City

There were butterflies in my stomach. They were frantic; they were trying to escape, up through my oesophagus out of my mouth and up into the stars. They wanted to fly away and leave me; leave this horrible, grimy city; leave everything behind. In a way so did I.

I had fallen asleep in Victoria Park. With its high walls, thick mop of lush grass and sparse, green trees I found it comforting. I was sitting where I always sit, in the centre of my clump of bushes in the southern corner. I stood and stretched then took out my wallet and checked for a tube fare to get home.
It was empty.
That meant walking across half of London, something I had never done before.
I live with my parents in Wimbledon Common in the suburbs of south London. We live in a big, old house. I think it was built in the nineteenth-century or something.
Having made my mind up to walk, I exited the dark park through the south-eastern gate and started walking home. I saw a tramp being sick into a drain. This city is a monster; you have to shut your eyes and draw your curtains if you want to survive here. I usually take a book on the tube and listen to my music so I wasn’t quite sure of the way home but I guessed. I have a good sense of direction. It was a warm night, too warm – muggy almost and above me the sky was dark and threatening - it choked the earth. The stars were nice though; the stars were very bright tonight.

The area surrounding Victoria Park is quite dodgy so I hurried up the hill and tried to keep a low profile by hunching over a little. Everything around me seemed to get seedier and seedier with each step. Dilapidated buildings, vandalized shop-windows and litter all crept into view. I was in Kings-Cross. The hill continued though, it was deceptively steep.
As I crested the hill, I was struck by a wash of neon. Signs advertising all manner of things flooded my vision making my eyes fuzz over. The road ahead shifted from side to side like a snake. People went to and fro as if blinded by the lights and confused by the stars. There was a sweet smell in the air – probably from the street vendors’ food, but not the sort I was used to, this food smelt gritty and spicy and real. The scent was delivered to my nostrils by a cool breeze that was welcome in the thick heat of the balmy evening.
I felt something then; the butterflies in my stomach felt it too; something primal; something raw; the call of the wild. I took a step forward and, as if strung like a bead on an invisible fishing line, followed the smell, the noise. Someone on my left was saying something to me and gesturing at the food he had on offer before him. I kept walking, still taken aback by all this activity. There were fast food shops, dark alleyways, drunks and… women. I mean… Prostitutes.
As it all slowly sunk in, I became aware of a pain in my stomach – the butterflies were hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, it’s something I do sometimes – forget to eat. The man that had been gesturing at me had given up and was now trying it on a young, slightly shabby looking couple. I turned around and walked back towards him. He was serving falafels and what looked like chicken. I waited for the young couple to pass out of earshot and for the man to finally stop calling at them.
I smiled at him and looked him in the eye, then pointed at and asked for a small hunk of meat that he picked up in his somewhat grubby hands. He promised me, in a thick accent that must have been Turkish or something, that his was the best chicken in Kings Cross while he wrapped it in newspaper.
Suddenly I realized I had no money. I apologised to the man and started to walk away when he called me back. He placed the small bundle of newspaper in my hand and insisted that I took the chicken free of charge then, without a word to me, laughed and started calling pedestrians over again.
I gratefully began to devour the chicken; a wild animal as I went on my way. Whilst walking I watched everything going on, all the people. There were the pedestrians like me, most were with others and paid little attention to those outside their group; there were the drunks – loud and aggressive, usually male; and then there were the vendors and prostitutes – solicitous and enticing, dangerous but alluring. The prostitutes interested me especially – I had never seen one before, never had the chance I suppose, living in Wimbledon Common.
They all seemed numb to their surroundings; completely oblivious that they were standing in what to me seemed like the hub of all London. They had chiselled features and looked malnourished and tired. Some smiled, some looked blankly ahead, all were intent on one thing – attracting men.

