Music for the Last Couple

The crack of glass, the howls of burnt dogs, the squeals of looters. A police car and a screaming siren.

The music for the last couple.

Terry and Julie, Waterloo Gardens on a Friday night, twisted on the rusty swing as the sky behind rages strange and orange. Their love has found a sacred place here on this bitumen playground where they can kiss and whisper, where they can breathe the rise and fall of London.

“Want you bad Tezza.”
“Do you Julie?”
“Course. Is that a Mars Bar in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”
“Mars Bar actually. But I think you’ve squashed it.”
“Idiot.”
“We are going to die here Julie, burn to death. We’re not a priority.”
“I know.”

Above them now, the spotlight and whirl of a helicopter circling the estate, fanning the fuel, hunting alone for heartbeats. A rope drops, hard and frayed. A voice, thunderous and electric. Pleading.

“Grab it! Grab it now! We’ll lift you clear. Both of you.”

The last couple are pulled like amusement crane toys and are taken above the bedlam and into a capsule of military green.

“Just one match is all it took Julie. I had to do it. To change things.”
“You didn’t have to Tezza. Nothings changed at all. I still love you. Let it burn.”

Terry and Julie hover a while above Waterloo Gardens on this Friday night, then snake the flamed River Thames to the badlands of Essex and otherness.