the meadows

The morning after the storm I left my pad without locking the door. The wind had been raging all night and the rain beat hard against the window panes. Now, everything was quiet. The wail of the sirens had long died down. The downpour had turned into a slight drizzle, and the trees, relieved of the weight of their leaves, were slowly swaying in the breeze. I had a headache.

I stepped into the corridor, grey and smelling of piss. Shards of broken glass were lying around. I live in The Meadows, one of those dreary blocks of flats hovering over the city like the dreaded towers of sorcery in the fairy tales of old. Dingy, drab, dreary, the three magical d’s describing the reality of the tenants and their surroundings.

I walked down the corridor to the stairway. The lift was out of service. Someone had smashed the call buttons some time ago, but nobody bothered to call the proprietor.

I climbed down the stairs, all fifteen floors. Some of the windows had been smashed by the debris that was now lying peacefully at the bottom of the stairs. The air was fresh and chilly. I got the first good glance at the havoc that the storm had wreaked when I reached the entrance hall. The ground was full of leaves and torn-off branches, plastic bags and broken glass. The wrapping of a Yorkie bar sailed through the air and slowly settled on the lower step of the entrance to Mr. Nehru’s corner shop. Much to my surprise, Mr. Nehru was nowhere to be seen. I had expected him to be the first to show up here to inspect the damage, but the shop was closed. What really astonished me, however, was that no one had taken the opportunity to go on a little plunder and pillage spree, looting the shop and marauding the neighbourhood. It was very, very quiet.

I walked down to the ring road, but the usual noise of the traffic was missing. No cars, no traffic, nothing. At first it didn’t really get through, but after I had passed the subway and emerged in a Mediaeval Spon Street which was devoid of any sign of human activity, I began to feel queasy. The leftovers of the weekend had spread all over the street, and the drizzle was slowly soaking the burger wraps and leaves. Here, too, windows were smashed, cars parked in the middle of the road, a streetlight was perpetually flickering, on and off. I headed towards Corporation Street and the Belgrade. Nothing. On through the Burges to the Cathedral Lanes Shopping Centre, where all the youth gather and drink by the statue: nothing. No one. Just debris, broken flowerpots. Not one fucking human being in this town.

I turned left into Priory Row, passed through Cuckoo Lane and walked to the Cathedral. No sparrows, no pigeons, no tourists, even the grey squirrels were markedly absent. The floor was slippery with the grey drizzly rain that wetted the altar and slowly seeped through my old parka.

After two hours of aimlessly mooching around the city centre, I was feeling nauseous and tired. Debris was lying around everywhere. A street sign had been snapped off. Somewhere further away an alarm was wailing. Brown’s was closed, but I sat down on the doorstep and watched the empty street, the bus stop, the gift shop. It all looked slightly twisted, with no one about. Empty, lifeless. I thought of what had happened. What if there was… an accident? What if everyone had died, suddenly? What if the apocalypse had come and I missed it because I decided to get pissed last night? My mood grew decidedly worse now that I came to think of the fact that maybe people were queuing up for Judgement Day while my brain was soaked with cheap whisky and my legs unable to move. The thoughts kept coming. Visions of doom unravelled before my eyes. Words like karma and kismet suddenly acquired a whole new meaning. Although I was staring blankly into space, an agitated feeling was spreading from my chest to my arms and legs. I got up.

As I stepped into the road and turned downhill, I saw a lonely figure walking up Gosford Street. Relief mixed with the irrational fear that… the situation somehow reminded me of those horror flicks I used to watch when I was younger. It turned out it was no Zombie, but a suit in his late forties, which basically doesn’t make that much of a difference. At least the nausea disappeared. I stood in the middle of the road and watched the man approach. I mused that if my life were a movie, this would be one of the long, wide-angle shots.

The suit got nearer. He was breathing heavily from walking uphill, his glasses were steamed up, and he, too, was soaking wet. I nodded. He offered:

>> Terrible weather, this is, isn’t it?
>> You name it. I wouldn’t ask, but have you seen anyone of late?
>> I’m afraid no. Have you?
>> No. Don’t you think this is a little weird, the way everyone disappeared?
>> Now that you mention it – yes.

He nodded and gave a wry smile.

>> I just thought it was because I had slept in. My wife leaves the house quite early, so at first I didn’t take notice. But in the office there was no one about…

His voice trailed off. We watched the wind turning the pages of a newspaper. Amid the stillness of the scenery, the continuous motion seemed strangely out of place. The sound of flapping paper unnerved me. I suggested:

>> Have you already tried calling anyone?
>> No. I’m on my way to my mother’s, but I guess it won’t be worth the effort.
>> No, I don’t think it will…

Silence. The paper had disappeared down the road. The murmuring of the wind was faint; it felt as my head was stuffed with cotton wool.

>> Well, I guess then I might as well go home…

His voice came from far away. The queasy feeling returned.

>> I guess so.

I was at a loss for something to say. I still had a splitting headache, and the conversation was beginning to feel like a job interview. I ventured:

>> Er, say, do you by any chance happen to have a mobile?
>> Sure. Would you like to make a call?
>> No thanks, not really, no. It… I guess it won’t be worth the effort.

He was standing there, in the middle of the road, and didn’t stir or move. He was as inert as the parking cars. I didn’t dare hope that it would make a difference, but I decided that I should still try.

>> Would you mind… making a call for me?

He gave me a puzzled look, but got out his mobile.

>> What would be the number, then?
>> 0796 06 07 750. A friend.

He dialled. Raised the phone to his ear. Listened. I was waiting, patiently. He looked strained, somehow on edge. Then he shook his head and lowered the phone.

>> He doesn’t answer.
>> Oh, ok…

He was searching for something to say. In the end, he just gave up.

>> Ok.
>> Thanks.
>> You’re welcome.
>> Ok.
>> …

This was going nowhere. I said:

>> What will you be doing now?
>> I don’t know. Do you have any plans?
>> I don’t know.
>> Maybe I’d better go home; my wife might be home by now. I’ll have to repair the roof. Some of the tiles came down.

I was speechless. For a moment I felt the urge to slap him right across the face. Or maybe laugh out loud. Then again, what was the use? We’d missed the apocalypse, and that was all there was to it.

>> Oh, I see. Well…
>> Well…
>> Thanks then. See you.
>> See you…

The man looked around. On the backside of his head there was a barely visible bald spot. The wind had gathered force again, tousling the man’s thinning hair and whirling about wet leaves. It looked as if it was going to be another dark and uncomfortable night. I turned and went up the road. The man didn’t move, he just stared at the clouds. I left him there, grey suit on grey tarmac and made my way back through the city and the rain, back to Spon End.

When I reached The Meadows, the Yorkie bar wrapping had made its way down from Mr Nehru’s steps across the open space over to the stolen shopping cart on the concrete paving. A tiny blue dot amid the brown leaves and the white Tesco bags. I unlocked the entrance and walked up the stairs, all fifteen floors. The hallway smelled of piss and wet leaves. The door to my room stood open; I stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the heating. As I opened a tin of soup, it occurred to me that I probably wouldn’t see the suit again. I had asked for neither name nor address. The storm was raging; the rain was falling; black clouds piled up in the west. Twigs and branches were flying against the green-tiled façade of my own private tower of sorcery. I am a magician ruling over a kingdom of wind and nothingness. Somewhere in this town there is a man waiting for his wife to come home… I shake off the eerie feeling, sit down in the armchair beside the window, light a cigarette, and eat my soup.