Aboard the 227 bus towards Sydnenham, rows of cars lie in wait for their owners to return. Bus advertisements that once exalted expensive brands, replaced with the NHS slogan ‘Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save Lives’. The world flashes by in a blur, for the first time since I can remember I’m grateful. Thankful for the wheels that with each rotation, moves to bring me closer to home. A safe place.
Aboard the bus, a mother tends to her child and a supermarket employee flicks through the feed on his phone after a long shift. They’re wearing facemasks, even the infant. It’s not that a killer virus doesn’t scare me, it does; especially at my age. It’s just that as I sit on one of the many empty seats on this mobile asylum, I’m aware of something scarier than a parasitic viron that chokes people to death. Fear itself.
The bus meanders past Crystal Palace Museum, the bell rings. The family alight. No one ushers a word, not even a meaningless ‘Goodbye’ to the driver.
Outside a man in tattered clothes, slumps against the wall of a Shell garage; a cardboard placard with writing that no one is ever going to read.
The bus pulls out. We’re all so close to each other, but far away at the same time. Secular society to a T. As a once famous philospoher once said, ‘If a picture is not posted on Facebook, does it exist?’ I cough a little at my own joke and look around, paranoid.
I think the real fear is, when left alone with our conscience, will we be able to explain to a jury well versed on our dirty excuses and secrets exactly why a certain act of ours was valiant or villainous.
I reach in my pocket for the necklace. I have a talent for lying, especially to myself, especially if it’s convenient that I gain from the fall of the fruit. Still, needs must.
I press the ‘call’ button on the seat in front of me and there’s a correlating ‘ding’. My knees click as I drag myself onto my hind legs by holding the bar.
“Thanks” I say to the driver as I step onto the pavement. Layers of amethyst and rose quartz forge an igneous sky, I find it strange that while nature is in the midst of a human cull she remains hideously beautiful.
I turn down Sydenham Avenue and head to the solace of my flat. Once inside I flip the lightswitch and stick the kettle on. The place needs a lick of paint and a bit of a clean, but it’s home.
The chair creaks as I transfer my weight onto it. The table is full of junk mail and an assortment of bills I’m yet to pay as well as my laptop. I cup my head in my hands and sigh, there’s no rest for the wicked is there? Wouldn’t want those precious multinational corporations to miss out on dividends to their shareholders while the rest of us struggle to cobble together enough money for groceries, even if we were still able to work and weren’t Furloughed.
The concept of opening the bills and the never ending kaleidoscope of financial opportunities, or lack thereof, disgusts me and instead I reach for the necklace. I check for blood spatters or any signs of foul play only to discover that the piece is in fine condition, not a scratch. A smile graces my lips as I place the rose pendant with it’s silver chain on the tabletop.
The kettle wails as it nears its journey to 100 degrees centigrade. I crack open the screen of my laptop and search ‘where can I sell jewelry near me’. The majority of jewelers are shut, as per government instructions, but I find a Polish Shop in New Cross called ‘Lituanica’ that also has a precious metals department.
From the periphery of my vision I detect movement, then a thud. The kettle quits its infernal racket as I place the palms of my hands on the table to get up.
On the floor is the crucifix from my grandson’s funeral. For a second the image of his pallid complexion, the oxygen mask around his jowel and the perpetual beep of the ICU unit stings into my mind. I swat the reverie away, replace the wooden item on the wall and attend to my tea.
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Written By Sebastian King on 11.04.20
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Idol Hands 