It was whilst I was scanning these women that one of them caught my eye.
A girl.
She was quite small, the top of her head would just reach my shoulders, her head just fit under my chin. I'm quite tall for my age. Dark locks of hair rested neatly on her back and shoulders. She was sitting, perched on a bit of wall that jutted out from the building on my left, smoking a cigarette and wearing stockings, a low cut red top held up by thin shoulder-straps and lots of make-up. She had soft features and a distanced look in her eyes – quite pretty really. She couldn’t have been older than 20. While the other prostitutes seemed to embrace their lifestyle and submit to it, shutting out the rest of the world, this girl looked oblivious to her own situation, as if she was unaware, even of herself - half in a dream. On any other night she would be cold… on any other night.
I had stopped walking by now, I stood there watching her furtively. She finished her cigarette and stubbed out the butt on the wall behind her – she moved slowly and thoughtfully, playing with the dog-end, gazing at it as if it were alive and humming to it, to herself. And so time stood still, with the girl transfixed by her cigarette butt and me transfixed by the girl. Until a black cab pulled up next to her.
At first neither of us noticed, but after a couple of seconds, the back door opened and someone inside shouted something. The words were jumbled; muffled to begin with, but as they got louder and louder (due, probably, to the girl’s lack of response) I was able to make out most of the words. The person in the cab, the man in the cab was shouting her name.

Amber.
Amber remained apathetic, still apparently enchanted by the cigarette butt. There was a pause in the shouting for a moment, and then a man emerged from the cab. He was bald and slightly chubby. He was dressed well, in fashionable clothes; a dark coat that looked like it was made from felt and reached down to his knees; dark jeans and newish trainers and he looked angry. In one quick movement, he was out of the cab and had grabbed Amber by the arm. He called her a stupid bitch and laughed about her looking doped up, before angrily asking her why she hadn’t responded.
She closed her palm around the cigarette butt, making a tight fist, but kept her eye on her hand – as if she could see through it, as if she could still see the fag end. Then after a moments pause she slowly turned her head up to look the man in the eye and said very slowly, in a quiet, husky voice:
“What?”
This infuriated the man who tugged her arm and then repeated himself, asking why she didn’t respond.
“I was busy” came a monotone reply; a hint of boredom.
He swore a lot and called her a whore then, after which there was a moment of silence.
He suddenly changed, letting go of Amber’s arm which fell to her side. Grinning, and relaxing his shoulders, he softened his tone of voice and told her how he had hoped they could spend some time together tonight. He walked slowly around to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it firmly. With his other hand, he lifted a dark lock of hair from in front of Amber’s face and tucked it behind her ear, then bent down and whispered something in her ear, tightening his grip on her shoulder.
His fingers were blotchy and fat and grubby, they reminded me of pork sausages. I could make out his face, now illuminated by the dusky light flowing from the streetlamp. His mouth was small and tight, his nose slightly crooked and his cheekbones were defined islands raised from his podgy cheeks. Bags of sleep had collected under his small, vulnerable eyes. He looked desperate.
Amber’s distant expression didn’t change dramatically, though for a moment I would have sworn she looked almost sad. The man waited for a couple of seconds, staring into her face but she refused to answer, betraying nothing.
Anger flashed across his face, his eyes glowed, wild for a second, just a second, then he simply asked if she was going to come with him or not.
She looked up at the sky, past the streetlights; past the inky silhouettes of the surrounding buildings; up, up into the stars. As she contemplated his offer, I felt like sinking my fingers into the seconds themselves; gripping them; delaying their passing; delaying the inevitable – stopping time. I was aware of my heartbeat, but I also felt another pulse – that of the city beneath me – heaving, respiring, waiting.
Then she suddenly turned to the man, looked him in the eye and said:
“OK.”
He made a move in the direction of the taxicab but she stayed put. He turned and beckoned her impatiently. At this point she slowly rose from her seat, opening her hand and allowing the cigarette butt to slide out of it and drop on the pavement, then she walked carefully, in childlike motion, to the car looking up to the stars once again before climbing in.

The taxicab left, but I stayed put. I stood for a while in the same spot, watching the place where she had been sitting, thinking. After about 5 minutes passed, I walked forward, bent down and put the cigarette butt in my jacket pocket. Then turned to go home.

