Enjoy...
Detachment
It is precisely 13:02, when the door swings open and you walk in. You have ‘walked in’ at this time everyday for the last six hundred and fifty six days. You make a beeline for your usual spot next to the panoramic window, and angle your chair in order to improve your view. What you can see through the blurred drizzle I’m not exactly sure, you probably wish there were wipers. I imagine these 12ft high windows with windscreen wipers protruding down from the top, like the ones you get on a bus, the little half-moon which they clear fails to improve visibility.
Today your seat is free, but I can recall two occasions when someone was in it. The first time, you stood behind them, not speaking but your eyes pierced into the back of their head. Eventually they moved and you took up residence. The second occasion, just last week, was different; a group of people were haphazardly strewn across your general area. You took one look at them and quickly left. I got the impression you don’t like chaos.
The rain continues trickling down the window. May? More like bloody November. The sun had stuck its head out this morning so there was the odd opportunist who had decided not to wear a coat, more fool them; a little bit of sunshine and out come the flip-flops, the shorts and the bare arms.
You remove your anorak, hanging it carefully over the back of your chair, then, you take your cling-filmed sandwich from your bag and place it neatly on the windowsill. Next to it you place a red packet of crisps, a small orange and an unopened bottle of water; all in an immaculate row. You also take out a book. It’s the same book everyday and the bookmark doesn’t move; the book is just for show. You never have any intention of reading it; it’s your cover story.
I know that over the course of the next 56 minutes, in between your daydreams, you will methodically consume your lunch, fully finishing one item before starting the next, until you have a neat row of rubbish. You overhear snippets of conversation, which merge into one nonsensical sentence:
‘She fancies…don’t ever go…the shit out of him…to Egypt right…it freaked me out…if it still doesn’t work…cos basically, right…email me and let me know…bugger off…the toilets up here…you twat…what appears on the screen…are blocked…did you see the latest…?’
The din of voices disappears into your background and you disappear into your daydream, staring vacantly out of the watery window.
*
The window overlooks a car park and, from your vantage point, you are able to observe the orchestrated sequence of pedestrians, parkers and leavers. Today they are all in perfect formation, following the arrows, no-one out of step. Some days you get the idiots who can’t read the road markings, either that, or they think cause they’re in a flash car the signs don’t apply to them. The wind carries a siren and the screams and squeals of children playing in the nearby park.
You un-cling your sandwich and begin, book poised…
You observe some of the coatless, flip-flopped ones dashing across the car park, in an attempt not to get wet. Even in the earlier sunshine it wasn’t that warm. Your attire is much more sensible. Come rain or shine, you wear a dark pair of trousers, what I imagine to be a plain t-shirt (it’s difficult to tell as it’s always covered by a checked shirt), an anorak and polished black lace-up shoes. There are those out there who are still sporting scarves and gloves; far more appropriate, I think you’ll agree. Then there are those dedicated ‘followers of fashion’, the best ones to watch.
You observe a boy in the bottom corner of the car park. Although a long way off, he appears to be on the phone, you lean a little closer to the glass, trying to get a better look. He is gesticulating dramatically and as no one else is in his vicinity one would hope he’s on the phone, either that or he has some sort of mental problem. He is wearing a baseball cap, positioned neither the right nor wrong way round, baggy jeans which start half way down his bottom, and a dark hooded top. This ‘look’, and the suped up red Peugeot 205, which he’s just kicked, puts him into the ‘boy racer’ category.
You notice the car park attendant clocking off for his lunch; a cheery chap who always has a pleasant word. Regardless of the weather he wears one of those oversized hi-vis coats, today is no exception. He has a round face and looks like a Grandad, grey around the edges. He gives a nod and a wave to his mate and ambles over to his racing green Rover. Once in, he begins to faff in the way older people do…seatbelt on, check the mirrors haven’t readjusted themselves, tune in the radio to Classic FM or Radio 4…no, that’s not faffing, it’s meticulousness, an admirable trait.
