It starts with a scream in a dream. And then it's suddenly not a dream. It's really real and it's across the road. I get up from this new bed. Open the curtains in this new room. In this new place. In this new chapter. Spanking new. I've been off the plane for about 15 hours. I've spent most of them sleeping. In and out of sleep. In and out of dreams. Some guy won Lotto. Two million. I remember dreaming “that'd do it”. That'd cover the costs of an itinerant lifestyle for ever and ever Amen thank you God praise Jesus show me the numbers.
But the screaming drags me away from that and drags me out of bed and I see some guy and some woman across the road and they're close enough to be clutching the same handbag and she's screaming “let me go!” over and over and over and I drag on trousers and then I nearly run into - what turns out to be - Jack from one floor down and we're both rushing out the front door and in that short time the whole scene has cut forward to the next set-up and now the woman is praying to a fire hydrant, head on metal; some older guy is crouching behind her, not daring to reach out and touch her; another guy as u-turned his tiny car and has stopped in the road to see if praying lady is okay; and Jack's girlfriend is on the other side of the street, our side, the non-screamy side, just in her winter PJs and watching the men inch toward the crouching woman who now seems as permanent as the fire hydrant. Completely still. And no intention of altering the tableau.
“You okay?” I ask. Someone has to.
She's up in a second. Glowers at me. She's beautiful. Spanish. Italian. Something. She won the bag. Clutches it high against her ribs. She has fantastic, dark, curly hair.
“No. I'm not,” she says. Not angry. Or scornful. Just stating a glaring fucking fact. Definitely not English.
She strides off. Confident. I'd say late for work if it wasn't three in the morning. Six people – a bit further down another couple have come out – don't move. The victim seems decidedly sure in her exit. The guy in the car is facing the right way and follows her. Jack has found momentum and follows. I don't. It's all too weird. Next thing, the woman gets in the car and they drive away. Jack returns.
“What's going on?” I ask.
“He's taking her to Stockwell.”
Stockwell. Huh. I moved into my first, proper, long-term London accommodation in Stockwell in 2005. With some guy called Luke. I went to his wedding three years ago. Happy memories flit. Can't help it.
People disperse. It's still dark. The event is over bar the head-shaking.
I nearly walk into the wrong building. Remember I'm in the same building as Jack and his girlfriend. They ask me something. My response includes information about having just returned after many months away.
“And welcome back to London,” I add. Jack and GF in PJs laugh. We've all done bombs and riots. We're getting over this micro-incident already. Well...micro for us. Not the girl. Woman.
They re-enter their flat from the un-carpeted landing.
“I'm Mick.” Jack offers a hand.
“Jack.”
They seem nice.
London is cold.