Tired, broken houses gave way to small, clean apartments; smashed glass and KFCs became neat gardens, their boundaries defined by low, red-brick walls. The whole neighbourhood was in a perpetual state of transition – a purgatory bridging the gap between Kings Cross and the rest of Islington, between the broken and the whole and between rich and poor.
After a while these apartments melted into large Georgian terraced houses with high, white walls and patterned black railings. The pavement here was wide and dotted with trees, the houses framed by rows of expensive cars who’s black windscreens reflected the silent, shimmering stars. But I kept walking, bored by the numb, callous perfection that I have lived amongst all my life.
I was feeling really quite nauseous, so I took deep breaths of the night air and quickened my pace, hoping to be out of Islington as quickly as possible. The atmosphere there was choking me.
There seemed, however, to be no end to the area – in fact, the terraced Georgian houses soon gave way to slender town houses with large wooden doors and extravagant latticed windows. These were all like my house. The colourful border of expensive cars no longer existed – all the houses here had private garages, the houses were old and dark, the odd window was alight behind a blind or curtain, but most were black and unyielding. One house however, caught my eye. The streetlight in front of it was smashed so it’s exterior was even darker than the other houses on the street.

The old stone house could have been a fortress. It reached into the sky, grasping at the stars, trying to escape its earthly confines. Taking a few steps forward, I reached my hand out slowly to touch it. It felt cold, dead; it felt as if it had been standing in that same spot since time began. The only points of light that penetrated the dark house’s thick walls came from two ground floor windows, the only windows without the curtains drawn and lights off.
I moved closer to the nearest one and peered in…

The room looked bright and warm, it was well lit and the heavy oak table was laden with half finished food. Sitting at the head of the table was a tall, clean looking man of about fifty – the picture of a perfect husband and model father. Opposite him sat a plump woman who looked in her late forties – his wife. Both were smiling and engaging in some kind of educated debate, completely oblivious of the outside world.
Watching them made me think of Amber and the man she was with, which made me angry and really very sad. The butterflies in my stomach were trying to eat their way out through the walls of my belly and I felt nauseous. I moved onto the next window, through which I saw two young boys playing a computer game in which they assaulted and harassed citizens, stealing their money. They were laughing and talking and removing themselves further from this world.
I pulled away suddenly and was sick right there in the street. I stooped over a drain, but once it had begun it wouldn’t stop. It must have been the chicken I had eaten earlier, it must have been off, or else it was... I don't know. I wiped my mouth, spat out my gum, then I stood up. There was a rush of blood to my head that made me feel light-headed and I started home.

The way ahead was clearly lit by the deep, orange streetlights that flanked me on either side. It began to rain lightly and I began to think. The thin rain created a fine mist that swirled and drifted in the thick, artificial twilight created by the streetlights. I thought about Amber standing under one of the same streetlights, feeling the same rain on her exposed skin. Maybe she was inside, in a warm house in a kitchen, leaning against the counter drinking tea and smiling; laughing. Maybe she was far away from the streets and the rain and the customers.
Maybe.
I took off my jumper, and continued in my tee shirt, leaving my arms bare. The cold rain was welcome on my hot forearm and the familiar pitter-patter on the wet pavement was comforting.
Amber had no one, aside from her customers. I wondered if she enjoyed her life, or if she simply existed for the sake of existing. It passed quickly, but for a brief moment, I wished I could be with her now, to cheer her up.
I thought about the family from Islington and about my family. I wondered what they were doing… the children were probably cosy in bed; the parents huddled together on the sofa; everything was probably cheery and domestic. But again for a moment I wondered if all of that family’s possessions, of my family’s possessions really made them happy, or if they had lived like that for so long now they didn’t know anymore. I hoped then that I never ended up like them, like my parents. Selfish and boring and ignorant of the city outside; too wrapped up in their own house and their own lives to care that there were people outside living their lives.

The stars really were very bright tonight; there was no moon though. The sky was busy with dark patches of cloud sewn loosely across it and the odd flashing taillight of an aeroplane of helicopter. It was warm despite the rain, and the night sky felt comforting, like a quilt wrapped around the earth, keeping it warm.
I kept walking, bathed in the light of the streetlights and stars; feeling the city throb underfoot with each step.

*

There are butterflies in my stomach tonight. The rain is much heavier now, but I’m nearly home. I don’t mind the rain… or the butterflies. The air is full of atmosphere tonight. This city is alive, I can feel it; smell it; taste it. It feels warm; it feels busy. It smells sweet and tastes spicy and I think that secretly…
I like it.