City Whispers

The streets whisper to me. Lead me to an alley that stinks of vomit, where a woman covered in blankets thrashes around on the tarmac. Another wound to heal. I roll her on her side and the frothing contents of her stomach pour out of her mouth, gathering in a fetid pool. It takes her a few minutes to get her breath back. Then she lights a cigarette without saying a word.

“I saved your life,” I say.

“Wasted your time then, haven’t you?” she says back.

From under her blankets, she pulls out a lighter and a metal spoon. I leave the alley.

Later, I’m writhing in bed, clutching at my duvet. The city talks to me again, and I make a quick decision. For the first time in my life, I ignore it. The whispers grow furious, no longer offering suggestions, but giving demands. A deluge of shame pours into my mind until it stops, abruptly.

The difference is as obvious as if I’d lost an eye. Over breakfast, I don’t hear a single cry for help.  As I step on to the bus, there’s nothing in my head but my own tiny thoughts. The faces on the other passengers are passive. Bored. I can’t understand it. We’re passing scrawny allies; places I’ve walked before, when the city was guiding me. I can see the outlines of people in those dark places, their heads nodding towards their laps. I wondered how many of them were tasting eternity, whilst I, and a bunch of other suit clad strangers, watched from padded seats, and sipped at cardboard coffees.

I get off the bus three stops early, and I start turning corner after corner. It’s a while until I’m at the same alley as the night before. The woman’s blankets are abandoned. I sit on them to catch my breath and watch people walking past on the adjoining high street. A few heads turn my way, the faintest glimmer of curiosity passing over their eyes, before they move swiftly on. The alley is a single disturbing painting in an otherwise pristine gallery.

Someone else arrives and frowns at me.

“Be mindful,” he says. “Those aren’t your blankets.”

I sit up. “Do you know who they belong to?” I ask.

His frown deepens for just a moment, then his eyes widen with understanding. “You’re the one who found her last night.”

I nod.

“She was here late, but she was gone this morning.”

“You didn’t look for her?”

The stranger shrugs. “People drift,” he says.

He comes over and joins me on the blankets. Puts his arm around my shoulders. His hands smell of tobacco and copper coins, and his coat like damp. Even so, I don’t pull away. As I start to cry he strokes the top of my head gently, cradling me like a mother.