Panic and alienation on the streets of London

Nineteen years ago I was travelling home from college on the train one day, thinking about an upcoming assessment and the work I needed to do for it. Then the driver announced over the harsh-sounding public-address system that because of a fire the train was turning back early. If we walked a few stations down the line, we could catch another train and continue our journey.

So there I was, stranded at Fulham Broadway at around seven o’clock on a cold winter’s evening, wondering which way to go. After a minute’s thought, I set off in what I thought was the right direction. The only trouble was I had never been in this part of London before and soon I was lost.

I felt panic start somewhere inside. There weren’t many people around. I didn’t have much money on me and, in those days, I carried no mobile phone (cellphone). What if I never found the station? What would I do if I missed the last train? What was I going to do next?

As I walked along the mainly residential streets, seeing into people’s lives through uncurtained, lighted windows, something strange happened. I began to feel isolated, even alienated, from the rest of the world. I even felt envious of a child sitting shoeless on the carpet in his sitting-room, watching television. Shocked at this reaction, I realised I felt a sense of social exclusion, like a down-and-out or a bullied pupil at a boarding (residential) school far from home.

By now it was about half-past seven and I was very worried. I came across two boys who looked about eight. They were wandering the streets without the slightest hint that they were going to head home any time soon. They looked young and vulnerable – and yet not. There was something about their manner that made me certain they were living rough. They had a sense of belonging on the streets and a kind of unconscious loneliness, tempered by the type of bond that only comes from having been through shared ordeals. This was underlined by how close they stood to each other as they walked along, occasionally huddling even closer to talk.

That image has haunted me ever since and finally found expression in my story You Have No Power Over Me, in which a homeless man befriends a nine-year-old runaway with a dark secret.

Anyway, as if I was meant to see those children, soon afterwards I found the station I was looking for. I caught the next train home, late for supper and with a part of me changed forever.

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You Have No Power Over Me by Mark logie

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