fashioned and undeniably glamourous. Large bow windows and heavy door knockers, tiny balconies fit for one. Faded parking lines and tall grey lampposts covered in political stickers and advertisements. A wolf whistle followed by laughter and the lingering smell of barbequed meat. Nearby, a small park is well kept, pruned bushes and prickly roses potted on the outskirts. CCTV signs on almost every building, a sense of cleanliness is felt when one walks through here.
Cleanliness yet liveliness, perhaps the correct word is privilege. On the corner is my flat, a slightly less exciting home, with no roses or door knockers. Nearby is a pub, known for its rowdy nights and noise complaints. A tower block creeps behind it, with hundreds of tiny windows, some have colourful flashing lights, some dark and still. A group of women and men huddle outside the pub, desperately clinging to cigarettes and vapes. One woman in a small black dress tripping over herself as she speaks to a man in a suit. They look happy. I walk up the stairs to my apartment and put the key inside the knocker-less door. I turn once more to observe the crowd as I continue to remain unnoticed. Road works sound out intermittently as I make my way inside.
I sit on my windowsill and watch the road all night. I count six lampposts, a smashed glass, sixty-five women, eighty-one men, one boy running after a friend, a couple in a passionate argument. The constant hum of the air filter compliments this observation, I smile to myself, inside and safe. In this moment, I represent the shift between active and passive, one moment I was just another number, but now, now I am an outsider. Only five months ago I too wore the pink slip dress and huddled outside pubs. Invitation after invitation and university seemed like it would never end. But it did, and suddenly too, because I said goodbye and I have the nine to five job to prove it. My eyelids become heavy, I submit to darkness and tuck my bed covers under my feet.
Two days later, I reluctantly drag myself away from my apartment, as prescribed by Linda.
“Make sure you push yourself Maya, fresh air will do you good.” She tells me, in her kind yet firm voice.
Back out into London, I skip the tube this time. I hate Sundays, however, the idea that people might go to church today gives me hope. I used to be more religious, I saw my mother analyse the Bible and nurture red wine in church when I was five, I knew little of what was going on. At Sunday school I learnt all things basic about Christianity, a chunky grey TV told me I should love my neighbour. Church bells ring out as I peel away from Islington Green, I am drawn towards the sound, following it blindly.
A large garden covered in flowers, a vibrant spread of yellow, orange and pink. In the middle stands a graceful church of modest size, I begin to sweat. Surely, I’m not welcome in such a pure establishment; I decide to fixate on a stained-glass window. Sturdy and mellow, its colours striking in a subtle way. People in clean and plain clothes stand and speak unintelligible words as I peer in through the open entrance, two large wooden doors pulled back. I see a woman of middle age tear a piece of bread in half and pass it downwards, a child’s hand reaches up and takes it. Inside, I am welcomed by a man of great height and large hands, sort of God-like. Ironic, yet almost expected. As I am welcomed by this depiction of God, I see the women and her child, she is chatting to a tall blonde woman. The man hands me leaflets and I notice the child is holding something, a Barbie doll. Hair sticking in all directions, being held by its left leg.
The air is dusty and mild, I admire the stained window, a large Jesus depicted in oily colour, the sun beaming through his chest on to the pews below. I always wondered why the pews were so uncomfortable, the cold and solid wood. The man asks if I am okay, and I tell him the truth. I eventually sit and pray, for about five minutes, I think I am pretending.
After the service I observe the others, they have happy faces and youthful voices. I forget to say thank you to the tall God man and scurry out shamefully. Stepping out on to the street I sigh, clutching my chest, the crowd blurring in and out of vision. I see the mother and her child walk away. Her hair is just like my own mother’s, butter yellow and curly. She swings the child’s hand back and forth playfully and the child drops their toy. I stand staring for a moment, picking at the side of my fingernail. I make my way over to the doll, turning it in my hand to examine the chew marks and scruffy hair. When I look for the mother’s blonde hair, she is gone, the God man approaches me.
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
His lips are chapped and his hair a monotone grey.
“It depends, do you always ask so many questions?”
He laughs and crosses his arms. I cross mine in response.
“I think it would help you, faith is the antidote to fear, after all.”
