I have no idea what her
name was, but I do know she lived in Brixton. In a shoddy flat she shared with
three other girls, in a room that overlooked an abandoned pond. She worked in a
hostel near Pimlico four days a week. Four nights a week.
And there was nothing
she liked better than to take her battered bike out and head towards West End.
This happened at night, when the other girls were sleeping and most of London
was sleeping, too, and she had those streets all to herself.
She could almost smell
them, feel their taste in her mouth. She ogled them like a lewd pervert,
circled them, and sometimes, when the lights were on, could even see what was
going on inside. Several times she saw things she should never have seen.
Still, mostly the windows were dark and she sensed great, inexplicable calm
marrying those streets with her anxious heart.
And then, in the morning,
she came back to her place in Brixton. It was barely dawn and the girls were
still sleeping. She hid her bike, made herself a weak cup of coffee and went to
bed. If there was no work tomorrow, in a hostel in Pimlico, she could sleep
till noon.