You finish your sandwich and place the rubbish on the windowsill. You open your crisps, placing them on your lap, book poised…
The rain seems to have stopped, and the sun is breaking through. The rays reflect off the glass and partially obscure your line of sight, so you re-align your chair and check back on Boy Racer; he is no longer gesticulating and has lit a cigarette. He climbs into the 205, perhaps not the best idea given his seeming temper. It is quite probable that even though he is stationary, he is continually pressing his foot on the gas, revving the engine in true ‘boy racer’ style.
You spot a girl unsuccessfully wearing leopard print leggings and a tight low-cut black top. She is teetering across the car-park in 6 inch heels, swinging an oversized ‘I love PB’ hand bag. She’s still got her brolly up; it matches her leggings. Her cheap stilettoes don’t cover up those two tyres round her middle; perhaps she should’ve invested in a few loose fitting cardies instead. I imagine, no, I hope, you think the same.
Leopard Print suddenly turns her head to the right, presumably in reaction to a noise. You follow her look across the road to a super-skinny arty looking young man. He is donning skin tight red trousers, a knitted tank top and shirt combo and white pumps. He has floppy hair. He’s not quite reached the road, Leopard Print waits, waving across to him. They clearly know each other, perhaps they’re lovers… Why is it that couples are often made up of one large and one small person? Surely it would make more sense for similar sized people to be together.
You and I are very similar.
You finish your crisps; the rubbish is placed next to the cling-film ball. You begin peeling the orange in a slow circular movement which requires 2 hands…
Suddenly Boy Racer is on the move reversing rapidly from his space.
Grandad is also on the move at a somewhat andante pace, having already positioned his sun visor and replaced his prescription lenses with tinted ones.
Boy Racer flicks his cigarette out of the window, narrowly missing a small child. He ups his tempo: allegro, verging on presto! He is getting closer to you, close enough that you can see his number plate and the anger in his eyes.
Red Trousers has reached the road. He and Leopard Print are fixated with each other. They do not feel the need to check for vehicles; they meet in the middle of the road and do somewhat more than embrace each other. It all seems very false, very much for show.
Grandad looks right - looks left - looks right again - clear. He cautiously pulls out as Boy Racer rounds the corner to Grandad’s left. The action is building to a crescendo!
Diminuendo.
Passers by: paused. No one moves. No one does anything.
You spit out a pip from your last orange segment, cleanse your hands on an antibacterial wipe, and unscrew the water bottle top. You sit back in your chair, book poised…
Grandad is leaning out of his window, but his head seems to be bent too far towards the ground.
Beyond his car, in the centre of the newly tarmacked road, is a puddle of leopard print, black and red. ‘I love PB’ is dismembered, lying a few feet away.
Boy Racer has left the scene. Following a side impact on Grandad, he swerved around the Rover, taking out the oblivious ‘lovers’ on the way.
There is now a huddle of people pressed against your window. No one knows what happened or how it happened. The din of their voices is now back in your foreground:
‘Oh…what the…my God…fuck?...oh my…who is it?…God…oh shit…that…Jesus…looks like…fucking hell…what the…?’
And so the shocked expletives continue.
You continue to ‘read’ your book whilst admiring with envy the stillness of the scene outside. It looks so peaceful; the orchestra of parkers and pedestrians is stopped, just for a moment.
Then it starts again, slowly at first…
A few passers by begin edging cautiously towards the scene, just to be nosey, whilst some just walk past – oblivious. A couple have got their phones out. Grandad, Leopard Print and Red Trousers do not move. Busybodies are arriving; where’s everyone coming from? They’re like flies surrounding shit. Everyone wants a piece of the action. But, as you and I both know, the action has already taken place.
Within 4 minutes the pace has picked up again and the car park is a monstrous hive of chaos. Cars can’t get in. Cars can’t get out. Pedestrians are now frantically running around without purpose or direction.
You glance at your watch, 28 minutes to go. You will leave at precisely 13:58. By 13:35 you will have finished sipping your water. This gap allows time for digestion.