I feel annoyed by his desire to help me. He rambles on for a while about rebirth and the bible. What he does not yet understand, is he is preaching to the choir. My heart pounds hard under my necklace and the sun proves a useful excuse for teary eyes. I thank him for his kindness and retreat home. I know exactly what I need, I’m just not ready yet.
The worst thing about me, is that I cannot stay anywhere for long. I find myself always wavering in-between this or that, him or her, here or there. One week into attending daily morning mass I decide it is not helping me.
‘Just give it time Maya, community is important in the healing process.’ Linda tells me.
I could not resist the heat of the summer, the burn of it, the easiness of not caring. I let the phone ring seven times before it stops, Linda’s rehearsed responses make me feel sick. I turn the tv on and let the colours glaze over my thoughts.
I spot a fly come in through the window. It lands on the wooden table, crawls toward an empty wine bottle and stops to rub its hands amongst a sugar laden spillage. Plotting, waiting. The phone rings again and I sink into the sofa, falling downwards and downwards, spinning gently until I can no longer hear or see or feel.
My eyes open slowly and painfully, the yellow light above me seeps down and weighs me back into the sofa. My neck clicks as I look toward the tv, I pull myself up and rub my left eye. Laughter and clapping, a mind-numbing gameshow glows in the darkness. My forehead throbs in the cold air of my living room. I stumble upwards, coughing and spluttering, the fly is gone.
The phone rings, I click to hear my messages. I light a cigarette and watch it burn between my thumb and my index finger. My bosses voice booms into each corner of the living room, I listen, and listen… I think I’ve just been fired. The ash curls back and drops bit by bit on to the cream carpet. Red heat thriving as it makes it way down, slashing the paper in its path. I leave it to burn like a candle, the scent comforting me in an unexpected way.
When my parents last visited, they had to leave in a rush, something to do with the business. They left so quickly that dad left some things behind. A pack of Marlboro Gold, a tin of spearmints, a silver Hublot watch, his navy wool overcoat. I lay the watch next to my phone and listen to my messages again. I stare at the handles, in the hope that maybe, by some immaculate break in the laws of physics, they will turn back to the time before all this happened.
Weeks pass by and my flat is engulfed by cigarette smoke. My mother calls me to arrange my next visit home, I decide to meet with Linda.
We meet at a café in Newington Green, a cosy place with above-average coffee. We are the only people here except for a few tired looking businessmen on laptops.
“So how have you been Maya? We only have half an hour today, but I hope we can make good use of it. I am glad I managed to get hold of you finally.”
She stirs two sugars into her latte as she speaks, smiling both at me and her drink.
I stop and think for a moment, wondering whether I am overreacting.
“I just want to be a good person,” I say, staring down and fiddling with the hem of my skirt. Linda looks at me curiously, as if to tell me to keep talking, I always appreciate this kindness from her. I swallow hard and take a deep breath in, the businessmen tap away loudly at their keyboards.
“I relapsed.”
The air is so still as I look up to observe Linda’s reaction, the steam of my coffee swirls up in-between us, a delicate barrier between my problems and her solutions. She simply smiles at me, and we sit there in silence for a moment.
“Is that what you were so nervous about?” she asks.
I nod my head slowly.
Now what comes next is what saves me, what allows me to breathe. Linda tells me that everything is going to be okay and reminds me of all the reasons why I can, in fact, have the life I so desperately want. Her words are the magic medicine to my seemingly incurable illness. A bump in the road, a blip in my progress. The relief sets in and I begin to cry, softly at first then building up, bubbling inside me like a pot of water boiling over.
“You mean you aren’t angry?”
She laughs and puts her hand over her heart,
“Of course not.”
I wade through the bustle of beautiful London, spinning in circles of joy over my concrete stage. My clothes hug me tight and keep me warm from the sleet falling around me. The icy roads gritted, and streetlamps covered in technicolour Christmas lights. My phone vibrates in my pocket, I stop by a streetlight and answer.
Linda meets me on the corner of Oxford Street, we stroll slowly, one winter boot in front of the other. We catch up on everything, she even talks a bit about herself this time. We reach the church, still standing among the beds of flowers, now covered in the crisp snow. I breathe in slowly, the laughter, the lights, the singing. I breathe out even slower, the past, the worry, the guilt.
END
Caitlin T-G 