Back To London

TW: Abuse

Meet at Banana Tree for dinner, 7:30, my calendar reads. I inhale as my eyes gloss over the words, my mind already running a million miles an hour. Breathe. Birmingham is far enough away from London that my past there doesn’t clash with my present. I didn’t want to move that far away from London; there are parts of it I love, really, so I ended up here, in banal Birmingham. Nothing to complain about, but all the same, not much to praise. 

Now, I stand on the train platform at Bayswater station, people hustling and bustling all around me. It’s comforting; standing here, being jostled around by strangers that don’t know you, don’t know your past. No one apologizes; it isn’t a thing in London. I allow the crowd to push me along and out of the station. There’s no need for a map; I know these roads by heart. 

As soon as I emerge, a wall of nostalgia crashes over me. I feel as though I’ve seen all these faces before, merely morphed into older ones now. I keep my head down and push through the throng of people.

I hold my breath as I approach the familiar street. I urge myself to keep my head down, eyes to the floor, but I can’t help it—I raise them. They’re met with thin but tall townhouses, all squished together into one big lump of a building. 21, 23, 25…

29. My breath catches in my throat. I walk quickly past it, but that doesn’t stop my mind from going there. Behind those heavy doors and guilty walls. Behind, to where he still resides. I wonder, what must he be doing? Smoking a pipe in the back yard probably, or sleeping in, hungover from the local pub down the street. Nothing new. 

My head swivels back, not awaiting permission, to look up at the small, grime-filled window. The window where my little head used to stick out from, looking upon inebriated couples arguing loudly at night, their voices rising to a crescendo. Unable to sleep, I’d rest my head on that windowsill, wondering when I’d be allowed to come out, escape the jail that encapsulated my life back then, dreaming of leaving him, those days. 

However bad passing the house may have been, I know the approaching alleyway will be harder. I wonder if the smear of blood will still be there; the only piece of evidence that it happened. I almost wish it is so that there are still signs that I didn’t make it all up. 

There’s no other way to Banana Tree; I must go through it. My feet lead me there, dragging, trying to stall the moment when I have to relive those moments of childhood.

But of course, it comes. I see the mouth of the alley open up to my right and I gulp, breathing in deeply. I breathe in all the familiar smells; nothing seems to have changed. Rain drizzles down, just like it did on that day, just like it does every day in London. There’s no going back now, I might as well get it over with. As soon as I step in, my eyes are drawn to the left wall, into which I once shrank back, wishing I was dead. There it is: a beacon of stubbornness, refusing to pack up its hues and leave even after my dad came down here to scrub at it every night. A smear of crimson. I knew he used to come every night after that day for a week, because if I stood on my tiptoes precariously, looking through my window, I could just about see him scrubbing away, his mouth moving, forming a string of curse words. I don’t remember having one restful sleep in that house. 

There’s new rubbish strewn around the alley; if anything, London just gets progressively dirtier. Beer bottles litter the sides and I’m careful to not step on any glass.

I can already see the other side of the alley. I recall looking at the other side that day, trying to formulate a plan to make a break for it. But, of course, I didn’t. The threats hurled at me were enough to keep me in place. He knew it as well as I did at the meager age of ten.

It’s only a couple steps left. I cross them and breathe out. The air already smells different here; lighter, fresher, less polluted.

The drizzle has increased to a light rain; I pull my hood up but keep my eyes darting here and there. My heart lifts with each step away from that house and closer to the next house I lived at during my youth. She no longer lives here, but there’s no taking away her aura from that house. I turn down onto the street, chest already feeling looser. I spot it, right at the end, sitting squat in the corner.

It’s a beautiful little cottage, painted a pastel pink and looking totally out of place in the dilapidated city of London. The folded chairs on the front patch of thinning grass are no longer there, no doubt stolen by a sleazy gang of teens. Feet padding out the house and running around the grass patch, squeals, are brought to mind. I don’t remember one night I didn’t sleep restfully here. 

As much as I’d like to stay and admire the beauty that was once my mother’s house, it’s getting late, so I should get going. Knowing Zane, he’ll probably already be at Banana Tree, checking his watch every five minutes. With a pang, I remember that I never told him about my previous life behind the alley, and how I wasn’t always the happy person he knew. I’m not prepared to tell him even now. I wonder when that period of time won’t bother me anymore.

As I walk on the pavement, I’m hit with how over-populated London city is. Big red buses swerve past me, people barge into my shoulder, step on my shoes. I’m insignificant to them; but for some reason, the thought doesn’t bother me. 

Banana Tree is just how I remember it, dimly-lit and already packed for dinner. That’s how you know it’s a good restaurant, my mother used to say.

Before my eyes even adjust to the lighting in the restaurant, a figure comes out of the shadows and gives me a gruff hug. 

I hug back, his familiar musky smell soothing all the nerves I felt coming here.