Meeting Myself

I’m barreling down the escalators at London Bridge.

Huge metallic nightmares, full of commuters and tourists.

Tourists standing on the wrong side of the escalator.

Left is for “I’m fucking late.”

Right is for “Who gives a shit.”

I want to elbow a young guy with his arm draped around his girlfriend.

He looks at me with amusement. I imagine him thinking

“Loser. You just need a hot girl like this and then you’d be fine.”

I want to headbutt him.

But I come out with the British equivalent.

“Excuse me… excuse me… excccuuuuuuussseee me.”

He moves to the right painfully slowly.

My legs are pumping down the stairs.

I don’t know what fear is greater.

Missing my tube or exceeding my tipping point and flying face first down the jagged steel stairs.

That’s an easy one I think as I come to the bottom.

Being late.

I can’t be late.

It’s here.

The tube pulls in and I’m dancing from foot to foot.

As if my movement will make the tube and a platform full of people move faster.

I slide in through the left hand door and spy a seat just in the corner of my eye.

I sit down hard.

Ouch.

What the fuck is that.

A sharp square digs into my arse.

My hand closes around something sharp and square. A wallet. Black leather.

My mouth opens and I half-stand, but the tube doors have already slammed shut.

All I can see is glazed faces and crotches.

I sat for a moment dumbfounded.

What should I do?

Do I open it?

Do I call out.

“Excuse me… EXCUSE ME. Has anyone dropped a wallet?”

No.

That’s just fucking stupid.

I can’t put it back.

Open it.

Open it.

I look around slyly, like I just stole the bloody thing, but no-one's paying attention.

I open it almost reverently.

Cards.

Bank cards.

Money.

A johnnie in one of the pockets.

And a little photo, white strip, poking out from a cluster of £10 notes.

I pull it out, and drop the wallet.

On auto pilot I reach down but never take my eyes off the photo.

It’s me.

On the red swings.

At Battersea park.

Two years old and smiling like I knew a secret.

How the…

I search around but no-one cares.

Standing up, I know I need to get off.

I’m going to be late but I need to get off this damn tube right fucking now.

Never thought I’d have to think about Battersea again.

Not after she vanished.