Falling

Falling

I am no one.

White walls washed by sodium light was all I could see. There was a certain kind of claustrophobia that went with the room, a tiny holding area for the lucky ones.  With a bed made with crystal-white sheets and razor sharp hospital corners, pallid pillows and an ivory-coloured plastic chair marooned a few feet away, this was the epitome of Spartan. Efficient, functional, no waste. I yearned for a book to read or something to keep me entertained whilst I waited. Lying flat on my back, the ceiling looked mind-numbingly bland, not even a strand of cobweb or patch of dust to break the monotony. Arms folded across my chest, inert like a living corpse, my mind drifted.

It is nearing lunchtime and the bell is about to ring; ephemeral euphoria triggered at intervals during a school day. The stampede comes, chairs scrape backwards, doors fling open and a cacophony of din from feet crashing through corridors. I need to get out and breathe fresh air again. Frederick Road looks as dilapidated as it ever did, rows of Victorian terraced houses with small front gardens bordered by low, often crumbling, brick walls. Some dwellings are derelict and attract black-blazered schoolboy smokers. There’s something exotic about roaming around in rubble with a packet of Benson & Hedges and a box of Swan Vestas matches.

Beyond the tired urban sprawl lies Aston Park to the left and the Expressway to the right. It’s a crossroads of sorts; maybe a metaphor for life. One way leads to flora and fauna, the other steel and concrete layered in a constant haze of pollution. At the front of the school I meet Mickey and Kev. We stroll towards a temporary freedom. Arriving at the end of the road, we are met with a junction. We opt for toxic effluence instead of greenery.

At the side of the busy highway, perched high above, are wooden benches that look out onto the constant flow of traffic. Steep ashen walls flank lanes of cars, vans and lorries, a perimeter that stretches a hundred feet into the sky. We light up cigarettes and mull over reasons why the council have put seating in such a strange place. Green and yellow weeds poke out of soil, wild observers to a perpetually grey landscape.

The footbridge isn’t far. To continue straight on will take us to the promised land of arcade machines inside chip shops. The tang from the HP Sauce factory billows in the strata, an invisible olfactory assault on the senses. Flaking paint on iron barriers tell of ingrained neglect.

And that’s when we do it – the dare. We have been talking about it for a while and the day has finally arrived. It makes sense to boys of thirteen but to no one else. I look over the side to see lines of traffic far below. I grip the top metal bar of the railing, crouch and sit on concrete. The city centre sprawls out before me, a cinematic vista of steely grime; a monolith just a mile from this hinterland. Street lamps pepper the foreground sprung like fungi; tower blocks, multi-story car parks and the Rotunda reach for the heavens.

My legs slide beneath the bottom metal rung. They are poking out into the void. Twisting around, my back arches as I manoeuvre my pelvis to get my feet to strike out further. I look like an acrobat in mid-air reaching for a swinging trapeze.   

The lads stare at me, an odd look on their faces. They know that if I let go, an involuntary backwards movement could shunt me under the narrow gap that’s between me and the carriageway below. I peer back at them noting the uncertainty in their expressions. I look absurd, a boy hanging perilously from a cliff. Limbs dangle revelling in melodrama, drivers distracted by the curious sight. The exhibition only lasts for seconds before I think better of it and scramble back to my feet.

I think about that incident sometimes and wonder why I did it. The others decided against copying the feat, all three of us scurrying away to part with silver and copper coins in exchange for greasy food and space ships. Things hadn’t been easy at home. Maybe it was a cry for help; a hint at the possibility of ending things. Maybe it was just a schoolboy prank after all. As dark as it was.

I am everyone.

The mechanical door slides open and two men stand at the entrance. I am ushered through a maze of passageways. There’s little chat along the route, my escorts dressed in white jump suits, eye shields, caps with visors, and wearing expressions of world-weary stoics. I have been given special glasses by the taller chaperone notable for his chiselled jaw and broad shoulders. He had muttered something about exposure to radiation.

As another door hisses, I enter a huge all-but-empty hangar with the vast expanse of inky space looming like a planetarium in the background. There are no protective windows of any kind, just a cavernous opening to infinity at one end. There must be some sort of force-field regulating the deck preventing disaster from either a disparity in air pressure causing an implosion or freezing to death from the impossibly cold outside.

There are rows of tall mechanised pillars in the distance blinking with coloured lights. They look like those machines in airports that scan bodies for contraband before boarding. Each is manned by two crew, men and women dressed in white laboratory coats and clutching tablet gadgets on which they are making touchscreen notes. I shuffle towards them having been released by my attendants as a gaggle of people descend from shadows.

I make it to the transport devices. An earlier briefing explained the science behind disassembling and reassembling my atoms again millions of miles away. There are risks, of course. This is for the greater good; for the benefit of the masses.

It seems that the impromptu crowd are reporters, each bustling to get a scoop. They hold recording devices in the air and fire questions. A confusing melange of words, clipped sentences competing with quick-fire queries. How do I feel about being the first civilian to attempt the jump? Am I apprehensive? Do I think this is heralding a brighter future for humankind?

Our planet below is dying. Self-important men in self-important shadows lost patience and any remnants of remaining sanity. Protocols initiated, warheads brought their fury, columns of ash spawned from mushroom clouds spread across the globe in the aftermath. Aliens looking at this blue planet from afar would have witnessed a light show to end all light shows. Nuclear conflict has left cities, countries, whole continents in tatters. An altar at which the demi-gods of ideology and political dogma were worshipped now stained with the blood of innocents.

Through the chatter, I hear the whispers of unimaginable numbers of those no longer with us; they include my family. The noise becomes a roar rushing around my head like the call of the sea inside a conch shell when placed to an ear. They are the fallen. All that is left is a neo-biblical exodus to expedite the diaspora of humanity.

I think back to that time many years ago dangling from the overpass and ponder the whereabouts of my friends from school. If I fall this time I will find myself on Mars; falling this time will I find myself? I played no significant part in events leading to this point in the existence of the human race. My flights of fantasy have invariably proved inconsequential. Despite that, I am the lightning rod for the coming millennia. I am the kite-runner. A hand is held aloft and switches flicked.

I am falling.

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