2
The streets were beginning to thin of people as the light of the sun descended slowly past the dark outline of the buildings. With time to spare, Blake, like so many other times in his life, was relying on his wanderlust to keep him occupied. He pressed on—going nowhere in particular. A woman walked quickly past him in the opposite direction. Many others followed suit, people flitting in and out of focus. One woman wore a t-shirt adorned with two robots atop a neon pyramid. The traffic light before them shifted and her boots clip-clopped as she stepped briskly out of sight. Hundreds more danced into view, only to be unceremoniously forgotten. Lamps were beginning to ignite, but still darkness hadn’t quite settled across the sky above.
Blake saw a shadowed alley and turned into it, earning him a few quizzical looks from fellow pedestrians. The alley led him straight to a fire escape bolted to the red brick wall of a four storied apartment building. Dark flecks of paint clung to his hands as he started to climb toward the roof and the still starless sky.
He stepped up gingerly and surveyed the surrounding panorama of London. He wasn’t sure where in the city he was located, but he saw the evening’s final destination to the west. The Thames labored along in the distance like a lumbering grey leviathan. And far away he could see the clock tower, parliament, and the Eye – none of which could hold his attention for long in the face of London’s newest additions. This vantage point afforded him a look at four of the newly finished projects; their scale made them impossible to miss. Villa 1 to the northwest was a construction of huge swooping jagged edges. Villa 2 to the north was all circles and domes. Villa 3 to the east caught one’s eye with its geometric shapes, great triangles, crosses, and stars melded together. And then there was the massive form of Villa 6, which blocked Villas 4 and 5 from view. The most recent of the construction projects, Villa 6 was undoubtably the most impressive of the bunch. It’s shape was vaguely angelic—with two soaring wings on either side of the main structure. The building was built with a skin that was capable of displaying anything. Now it was simply lit with a brilliant white light.
He was overjoyed to find that some of the building's tenants had left several rusted metal lawn chairs on the roof. Eyeing a reliable-looking seat, he lowered himself cautiously, and found it stable. Above the lamp light of the street, stars now freckled the vaulted royal sky – brilliant beings among a dull crowd. Sliding the chair closer to the edge of the building and easing his feet onto the small wall, he reclined leisurely and emptied his smoking materials from his pockets.
He started arranging the ingredients with the willful air of an artist before a rambunctious gust of wind flung everything onto the ground and sent Blake into a flurry of curses. He began again and soon held out the finished product, as if for the benefit of some invisible critic. He returned the materials to his pocket and took out his lighter.
The lighter sparked and excess paper flamed and burned away. Blake drew from it with big greedy breaths and deep, relaxed exhales. He shifted back in the chair; the lights of the city gradually began to brighten even as his brain began to cloud with mellow green smoke. He toked and leaned his head back and tried with only a little success to keep his mind off what he would do later that night. Fear, trepidation, and excitement rose to the surface. So much could go wrong with nothing to balance out the risk. The only scenario in which his actions would be acknowledged would be if he were caught. Worst case. To him, that felt good, righteous even. He preferred to live that way. His traffic light ended when he heard police sirens several blocks away. They jerked him mercifully back to the rooftops. He exhaled.
The chill of the night air put the cherry out, and when Blake tried to draw, his tongue met with an unpleasant ashy taste. He made a face and spat. Several times, he tried to light it again, but was unable, and finally he tossed the remains over the side. Leaning forward over the edge of the building, Blake let the sights and sounds of the city wash over him all at once. Looking across, at the neon florescence of shop signs, the black of the streets, red and brown of houses, the flashes of opalescent street names in the white lights of shining cars, it all seemed to form one giant make-up for a strange and beautiful organism. Cities had always entranced Blake, especially from heights. Viewing it like this, from a hawk’s nest, made it harder to think about the cruelties that crept and slunk about the city. Some skulking in its basest depths, other secreted away in the highest towers and skyscrapers. He stayed there a long time, gazing outward and upward in an atmosphere of willed ignorance.
He rose to leave and swung his legs back onto the old and flaking fire escape and began to descend back down to the alley. For a moment, the task ahead crept unbidden into his mind, but before he was halfway down from the roof, the sound of breaking glass shattered the peace of the city. A car alarm sounded. Back down to the real world, he thought.
The disturbance came from down another street at the opposite entrance to the alley. Blake could not see the car or the thief, so he continued to lower himself down into the dimness of the alley, trying to muffle the noises his shoes made on the escape. Finally, he touched down on the gravelly cement and walked hastily in the opposite direction of the sound. He wanted no part of burglary, especially if he did not know from whom he was stealing. Just before he rounded the corner and entered the relative safety of the street ahead, a bobby stepped out from the shadows into the right side of Blake’s vision. The policeman cut a huge outline on the cusp of the alley. Probably heading in the same direction of the car alarm, the big man’s eyes narrowed with suspicion when he noticed Blake.
