Balham
Edgar Finkleditch pauses from his daily strut down the Balham high-street shopping mile, to find himself staring into the large, fancy mirror in an antique dealer’s window. “Fantastic,” he mutters, not to the two ladies who avoid him on their way past, but to the world in general. He continues his walk — a confident and welcoming swing — with his thin arms swaying gracefully this way and that, and his pierced lips drawn out into a thin but genuine smile. It is a sunny day.
Later, on a park bench, his sharp nose pointing towards the pages of the Observer, he laughs a high, constricted laugh, scaring away both pigeons and the elderly man sitting next to him, who, unbeknownst to him, was already considering the move. Mr Stapelton’s bag of stale bread is empty, and happy hour is about to start; he has no time to share a park bench with a misguided queer. He dusts off his cap, nods to the birds, places the hat firmly on his head, and heads towards his better-half — or “trouble-and-strife,” as he playfully calls her when she is not around — whistling.
On his way home he places one pound and fifteen pennies in the palm of the Indian newsvendor, looking him sternly in the eye as he did. “Good day, Patel, you have good news for me I hope.” Akhilesh Singh — his name meaning Lion who is Lord of the Universe — nods his head with enough grace to hide that he has not produced a smile, clenches the money into a fist, and watches Mr Stapelton slowly disappear past a dozen revoltingly identical houses. He mutters as he puts away his redundant wares. He does not care for the argument that Mr Stapelton is the product of a more glorious time, and spits on the old man’s car as he heads past to his way to the pub after work.
No sooner does Akhilesh sit down with his fourth drink than he is confronted with the sudden appearance of a pretty lady of questionable age, who is asking for a light. Prepared for such a situation, and although he detests the smell of ash, he flicks open the embroidered zippo smoothly and with one hand, and brings it to her reddened lips. Helen sucks passionately on the cigarette but does not fully inhale, desperately keen to recreate the thick ghosts of smoke exorcized from French actresses in her small but necessary VHS collection. The opening of the toilet door trashes her efforts, but she does not let that get in her way. The conversation is brief — but to the point — and soon Helen finds herself with enough money to last her the night. She is worried that the packet of condoms in her purse remains unopened, and is walking with a slight limp.
Marcus is happy to see her, and asks about her health, unhappy that her response is so dismissive. Why she’s so often in his mind he is unsure, or why she never stays to talk, but remembers that the bitch never brings bad luck, and that she has been a loyal — if slightly depressing — customer. Marcus has not hugged anyone in two years, so he gives her one of the larger bags, and only shuts the door when her cute bum has disappeared around the corner. The smell of lasagna is particularly pleasant as he nears the kitchen.
Pei Long has little time for her husband. As he clumsily enters the kitchen and places himself in the middle of the room, she clucks — sagely — shortly followed by a sigh and a curse. She does not notice his overly-dramatic glare, but she does notice the cup moments later that smacks across her cheek, scalding her with recently brewed tea. In a fit of rage she aims the quaint casserole at his head, only missing by an inch, and screams with fear as it easily makes its way through the window and down towards the street below.
Marcus was glad to still be alive, but lamented the loss of business. Helen was unprepared for her death, a fact no more noticeable than in how the only number found in her tomato- and blood-stained bag was that of Akhilesh, along with forty pounds worth of crack. Mr Stapelton’s generous testimony that Akhilesh “is a tolerable Indian” did little to sway the jury, in which Edgar’s refused participation was unknown by all but the prosecutor. He still went to the trial out of spite, but was happily surprised by the embarrassing stutters of racism. He made faces at Mr Stapleton, who would have been angry had his sight been good enough. Instead he focused on the hung head of the defendant who, in his final statement, had mysteriously called him a “fucker.” Satisfied, Akhilesh went to the same prison that hosted many of Helen’s previous associates, some of whom Marcus would be contacting in two-to-five years depending. Pei Long was never charged on account of her sudden disappearance, which was only briefly commented on by her old neighbors. She had fled to China where everything made more sense, and where nobody would know of what she had done.
Balham — thankfully — remained largely unchanged.
