Petty tyrannies. Postcode turf wars. Prayers before mealtimes. Bunkbeds and 80s striped curtains. Lidl’s orange cartons. Pointless, spiralling vendettas. Conspiracies. Bastardised honour. Arcade game violence seeping through the cracks, threshold disintegrating. Explosive gunfire flashes and Japanese animation, zinging tunes. Weaves, corn rows, LA nail bars, any arcadia summoned to forget London grime.
The shrieking barbarism of the raid, hands interlocking top of head and turn around. Is there anything in this room we should know about, IS THERE ANYTHING IN THIS ROOM WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT??, the estuarial voices hectoring in the adolescent bedroom.
Curved hangar by marshes. Dense woodland by river. Hidden pathways carved deep.
Cigarette smoke, coffee and plain chocolate, a continental smell, a London smell. She remembers, Covent Garden 1981, the unfamiliar warmth, spring advanced, and that luxurious scent.
Balcony doors open over marshland vistas. Lying on the bed. Soon she will make coffee and they’ll get ready to go out. Candi Staton, Rozalla, Snap! Looks out over sweep of Olympic regeneration, cranes puncturing the wilderness. She smokes and watches, the heat intensifying. Going to be a long hot Summer. Puts make up on at the kitchen table, 18 floors up. Damask, the heavy scent of elderflower, mutant strains of hogweed crashing over barbed wire.
London. She can feel it now. She is on the brink of good times. It's all starting again.