Shit, he thought, and me an illegal alien for the past four months.
The police thrust out his arm in Blake’s direction, mouth moving to form the syllables that might command obedience, when Blake – paranoid, distrustful of authority and cursing his luck – bolted.
The big man followed him instantly. On they rushed through the dark of the alley; both lamenting their situation, both determined to be the victor of their hidden race. The speed with which it all had happened was lost on both of them. Fortunately for Blake, the bobby’s massive frame hampered his speed, and Blake quickly began to outstrip him. Sprinting full-bore, silently damning his habits, his nationality, and the cameras he knew would eventually capture his flight, his heart pounding from fear and exertion, legs working furiously, sweat already beginning to flow from his pores, Blake fled with the frenzy of a wild animal. He was steadily widening the distance between himself and the policeman. A lion could not catch a gazelle alone.
Just as he reached the lights ahead, he turned, still running, to look at the hulking giant chasing him. About twenty feet separated the two when Blake, thrown off balance by the act of glancing backwards, tripped on a jutting piece of concrete. He flew forward out of the dirty cloak of the alley. Out of control, his body skidded onto the paved sidewalk, where he lay sprawled, stunned, head and face bleeding. He blinked at the brightness of the lamp directly above him, a dull pain echoing through his head and back, knowing he was caught. Then he noticed a flicker of movement inside a nearby car.
Having deactivated the car’s alarm, a hooded thief with veiled features, was still rooting around inside a red BMW no more than ten feet away from where Blake lay pained and bleeding. Blake’s last thought before he felt the gargantuan weight of his pursuer's knee shoved into his back was a prayer that the bobby might notice.
Bet you thought you was pretty smart, didn’t you, cheeky little shit?” The policeman yelled in his ear, his knee compacting Blake’s lithe form into the ground. Blake cursed silently. He said nothing and closed his eyes and clamped his jaws to keep from yelping with pain. He offered up another prayer, but could not bring himself to utter the words that would save him.
Well you had better get ready to . . .” The policeman’s thunderous voice trailed off, and his head turned towards the vehicle. After seeing the policeman, the thief had opened the car door from the inside and was scrambling in a desperate attempt to flee. Suddenly, the car's alarm began to blare a second time, screaming as if undergoing some insufferable agony. The bobby reacted instantaneously, his mind weighing the offenses of the two perpetrators. The paralyzing pressure lifted from Blake's back as his captor rushed to apprehend the thief. Blake wasted no time. Even with bleeding face and aching body his movements were still made of quicksilver. Fear whipped him mercilessly into action, and he was up and running at top speed. The lion roared in fury behind him. He heard the cries of the thief, who by the sound of things had not fared so well. Blake offered a silent and half-hearted apology; A miracle for one, the misfortunes of another. He kept on running for the safety of Brixton. He ran and ran into the night, into the city, into the safety of anonymity.
Blake ran until his lungs were begging for mercy. He did not know how long he had been running, but he could certainly feel that smokers’ lungs were not primed for stamina. Darkness brought a chill, and Blake could see his ragged breath as he ducked furtively onto yet another side street. Blake still felt like he was escaping from an enchanted forest. A passage from a story he had read as a child crept into his mind. The trees have eyes. Never ending rows of dark house windows stared at him from every direction, the blank cataracts of urban London. To him they held only the natural possibility for more cameras. Blake exited the side street onto a large road still active in the midnight hour. He let his gaze rove and found several government eyes without difficulty. There were advantages and disadvantages to living in the most heavily surveilled city in the most heavily surveilled country in the world.
Time passed. All the while he kept moving. No pursuit was mounted. His route followed a suspicious zig zag through the less trafficked passageways of London. He had only a vague notion of where he was going, but he pushed on until he entered familiar territory: Brixton. Some people’s lights were still on here, random luminaries reminding you that there is always someone awake. He walked past countless light poles adorned with a plastered jigsaw of club flyers, concert posters, and after-party notices. Discarded remnants of inebriated nights. The history of unhealthy community decomposing on sidewalks and sewer grates.
A few minutes later, a police car with lights on and sirens crying like heralds of the apocalypse dashed onto the street in front of Blake, shocking his heart into instant tremors. It flew furiously past him. Perhaps it was only his healthy sense of paranoia that had him so jumpy. He had been walking for a long time now, Blake guessed an hour and a half, and the alleyway was far away. Despite his heart's palpitations, it appeared that he was safe: free to live another day. He turned again, and again, down Oglander Road and Grove Vale. Finally he took a right into Vale's End. The back of the library loomed in front of him like a elephantine temple. A forgotten sanctuary.
