with much effort she rejoins the moving masses, the weight she carries a burden causing her to make slow movements, almost gluttonous. Little pig like eyes survey the world, casting bitter looks of disgust at the hordes of slim surrounding her. She gradually moves out of our eye shot, engulfed by the movement of city life. I feel my ribs hurt, I’ve been laughing openly without realising, unaware that our mocking has been so obvious. Laughing openly at the sideshow freaks as the circus parades through town. We decide to walk on, journey down one side of the road with no destination. Our feet walk, we follow. The laughter trying to die within us but unable to do so.
Everywhere we turn are faces and figures that catch our attention, bringing with them hysterical fits of laughter. Faces look like they’ve been moulded out of plastacine, bland colours without natural shading, smooth yet modelled into the funniest shapes. Tall skinny men with arms as thin as matches stride by, their faces gaunt, Jack Skellingtons in the real world. Alongside them figures of differing sizes and proportions. The naturally timid rushing around, their hair covering their faces like a natural barrier against people’s glares. The beauty obsessed marching along like living Barbie dolls, coloured hair, fish-lipped and Botoxed. The different faces of London as designed by Tim Burton, a colourful circus where everyone can be a freak regardless of how they look. Life co-existing peacefully, joined in harmony by their insecurities.
Sam and I cross the road and walk back the way we came. It’s the same on this side. London caricatured. Everyone happy in their own worlds, their appearance crafted by their own hands to allow them to exist in a way that makes them feel comfortable. Hair styled, clothes hand picked and make-up used to hide the imperfections they hate. Some achieving their goal, others failing abysmally, but regardless they all think they look good. We all do it, self styled to project our own persona or to settle in with a group. Scene or be seen? Individuality or herd? All choices we make whether we know it or not, walking down this street I can see it. Groups of black-clad so called depressed youth mirroring each other with whitened faces, a social obsession with the morbidity of death, casting evil eyes at those who may actually be enjoying themselves. Bright peacocks standing out from the rest, fighting each other subconsciously for most attention. Life, a constant struggle for recognition. How Sam and I fit into all this I do not know. Him dressed in blue jeans, black t-shirt and brown jacket, a stark contrast to me dressed in blue jeans, orange belt and bright green hoodie. Do I project the image of a peacock, brightly dressed to stand out from the crowd? Does Sam draw attention due to his muted colours? It seems this is always the way between us, dressed like Ying and Yang. Dark and the light. The peacock and his spouse.
Now my brain’s thinking, trying to position myself in this scene. What character do I play in this modelled animation of London? Sam’s grip brings me back to attention. I’d almost walked past the entrance of the tube station. I smile at him, his face always makes me smile, even in its plasticine state. We enter the station leaving the battlegrounds of attention behind. We’re on our way to Waterloo.
III
‘Sam, did you see that?’ I stop dead in my tracks.
‘See what?’
‘Look at how everyone is walking.’
‘What about it?’
‘Just look.’
He does so. 'What the fuck?’
In front of us everyone struts, at a corner they stop, strike a pose and then strut on.
‘It’s like they’re on a catwalk or something,’ I continue.
The crowds move on, an army of models, cast always from a Milan fashion show. We follow, our eyes watching, half amused, half intrigued. We arrive at a platform and sit at a deserted end. To our left, a group of people, mixed sex, all talking, their bodies arched in fake stances. Then one of the males detaches from the group and struts in our direction. Straight backed, an exaggerated hip swing added to his walk. We watch him pass, watch him stop. He strikes a pose, legs akimbo, hip thrust outwards, an arm resting on the cocked limb. Hold the pose for five seconds, let everyone take in the effort put into the style, imagine camera flashes, then unlock that hip, turn and strut all the way back. Fluid but exaggerated. The male rejoins the group, their conversations continue, the stances remain fake.
I look at Sam. ‘What the hell was all that about?’
He shrugs in return. ‘I dunno. Weird ain’t it?’
We look back over at the crowd, they remain the same. Fake people in fake positions looking like a group shot from a magazine. The train pulls into the station, we jump on. They’re lost from view on another carriage.
