Into the Daylight

Headphones on. Jubilee line rattles over the top of

the thumping bassline in my head.

                                                                                         Across from me a woman is on the

                                                                               phone, unwittingly having left her

                                                                                         torch on, which shines into the

                                                                                         sleepy eyes of the man on her right.

Below the tube map,

                                       Poems on the Underground.

Above her head:

I read it.

I don’t understand it.

I tell myself it’s shit.

The music                                                                                                             stops.

Only the rattle of the tracks and distant coughing now.

Phone died.                                                                                                          Shit.

Now I’ll have to         p the barrier.

                               m

                           u                          My mood has been soured.         

                      j                        

A rotting sandwich occupies the seat next

to me and the stench is giving me a

headache, but I can’t be bothered to move.

                                                                                          ‘The next station is Willesden Green.

                                                                                          Exit on the right-hand side.’

I know.

I climb the stairs two at a time.

A woman with a pram goes through the big gate so I rush after her and squeeze through as they close. The TFL worker in the corner watches on, uncaring.

                                                                                         ‘Excuse me, miss.’

                                                                                           I smile at her baby. It smiles back.

Into the daylight. Boris bikes line up out front. What a rip off. A boy wearing a balaclava uses a pole to smash the back of one, releasing it free of charge. Cool trick. Might have to try it some time.

Zebra crossing.     Sainsbury’s.     Double-stuffed Oreos.     Tempting.

NO!

Snacks at home. Wait five minutes.

I turn off onto a side street – a shortcut.

Behind me there’s a squeal of rubber on tarmac.

                                                                                          A gunshot.

                                                                                                            Two.

                                                                                                                    Three.

My trainers slap on the wet pavement. Raindrops tunnel their way into my eyes. I’m chased by scattered screams.

‘Run, kid, run!’

I already am.

A siren. Blue and red paint splatters the sky.

                                                                                                      ‘HEY!’ – Do I know that guy?

                                                                                                                                               No.

Keep running.     Red light.     Car coming.     Keep running.

HORN.

I slap the bonnet. Raise an apologetic hand.

                                                                                                       Sorry, I mouth.

Keep running.

My front door. I fumble for the keys in my bag.

                                                                                                       Where are they?

Found them.                                                     Clinking.

Open and close.

Warmth.

Hah. Made it.