DEAR DIARY | FLASH FICTION
Like most people, I’ve lost many: family, friends, influences, inspirations, idols and muses. Outside of my inner circle, the most devastating loss for me was when the Starman left. But I know he’s out there, and still around; I just know.
Two more who hit me deeply, were Amy Winehouse and Kirsty MacColl, in their tragic and traumatic final acts. Before social anxiety became my unwanted chaperone, I would visit Kirsty’s memorial bench in Soho Square, where others gather every year to mark her birthday. I shan’t be there tomorrow, but it was with these things in mind that I wrote the story below, at a time when I myself was lonely and destitute, and when the cold menace of Christmas approaching was the loneliest time of all.
CAMDEN TOWN TO SOHO SQUARE
An old man in a three piece suit sits in the road, by Arlington House in Camden. The first cigarette is for contemplation, of the day before and the one to follow. He looks down at his shoes, flecked with the human remains of an October night.
He tossed his cigarette end through a drain cover, a portcullis to London’s intestines below. As he rose to his feet, a younger man walked almost alongside him, then boarded the same train at Camden Town, southbound on the Northern Line. At Euston, the young man wrote in a journal.
The old boy opposite doesn’t look so good. He’s wearing an LU uniform: Kinda hope he’s not gonna drive a train. Doesn’t matter to me, I’m off soon. He’s fallen asleep.
No-one knows I’m meeting her tonight. I don’t want to be a part of someone else’s Christmas, when at home I’m just a memorial, an empty chair at the dining table, with silver cutlery and a bone dry glass laid out for a ghost.
We’ve stopped just outside Warren Street. Above me, there life walks, and the city breathes, like a heavy smoker.
Old girl, new girl;
mother, daughter, Seven Sisters.
Roaming your many ways:
Saviour, black heart;
Angel, Bermondsey, Moorgate.
All that’s precious:
West End, Soho, Arnos Grove.
Where my heart is:
We’re on the move. I’ll get off at Tottenham Court Road and walk to Soho Square…
The old man was stirred by an on-train announcement:
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to an incident, this train will terminate here. All change please. All change.”
He spotted the notebook, open on the seat opposite.
…I’ll get off at Tottenham Court Road and I’ll walk to Soho Square, where I hope to see you. No empty bench, but my London, my life.
We met and we clicked,
like Bonnie and Clyde.
Jekyll and Hyde.
We went out,
like Mickey and Mallory.
Why don’t you come on over,
We done stuff,
like Courtney and Kurt.
Laughed then slept:
Ernie and Bert.
Holding throats, not hands.
Sid and Nancy.
See you soon,
A man on the underground.
Emerging from beneath Tottenham Court Road, a young man blinked in the lights and mizzle, on the way to Soho Square. He sniffed, and snow fell in the back of his throat. He waited on the bench.
An old man in a three piece suit sits in the road, outside Arlington House in Camden. The first cigarette is for contemplation, of the day before and the one to follow. He looks down at his shoes, flecked with the human remains of an October night.
© Steve Laker, 2014.