You’re back looking through the bleary glass. Grandad’s mate is coming out of the attendant’s hut; he walks calmly over to the accident but when he realises who is involved, he almost collapses in the road. I’ve never seen a grown man affected like this before.
You finish your water, carefully replacing the lid and repositioning the bottle on the window sill.
There’s an interfering sort of bloke starting to direct the traffic. He’s relishing his role, having already acquired a fluorescent waistcoat. I imagine he’s telling people in a somewhat delighted tone that the road is closed due to an accident, even better, a fatality. Some of the motorists look decidedly displeased at the inconvenience this has caused them, whilst others abandon their vehicles and meander over to the scene for a look.
A pretty blonde girl is rushing over to Leopard Print and Red Trousers; her reaction signifies that she knows them. Actually, no, wait, she only knows him. Dismissing Leopard Print she rolls Red Trousers onto his back. She observes him and strokes his cheek. Her touch, like her, will be soft.
I long for a touch like that.
His head lies in a small pool of red. She holds his wrist, 30 seconds pass. She drops his limp wrist and is now straddling him, beginning compressions upon his chest. Then she holds his nose, parts his lips and kisses him. She continues to repeat this pointless process, over and over. Onlookers watch with dumb hope, but no one offers to help.
Even through the glass, you can hear the faint screams of the sirens rapidly getting louder and louder. They enter by the role-relishing traffic director. He must be ecstatic to tell the police a highly embellished version of events…but what exactly did he see? He is quickly removed and replaced with an officer. Another police car arrives and the officers stroll up to the main event, assess the situation and hold radios to their mouths. Blondie continues her compressions.
The fire service arrives, but you missed this as you were fixated on her, watching her going up and down. I bet you wish you were Red Trousers, just for the thrill, for the view.
The place is swarming with uniformed people, however they don’t appear to be doing much, just directing traffic, taping off the area, getting people to move back, the usual, expected stuff. Then, they too begin to stand around and watch. There isn’t really anything to watch. Apart from Red Trousers being forcibly moved, the scene is as it was, perhaps the red puddles are slightly larger than they were, but other than that, nothing.
Another look at your watch: 13:47. Two ambulance crews arrive. They simultaneously go to Grandad and Leopard Print. The passers by and those still pressed against your window seem to hold their breath as one. After only a couple of minutes, Grandad’s crew walk away, Leopard Print’s follow. At this, people in the crowd appear visibly shaken and hold on to one another for support; some place their heads on a neighbour’s shoulder, and others fall somewhat dramatically to their knees.
Both ambulance crews approach Red Trousers. One crew detaches the now exhausted blonde from his torso, whilst the other crew attends to him. Your eyes follow Blondie to the ambulance; she’s weakened by her efforts. The things we do for love. They wrap her up in a tinfoil blanket and she sits on the back of the ambulance, watching. A police officer, armed with note pad and pen is approaching her. The flood gates open.
Back to Red Trousers, they’re still there, still working on him. He’s got a mask on and the paramedic is sticking a needle in his arm. Another ambulance has arrived; they’re bringing over a stretcher. The watchers are getting excited at this glimmer of hope, pointing, waving their arms. You, like me, probably think they’re stupid.
Only two minutes left; it’s been eventful. Back to normal tomorrow, I hope, just me, watching you, watching them.
What are you doing? You move closer to the glass, you’ve seen something. I follow your eyes to the top of the car park. You’ve spotted Boy Racer, minus his car. He’s crouching, clearly not wanting to be seen by the others. He must have come to check for damage. He’s also watching, and you lean back into your seat.
At 13:57 you put on your anorak, remaining seated. You pick up your bag, replace your book and collect your rubbish. At 13:58 you head for the door, dropping your rubbish in the bin on the way.
*
I’ve been watching the swing doors in eager anticipation. I wonder if you’ll ever arrive early, or leave late…where do you go? Who are you?
At exactly 13:02 you arrive. There is no rain today; we will both have a clear view. You assume your usual position and follow the routine, but instead of the book you produce the local rag. The headline reads:
THREE KILLED IN HIT AND RUN
POLICE APPEAL FOR EYE-WITNESSES
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