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| In Line ~ Hayv Kahraman |
Lost souls, we queue besides the graffitied and fortified wall that blocks the south end of London Bridge; our muttered shuffling, sniffing and phlegm-laden coughs occasionally punctuated by the shattering of falling shards from the ruins of London’s greatest capitalist phallus.
Today they have posted for cleaners. We wait and when the door is eventually opened, as is customary, the infirm and fragile are quickly weeded out by the jerked thumb of the armed foreman, known among us regulars as Dog. He is, as always, backed up by the little fucker with the over active taser finger.
We all have weapons but some are more insistent than others; these guys wouldn’t survive a day out here without theirs.
We are herded through the doorway and sprayed with disinfectant before being issued with plastic coveralls, face masks, rubber gloves, overshoes and instructions to, under no circumstances, remove any of them until instructed to do so on the way out.
We nod our heads in grateful thanks, we are the lucky ones.
Crossing the bridge, we are advised to keep our eyes on our feet but stealing glances allow a view downriver to where the Victorian Gothic symbol of London’s former glory now stands bereft of its central suspension bridges – there are no places a man can cross the Thames uncontrolled or unharmed east of Lambeth Bridge other than dangerous small craft crossings on the other side of Thamesmead – crossings where you are more than likely to be robbed by the ferrymen.
My distraction is rewarded with a bark from Dog; a bark being his standard response to lesser transgressions.
His bite is worse than his bark; being tasered by the little fucker is not the worst that can happen to you here in The City.
We cross the flooded road at the north end of the bridge and are herded up to the big intersection before being led left between the two buildings with faded signs that say “Cannon Street EC4” and after 5 minutes’ walk the dome of St. Pauls becomes visible to those of us stupid enough to raise our eyes from our feet.
Cleaning up after the monthly City Games event is the worst job, but it is the job with the biggest pay-out – even if you are likely to gild the lily by retching into the visceral mess.
Not to understate the horror of lifting body parts spent during the blood sport jollies that constitute the Aristocracy’s need to experience The Real World without having to rub shoulders with the dirt on the street down at Covent Garden; but the worst bit is wiping up the acid vomit of drunken dignitaries.
All that aside, there’s treasure to be found, and if you can be careful enough not to be seen pocketing the goodies, you can pick up dropped crypto wallets or jewellery; pieces of hardware sometimes unscathed by the cutting edge of combat; and always plenty of food to be had.
We file into the main hall, shuffle on plastic overshoes along the chequered floor to the centre where the compass pointed floor is recently painted with black blood and body parts and the pews are littered with the usual array of food, vomit and discarded items of underclothing.
Two black-suited men stand to one side in earnest conversation.
I pride myself as being more alert than most but nevertheless I get the full adrenaline experience brought on by the shock of seeing him standing there, his florid face unmistakable; the man I’ve been waiting to meet, the reason I’ve been standing in the dirty-work queues for too many months.
The erstwhile head of Immigration Security Services stands within my range as if he’s actually connected to humanity, a man like you or me; as if he doesn’t carry the weight of all those souls.
Months of constant repetitive training ensures that the procedures kick over from practise into reality without hesitation; the adrenaline delivers an added clarity to the beauty of our poetically barbed weapons.
It’s hard to imagine that a man with the weight of so many souls on his accounts could lie down to sleep at night without it playing on his mind, and who’s to say it doesn’t; I don’t know.
What I do know is that tonight, when he lays himself down and closes his eyes, he will not sleep.
Tonight, as soon as his health-monitor detects the onset of non-REM sleep, his overlay will be bombarded with the images of their mutilated bodies of his victims, images accompanied by a discordant industrial soundtrack set to high and non-adjustable volume; images and sounds will be interspersed with silent, expensive, and genuine clips of his home, his wife and his children taken through the scope of a rocket launcher.
He will get no sleep until his software is completely reinstalled.
Unfortunately, by the time I’ve finished, all of his access codes have been changed so that any attempts to access his system to make any changes or attempts to reinstall software will need to be deeply intrusive – brutally and dangerously surgical.
