London Calling.

 

* Why?

This is an eruption of things bubbling just below the surface. Something I have to get off my chest, before I can move on. A cutting loose of the old Me. The release of an old personality, that still sometimes manages to struggle to the surface, in spite of this newer, darker version. I know it's the old Me. The new one would not feel the need to offer explanation. But here, in this rejected ID, I require a final outpouring of redundant emotion. This is an exorcism of feeling, to hopefully leave only cold reason. A confession of sorts, a definition of the why, and the how. Even if in the now, this reading is only to myself.

I had landed in London, fresh off the metaphorical "potato boat", from my village in Ireland. I had hardly planted both feet on the platform at Piccadilly station, before the people who worked the streets locked onto me. Their experienced eyes could pick out a fresh arrival, and it drove them to me in their hordes. I swear, sometimes it was as though I had a neon beacon above me with "Sucker - Free Cash" written on it. They were moths to my fiscal flame, until I got a grip as everyone does, and learned to ignore the Bugs.

If you live in the city, rather than just visit, you'll eventually lose that wide-eyed upward tourist gaze. Instead you'll develop, and eventually stitch, on the 'always in a hurry, and know where you're going' mask. A city disguise, where you can look directly at someone, but still see through them as though they were vapor. People on the street can see this change as clearly as if that metaphorical neon had its bulb blown. It doesn't make you immune from them, god never that. But you’re less prone to be picked out all the time. There are now other shiny new people, who are more worthy of their effort than suspicious old you.

Once I got my mask on, it gave me the opportunity to stop and look around. For me that was a mistake, as it was then I found out, I was the one in ten who was to be mugged on the streets of London. The old Me wishes I had never slowed. The speaking Me wishes I'd kept on going. Stopping to give a guy the time one night, gave me the opportunity to be repeatedly punched in the face till I fell down. Then whoever it was, took a similar disliking to my ribs and back, just for the hell of it.

I was kept in hospital for a few days observation. The cops wanted nothing to do with it. Another 'Paddy' asshole, wrong place, wrong time. Maybe for someone used to the city, it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but I took it hard. Apart from my journey to and from work, and the occasional group tipple with colleagues, I barely left the bedsit. I began to get the Fear. Every corner I turned, there seemed to be violence and intimidation. Acts that weren’t necessarily directed at me, but I could always feel it lurking. Its cold slivers worked their way into me, feeding my self-imposed impotence and closed me off. The medical books say this can happen, and I've read a lot of them. Trauma leads to withdraw, emotionally as well as physically. A self protection. The shutting down of feeling, apart from a growing deadness inside.

I awoke one morning, again breathless and bathed in cold sweat. Another re-run of a series of being chased, and hunted nightmares I'd had since that night. Finally I accepted that it wasn't going to go away, and I was going to have to do something about it. Ok, maybe I didn't take the most regular route for therapy, but I’d always been taught to face my fears head on. On that recommendation I forced myself to go out at night again. To watch those on the streets at a distance, and check this Fear piece by piece, while keeping to safe dark corners. First I started close to home. Then as my confidence grew, I went further a field. Nightly I widened my knowledge of the dark back streets. I found boltholes and safe areas I could scramble to if things started to go wrong. I went deeper into the heart, or more aptly, the bowel of the city. I stole through the shadows at the busy nightspots, and areas of congregation, the train and bus stations. It's easy to lose yourself in the darkness, and eventually the sense of freedom and power can become intoxicating.

The longer I spent and closer I looked, the clearer I saw the gutter of the city. Nothing’s black and white there, it’s all grey, no matter what the time. A one time victim, may be next times aggressor. My shadowed outings only served as more evidence of our species internal blackness. And though I wittnessed it all, the Fear kept me silent. But that was all about to change.

* How?

It was winter when I first broke away from the Fear. I was in the tube station, Friday evening, waiting for one of the last freezer boxes home. I was wrapped up against the biting wind that blew down the tunnels, my coat hood up and tight around me. I could hear voices from the platform entrance a little further down. I couldn't hear the words exactly, but knew at least one side of the conversation. I had to pass the homeless guy myself to get to where I now stood.

I glanced up when I heard the thud. A young guy side kicked the old tramp on his way by, and then shouted at him for no other reason than the tramp was an easy target. The bloke walked on with a swagger, and smug cocky look on his face. The mocking on his face brought out a flash fire of anger in me. I waited till he was nearly passed, and then stuck my foot out. It was an involintary reaction. I hadn't thought what I'd do next if there was to be a confrontation, but fortunately he fell with his hands in his pockets. The blokes’ nose made a satisfying crunch as he hit the concrete. There was no movement. He was passed out cold on the ground.

As his body smacked the platform, the wallet of the no longer smiling wide-boy fell from his baggy cargo pants. I kicked it in the direction of the tramp. He looked at me, and then it for a few seconds, before he scooped the wallet up and lifted his own bag at the same time. This was all in one fluid movement, which took me by surprise for a guy his age. I was going to shout something after him as he made to leave, but couldn't think of anything to say. I had to concern myself with me. I realized this was swiftly turning into what could be construed as a robbery, and it was probably being recorded on CCTV. I needed to go, and walked straight out of the station, head down, glad my hood was still up. The tramp had disappeared - I was disappointed, but not surprised.

Even though no one had a look at me, I took the bus home that night. You can't be too careful. That night I never slept a wink. I was elated, the fibre of me tingled when I thought about what had just happened. I could feel a new me flex its new muscles for the first time. There was no remorse, but in its place more a feeling of right. Like I had finally come home. It was only the smallest of victories, hardly that even. It had been an accident, or stupid mistake in the least, robbery at most. But even still, I felt a little of the weight from the last few years slide off my shoulders. Doing what I did felt good. A tick in the box for the little man. The anger that was always prickling just under my skin was quiet, if only for a short time.