Daylight drifts through the tiny slices in between the blinds. It’s stuffy in here, the air feels heavy. The air conditioning makes the same old mechanical rattle. I roll over and see the space, that gap that weighs so heavily on my waking eyes. I reach out into that vast expanse and touch the sheets; they are cold. For a moment I see those powerful ochre eyes staring out at me, a smile, and then it disappears. She has gone. Does she think about me at all anymore? Why on earth should she? The photos on the wall bear the brunt of last night’s desperation. The little pieces still stuck to the wall by the pins, a fragment of a hand here, an edge of blue sky there; all that’s left. I drag myself out of the murky daze and sit upright. The clock reads , no matter really, I quit my job. Well, at least that’s what I tell my friends. I slowly rise and shamble around the flat. Everything smells stale; the blinds haven’t been opened in weeks. I check my phone, one missed call from Charlie; I’ll call him later. I eat burnt toast and sip on the black coffee, haven’t been to get milk in a while.
The clock on the wall clunks away monotonously, the refrigerator buzzes angrily, there is never a silence in this flat, only nagging little noises. It’s , I should call Charlie.
“Hello?”
“Hey”
“Mate! Where’ve you been? I heard about you and…”
“Busy, sorry”
“Mate I’m so sorry, I know you and her really were-”
“What did you want?”
“Well little Tim finally got something of worth from all those hours he pissed away sat on eBay”
“Yeah?” I pick idly at the dirt on the sofa
“Just meet us on the roof mate”
“When?”
“Now, seriously man you’re gunna wanna be here”
“I don’t… I don’t know, I’ve got things…”
Charlie’s usually cheeky tones are dropped, he speaks from the heart.
“Mate, please. We miss you, come up. Please?”
I look around the room; there’s nothing here but bad memories, the ones that really hit you when you’re alone.
“I’ll be up in ten”
I hang up and run my hands through my hair; filthy. I dig around for some jeans to wear. I pull a pair from a pile on the floor revealing a box underneath. The room seems to fall silent, if only for a moment. I know what is inside. The furry little bear she gave me, the card, the photos from that day. I look at the box with fear. If I dig deep enough in this place I know I’m going to find things, more memories. You can’t escape the past; you just have to move on; something I wish I could do. I throw clothes over the box, hiding it. You forget it’s there after a while, that is until it surfaces again bringing all the darkness with it.
The door shuts behind me and I climb the stairs. There’s a tattered notice on the lift doors that promises it will be fixed soon, like hell it will. I never used it anyway, always something undesirable in it; someone’s regurgitated late night kebab, needles, graffiti… and worse. I guess in a place like this you get what you pay for.
The door to the roof is propped open with a brick; people learn this valuable action very quickly with this door. I can feel the dry air coming through it. As I swing open the door a hot blast hits me before the wind whips the warmth away. It’s an overcast day in London
Charlie sits in a small arc of deck chairs someone left here years ago, never been moved. He smiles as he sees me and blue smoke curls out of his mouth. He stubs out the spliff on the ground and brushes the ash off that same old purple hoodie he seems to always wear. He beckons me over and pulls a bottle of beer out from a crate he’s brought up. The old chair is surprisingly comfy, and as I sit there looking at the grey skyline I hear birdsong for the first time in weeks. I listen to the carefree little melodies as I tentatively sip the beer, though the skies may be leaden, I feel a little cheered.
“Good to see you mate.”
Charlie pats me on the shoulder. It’s a nice feeling to be part of something again. David paces near the edge of the roof looking down over the city below him. He turns and waves at me, adjusting the ridiculous brown tea cosy he wears with a grin, always a grin. In the centre of the arc of chairs stands a short red metal box. It has a large handle on one side and looks almost like an industrial fan of some kind.
The sun is setting slowly casting a thin orange haze through the clouds and over the sprawling mass of this city. David turns round and almost skips over to us.
“Shall I crank it?” He waits for Charlie’s approval like a child eagerly awaiting a present.
Charlie nods with a smile and looks at me
“Listen to this mate”.
David stands by the fan and begins to turn the handle; the blades inside spin to a blur as a sorrowful moan issues forth from it. The sound grows and grows; the air seems to vibrate around us as the siren blasts its call across the skyline. The clouds seem to break apart just enough to let some of the days dying light creep through illuminating the tall monoliths around us in bleached ivory shades. David lets the handle go as the wail dies back down; the clouds seem to close up again. He lets it roll down for a minute before beginning all over again. The mournful tune seems to stretch out to the horizon. The memories it must conjure, fear, trepidation, people will check the skies to see if they are falling; all because of this little red box. The sheer power it has over this city awes me.
I stand watching as the sun makes its way slowly down; golden fingers creeping slowly back to the horizon. The wind is cool but refreshing. I feel more awake now than I have been for months, David chuckles broadly as he cranks the handle with such great delight. Charlie slaps his leg and laughs merrily over the din. He looks at me with a cheeky glint in his eye. Anything is possible. I think about the box, about fragments of pictures, about the bed. The siren calls out to the horizon in defiance against this bleak day, a smile touches my lips.
8:15 at the Goodwill Bar, he told me. And here I am, perched on the second bar stool from the end, as instructed, working my way through a handful of warm peanuts. My pint's ready at last and frothing like mad at the rim. I wrap my fingers around the glass; cold and sticky. I hate it when they're sticky round the sides. I sip it anyway.