We let the train take us to our next station. When it stops we rise and get off, as we look along the platform we see an army of models stepping out from each door. Correct posture, hair flick for good measure and then pose. Everyone fighting for attention. Everywhere is a catwalk, a photo opportunity. Click, click, imaginary camera flashes. Play it up for the hundreds of CCTV cameras watching your every move down here.
Sam and I find ourselves following everyone. Stuck behind a living clothes catalogue, not supermodel status but all fighting for glamour. We soon arrive at another platform, it stretches into the distance in front of us. Along it are lines of people standing individually or in pairs. Clothing styles matched.
We walk.
Thick coats and fake fur collars, browns and black. The winter collection.
Our feet carry on walking.
The introduction of faint colour. Yellows shining out with browns like new buds on dormant trees. The spring collection.
Walk further still, surely the platform can’t be this long.
A burst of colours, bright, extravagant. Blue jeans and white tops. Pinks and yellows, blues and greens. A glorious array of flowers fighting for attention. The summer collection.
And still the platform rolls on.
Everyone is returning to their browns, faded colours. Reds and oranges. Burnt colours for dying leaves. The autumn collection.
The platform comes to an end.
Stop, turn, pose. Shake our heads, there’s no way we’re walking back along that giant catwalk. We look back. Groups of models standing together in their seasons. A years worth of fashion lined up and on display. Living mannequins on an underworld stage.
The train arrives. We get on.
IV
We slip out of the open doors, stepping off the bright train onto a dull station. Dark, gloomy. Naturally, along the platform the only people to get off at this station are those dressed in the dark browns and blacks. Morbidly dressed for a morbid station. This platform so obviously one on the Bakerloo line. Moody, oppressive. We walk along the platform, the crowds have already moved on. I feel out of place in my brightly coloured top, the colours glowing, brighter than I remember, the brown and greyish hue of the station emphasising the colour.
Sam’s stopped, he’s not following me. He just stands there with a puzzled look on his face.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘Dom, why are you so bright?’
‘What?’
‘Your clothes. Why do you dress so bright? You shine out above everyone.’
‘Really?’ I knew my clothes looked bright, but surely they’re not that impressive.
‘Yeah, look around.’
As we walk down the station we cast our eyes around at the few that are standing waiting on the platform. All of them are dressed in the same colours as those who exited the train when we did. A film shot in sepia with me digitally enhanced in glorious Technicolor. A beacon of colour shining out in a darkness.
I look to Sam. ‘Why am I so bright?’
‘I dunno, but it’s awesome.’
Dom, the shining peacock in his plumage of greens, oranges, blues and pinks. The plastic bands on my arms are radiating a glow, fluorescent pink against the paleness of my skin. We walk off the platform and make our way up the escalator to the station entrance, ou
r journey lit by my glow, burning away the darkness with my colours.
We arrive at the barriers, push our tickets into the machines and walk onto the main station. We walk on for a few steps before stopping. I turn to Sam, confusion rushing across my face. ‘This isn’t Waterloo.’
The confusion is mirrored in Sam’s face. ‘I know, where the hell are we?’
‘I have no fucking clue.’ I turn full circle taking in everything about the station. Its content and layout totally alien to me. I’ve never been here before.
We start to explore, taking in as much of what is around us, looking for clues that might trigger our memories. We see nothing. The station is cluttered with the elderly, all sat on the benches. The younger people just standing aimlessly at sporadic positions around us. Everyone just sat there doing nothing. No eyes flicking up to the message boards, no people rushing for trains. Nothing. Just a content silence as people seemingly wait for nothing. The elderly waiting for a train to meet their saviour, the young waiting for the same. Old, aged, waiting.
There’s a weird air in the station. We carry on walking around, the uneasiness raising within us. I rub my shoulders, feeling the need to sit down, to rest. It feels like I’m aging, like the station is sucking the energy from me. My eyes look towards Sam, his movements have become so slow. The walk of depression, no effort left within us, a want to just sit down and wait. Wait like