He walked up to the door, thick, cracked and worn, and let himself in. The interior of the library shone with a sort of dilapidated brilliance. Paint peeled and water dripped. Blake breathed a sigh of relief upon crossing the threshold. Musty, mildewed air entered his lungs. He continued past the information desk and past the Kingston’s quarters. He took two more turns and labored up a long flight of stairs before he arrived at the area he shared with his two younger brothers. Billy sat on the couch watching a mustached man read the news on the television. Jay was reading on a mat in the corner of the room. As Blake walked in, his brother’s eyes rose expectantly from the book.
You’re late, aren’t you?”
Blake grunted. “Nearly got arrested just now. It took me a while to get back.”
Upon hearing this, his brothers’ attention immediately diverted to him. Billy turned off the TV and looked up at his older brother. Blake was suddenly very aware of his cuts and bruises. He told them the story of his capture and charmed escape.
Jay’s face took on the appearance of a scolding father.
And you’re still going out later?”
I'm going out now. I don’t see why it should change anything,” Blake answered benignly. “Don’t worry,” he added.
Don’t tell me not to worry. Don’t forget, you get caught, you get deported. Alright? Then things will really fall apart, won't they? One time, that’s all it takes and our little fairy tale vacation from Mom and Dad’s bullshit is gone.” He waved his hands as if conveying his point through sign language. “And this country is going mad. If you aren't caught by the police for doing nothing but speaking your mind, then you'll be stabbed on your way back by some hoody.”
We picked a terrible place to play tourists,” Billy laughed uproariously.
Shut up, little man.”
Don't get angry at me. You're only in a bad mood because you've been reading Camus!”
I'm not even reading Camus! I'm reading . . .”
Alright,” Blake interrupted, “enough you two. Jay, I’ll be careful. That’s all I can tell you. I know you think all life is very silly, but let's leave it for later. No one likes this melodrama. I’m going back out now. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Jay started to protest, but in the end only threw up his hands in exasperation.
Fine,” he muttered. His face assumed a mask of placid acceptance.
Good luck.” Billy smiled.
Billy turned the TV on again. The voice of some peroxide blonde started chirping at the walls. She spoke of construction projects and worker's revolts, foreign turbulence and inane political machinations. Her voice faded as Blake went to his room and dug a few choice items from a cardboard box in the corner. He placed each into a black rucksack. Once ready, he did not linger. His brothers wished him luck as he went out the door and he smiled back at them and winked. Really not worried. Outside the library, the dead of night muffled all sounds but those of his shoes on the walk.
It was very cold. The rucksack slung over his shoulder banged at his side, giving a faint rhythm to his movements. Blake strode under the lights given off by the buildings. He took turn after turn, fork after fork. A map of London takes the form of a giant spider’s web, and things had only gotten worse in recent years. The city’s huge mass of crisscrosses and triangles had always been difficult to deal with, but since the flurry of construction projects had begun fifteen years ago new buildings had created new passageways, backstreets and dead ends. The labyrinthine way often befuddled Blake and forced him to backtrack. Of course, he had only arrived in London a few months ago, but the Kingstons had been quick to tell all three brothers of the dramatic changes to the face of the city.
After much walking, he drew near to his destination. He had been skulking in the shadows for some time now, but once he reached the bright blue, false ambiance of the expansive retail store that was his canvas, he emerged bravely from hiding.
With focus and precision he set up, whipping out his stencils and spray cans. Quickly he started sketching the outline of a child working at a sewing machine. The child was black, outlined in a dull red. He switched stencils and sprayed over the child's face, giving her a muted expression of pain. A tiny red tear marred the child's cheek. In gold he created the silhouette of the sewing machine.
Blake looked over his shoulder expectantly but found the area clear. Only a few seconds to go.
He grabbed another stencil from his bag and added an arm to the child. The thin black extremity led to the sewing machine. Blake added a tiny hand with fragile fingers. The needle of the sewing machine was piercing the child's finger. For a final touch he brought out the longest of his stencils, one that, in big block letters read:
50% OFF YOUR PURCHASE IF YOU ASK US ABOUT OUR COMPANY'S CHILD LABOR POLICIES!
When Blake had finished he stepped back to admire his work.
The process had taken only eight minutes. He laughed at the thought of the problems it might cause and took a picture with his digital camera. It was nearly early morning now, and he did not dawdle. As quickly as he came, he left. All that was left behind was painted on the glass for all to see.
He felt a great relief when he finally stepped back into the comfort of the shadows. Already he had escaped harm’s reach. The lazy meander back to the library took a long time. His feet ached from an arduous day of running and walking, but even after collapsing onto his cot, within the gentle quietude of the library, he could not sleep. He lay on his cot, his mind teaming with swirling electricles. They did not give way easily to the nagging of his body.
Morning overtook the city long before he slept.