Angel Station

Same look, different day. Twelve minutes past midnight. There she stands. Usual place. Usual time. Usual purpose. Waiting.

Same story, different ending. As the church clock strikes six, an officer of the law approaches a bench situated in the middle of a barren park - the prime place for outdoor squatters to settle for the evening - and, without hesitation, gently nudges its current occupant awake. Slowly, a girl who could be no older than a quarter of a century arises from her slumber and, following the usual routine of dawn, pushes her stiff upper limbs into the cool crisp air before rising to her full height. Taking the mild warning from the dutiful policeman whose tone drips with authority, she moves on from her spot. She embraces raspberry skies and pale light that dapples her smooth skin with cold warmth before heading into the big city. With her sleeping bag clutched tightly under her right arm and grasping an empty McDonald’s cup in her left hand, the girl sets out for yet another endless day in the Labyrinth of London. Another girl covered in white at the end of the night.

Same girl, different woman. Breathing into the November air, short sharp wisps ripple out from the depths of her pale cracked lips. As she passes men and women dressed sharply in their formal attire dashing in different directions with Costa coffee cups clenched in their hands and phones stuck to their ears, the girl glances towards the ground. Ripped tights and hoods stick out like a sore thumb in this place. As she dodges the growing crowds and makes her way towards her pitch, the mouth-watering aroma of eggs, toast and beans slips past her nose. The girl’s stomach grumbles like an old man after a telling off from the wife. The hour hand has passed twelve fourteen times since she has last eaten – it would double that if she couldn’t shift these issues on time. But it wasn’t food she craved so desperately… Another girl covered in white at the end of the night.

Same expression, different face. No-one is listening. The girl holds out her copies of the ‘Big Issue’ willing for a customer. A man with a wooly scarf slithering around his neck and gloves to match dismisses her with a flick of his left hand while another, who clenched tightly on to his Ted Baker bag, looks straight ahead and simply shakes his head.  Some drop her sympathetic smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes – a look she knows all too well. Another girl covered in white at the end of the night.

Same role, different job. As velvet dusk descends on the city and street lamps glow rose-pink, the girl, five pounds richer (with a total loss of seven), knew what the evening held for her and with that, the tears began to flow down her somber face in steady streams. She wipes away the dark ripples fringing her eyes, throws her hair up before covering it with her hood, and, after slinging her belongings across her shoulder once more, heads off into the night. 

Same call, different phone. Storing the few possessions she has into a disused cubicle, she makes her way over to the mirrors, which are marked with ‘James + Charlotte 4eva’ in neon pink lipstick and what appeared to be hand imprints smeared across it, and she wipes the tear stains away from her cheeks, runs her fingers through her stiff hair, scrapes some rouge across her lips, flicks a bit of mascara across her lashes, and changes into a lacy vest top. She is ready. Another girl covered in white at the end of the night.

Same spot, different car park.  It was growing hungry. She had to earn. And fast. Shadows dance around the girl like tribal warriors as a car pulls around towards her, its headlights bathing her in incandescent light. And here it begins, she thought as she wiggled towards the vehicle and, upon the window being wound down, flashed a flirtatious smile, the one that hooks them in yet somehow fails to reach her eyes, at this potential customer.

Same room, different hotel. After the fifty-pound-a-night room has been booked, wedding bands have been secured in hidden wallets, sheets have been rumpled and favours have been exchanged, the girl has earned the soiled banknotes that are thrust at her by yet another anonymous face. The gentleman (who wasn’t so gentle) put his balding head on to the pillow and, making sure that his wallet was still in the back pocket of his Ben Sherman Italian Flannel suit trousers and, by the sound of the heavy snoring that followed, drifted off into a deep slumber. The girl lay awake for the remainder of the time she had to spend with him. Used. Violated. Worthless. Another girl covered in white at the end of the night.

Same method, different result. Their hands touch and, as the twenty pound note slinks away from her grasp, the soft white powder slips in. She holds it up against the harsh light. So pure. So white. So irresistible. Lighting the charred wick, she taps some out into a damp palm. As she smokes away another night in a haze of daydreams, she forgets. Because the truth is so much harder to bear.  An angel will die covered in white.

.