Achilles seems fearless

The train pulls away from the platform and slides into the tunnel.

The doors have hissed shut. Sharp elbows; vacant, hard-edged stares and tessellating bodies in rush hour carriages. And the disembarked flow in eddies through Russell Square Station.

Into the tunnel it slides. Trillions of particles, the mass of the station, the tiles on the walls, the curved walls of the tunnel, quiver. They move, infinitesimally, backwards and forwards like the folds of a concertina.

The sound wave.

It passes through the walls; through the earth; through medieval bones waiting to tantalise archaeologists; through the foundations above, through basements above and the galleries of the British Museum. 

Through the Ancient Greek pots on glass shelves it passes, and they too quiver. Too slightly to see, for here in the august galleries the sound wave exists almost in the realm of abstraction.  

And because every impulse in the city creates its own wave, the Greek pots are shivering constantly. And Achilles seems fearless as he slays Penthesilea, eternally, motionlessly bearing down on his victim on the belly of a vase. 

But really he’s trembling. 

He’s animated by the city. He’s moving in the false silence. 

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The Queen’s living room

Jamie: Can’t you speak to Susie about it?

Carla: Mmmmm… I want to but I don’t really see her that much.

Jamie: Really? But you’re in the same town??

Carla: Yeah, but London’s pretty huge! 🙄

Jamie: Hasn’t she shown you round?

Carla: She’s shown me places. She’s actually been really nice but I don’t want to seem clingy. I just wish I knew people. I thought it’d be easy but when I landed at hetare, it just felt weird.

Jamie: Hetare?

Carla: *Heathrow*

Jamie: Oh, sorry. What happened? Why weird?

Carla: Well Susie met me and she was hung over (huge dark glasses, downing water – that look). Hardly any convo between us. Then the journey to the flat it took ages and we just sort of… didn’t go anywhere near London.

Jamie: What do you mean? Uxbridge is part of London, no?

Carla: Yeah I mean technically, but that’s just it. I wasn’t expecting the train to circle Big Ben and cruise through the Queen’s living room or anything but it just felt like… I don’t know. Like ‘London’ was somewhere very far away.

Jamie: And it still feels that way?

Carla: Yes! More so now. When I do visit Susie I get on the train and it takes the best part of an hour to get there. And as it gets further and further into the city the energy changes. The buildings get denser and you know that the streets all around are busier, and when you step off there’s this sense of arrival. Like it’s been waiting for you. But when you get back on the train to go home you realise you’ve just been a prisoner on day release.

Jamie: Shit. But is it really so different to Wellington?

Carla: Oh my god yes! The suburbs here are so different. They have this deadening haze over them. You can’t see it but you can feel it. They’re just a massive carpet of dwelling chambers that spreads for miles in every direction. People just exist there. It’s just streets and streets of old brick boxes filled with little rooms. Stuff happens in the rooms but not between them. It’s like – there are none of those accidental collisions between charged particles that make real life feel real.

Jamie: So will you stay?

Carla is typing…

Under Blackfriars Bridge

The bow kissed the taut strings and the violin cried out.

And the glazed bricks on the walls were its lungs. The barrel ceiling’s gentle curve amplified every oscillation.

In the grubby foot tunnel under Blackfriars Bridge the sound thickened the air, obliterating everything else.

The traffic from the road above.

The footsteps of the drunken office workers, filing two-by-two as they passed him.

Their laughter.

Aleksy’s breath.

He moved his fingers across the strings, pulled the bow across them.

The figures criss-crossing his field of vision were noiseless. They were movements without sounds of their own, abstract, like the patterns of the dirty grouting and the frames of the murals.

And the bricks cried louder, the ceiling, the narrow space; and the wall at his back was dissolving.

He closed his eyes.

No one passed him now.

Time did not pass him now, and the baleful strip lighting fell through him and into some other realm.

A lone woman ran through the tunnel of sound, staggering for the last train from Waterloo, an infinity away, and she would momentarily, belatedly, become aware of the violin’s cries only as she stepped back onto the platform at Woking.

Aleksy opened his eyes.

A man, drunk, was dancing slowly in front of him.

He closed them again.

Dissolved again.

And when, an unknown time later, he raised his head and looked around, he was alone.

The lone inhabitant in a fleeting realm of purity.