All going well he will never sleep again; not until he is delivered to those lost souls as food to ease their journey.
Today they have posted for cleaners. We wait and when the door is eventually opened, as is customary, the infirm and fragile are quickly weeded out by the jerked thumb of the armed foreman, known among us regulars as Dog. He is, as always, backed up by the little fucker with the over active taser finger.
We all have weapons but some are more insistent than others; these guys wouldn’t survive a day out here without theirs.
We are herded through the doorway and sprayed with disinfectant before being issued with plastic coveralls, face masks, rubber gloves, overshoes and instructions to, under no circumstances, remove any of them until instructed to do so on the way out.
We nod our heads in grateful thanks, we are the lucky ones.
Crossing the bridge, we are advised to keep our eyes on our feet but stealing glances allow a view downriver to where the Victorian Gothic symbol of London’s former glory now stands bereft of its central suspension bridges – there are no places a man can cross the Thames uncontrolled or unharmed east of Lambeth Bridge other than dangerous small craft crossings on the other side of Thamesmead – crossings where you are more than likely to be robbed by the ferrymen.
My distraction is rewarded with a bark from Dog; a bark being his standard response to lesser transgressions.
His bite is worse than his bark; being tasered by the little fucker is not the worst that can happen to you here in The City.
We cross the flooded road at the north end of the bridge and are herded up to the big intersection before being led left between the two buildings with faded signs that say “Cannon Street EC4” and after 5 minutes’ walk the dome of St. Pauls becomes visible to those of us stupid enough to raise our eyes from our feet.
Cleaning up after the monthly City Games event is the worst job, but it is the job with the biggest pay-out – even if you are likely to gild the lily by retching into the visceral mess.
Not to understate the horror of lifting body parts spent during the blood sport jollies that constitute the Aristocracy’s need to experience The Real World without having to rub shoulders with the dirt on the street down at Covent Garden; but the worst bit is wiping up the acid vomit of drunken dignitaries.
All that aside, there’s treasure to be found, and if you can be careful enough not to be seen pocketing the goodies, you can pick up dropped crypto wallets or jewellery; pieces of hardware sometimes unscathed by the cutting edge of combat; and always plenty of food to be had.
We file into the main hall, shuffle on plastic overshoes along the chequered floor to the centre where the compass pointed floor is recently painted with black blood and body parts and the pews are littered with the usual array of food, vomit and discarded items of underclothing.
Two black-suited men stand to one side in earnest conversation.
I pride myself as being more alert than most but nevertheless I get the full adrenaline experience brought on by the shock of seeing him standing there, his florid face unmistakable; the man I’ve been waiting to meet, the reason I’ve been standing in the dirty-work queues for too many months.
The erstwhile head of Immigration Security Services stands within my range as if he’s actually connected to humanity, a man like you or me; as if he doesn’t carry the weight of all those souls.
Months of constant repetitive training ensures that the procedures kick over from practise into reality without hesitation; the adrenaline delivers an added clarity to the beauty of our poetically barbed weapons.
It’s hard to imagine that a man with the weight of so many souls on his accounts could lie down to sleep at night without it playing on his mind, and who’s to say it doesn’t; I don’t know.
What I do know is that tonight, when he lays himself down and closes his eyes, he will not sleep.
Tonight, as soon as his health-monitor detects the onset of non-REM sleep, his overlay will be bombarded with the images of their mutilated bodies of his victims, images accompanied by a discordant industrial soundtrack set to high and non-adjustable volume; images and sounds will be interspersed with silent, expensive, and genuine clips of his home, his wife and his children taken through the scope of a rocket launcher.
He will get no sleep until his software is completely reinstalled.
Unfortunately, by the time I’ve finished, all of his access codes have been changed so that any attempts to access his system to make any changes or attempts to reinstall software will need to be deeply intrusive – brutally and dangerously surgical.
All going well he will never sleep again; not until he is delivered to those lost souls as food to ease their journey.
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