I loathe coming to London at the best of times. Emerging from Kings Cross railway station just before eleven o’clock, I find the entrance to the Underground closed. The guy standing by it tells travellers the whole system has been shut down and bus services have also been suspended. What the hell’s going on? Whatever the reason, I suppose I better press on by foot even though I get lost every time I visit the capital
I set off down the pavement along with hundreds of others. Police cars and ambulances fly by, lights flashing. After a few minutes, I arrive at a greasy spoon café and dive inside. The windows are streaming with condensation and the tables are covered with vinyl checked tablecloths.
‘Cappuccino, please,’ I say to the dark-haired lady behind the counter.
‘I’ll bring it over to you.’
‘Thanks. By the way, am I heading in the right direction for Liverpool Street if I continue that way?’ I turn and point to the left.
‘Yes, you are.’
I sit down and text Heather to warn her that I’m going to be late.
I fasten my eyes on the television set sitting on a shelf. A female newsreader is speaking.
‘To sum up, we have verified reports of three explosions on the Underground and a bus bursting into flames in Russell Square. We will provide you with further updates as more information comes through.’
I wish I was watching this in the comfort of my own home rather than in the centre of the action.
The newsreader pauses for a moment.
‘We are now going over to Downing Street for a report from our correspondent.’
The café falls silent.
‘At a press conference in Downing Street, the Prime Minister, Tony Blair said there has been a coordinated terrorist attack on London this morning resulting in numerous casualties and the entire transport system had been shut down as a precaution against further attacks.’
I feel numb as I listen to this and check my ‘phone but there’s no reply from Heather. I look outside and see lots of bewildered looking folk wandering past.
My coffee arrives. I’ve no idea how long it will take me to get through the metropolitan maze so I’d better head off as soon as I’ve finished this. I’m glad I put on my trainers this morning.
I pay the bill and find the sun is shining brightly when I step outside to resume my trek. Walking along, I mull over our imminent reunion. Heather knows how to manipulate me, her latest call being an example.
‘I’m on a residential course in London next week and will be free from lunchtime on Friday. I want you to come to Liverpool Street station and meet me there. There’s lots we need to talk about. I’m sure you agree.’
I always hate it when she dares me to contradict her views. However, as ever, I agreed to her demand. It’s mad because it’s only two months since our last break up and I promised myself then there was no going back. I’m stuck in a state of limbo caught between her spell over me and the possibility of finding a meaningful relationship with someone else. I know Cheryl holds a torch for me but she won’t wait forever.
I rehearse in my mind what I want to say to Heather.
‘I decided to meet you today so I could tell you face to face that this relationship - if you can call it that - is not doing either of us any good. We need to finally end things and move on with our lives.’
Yet, as I'm thinking this, a memory pops up of Heather coming out of the pool in Majorca last year in that blue bikini and giving me a sultry look, and curling one of her index fingers in my direction. It’s so hard to shake her off.
Walking through the streets, I keep telling myself that I can follow through with my plan but a nagging voice in my head reminds me what a coward I can be. There's no breeze and the heat is stifling, and after a while I decide to turn into a quiet square with public gardens where I can rest. I buy a cold drink from a corner shop and head for a free bench under the trees where I plonk myself down and take a sip. It’s calm here away from the cacophony of emergency services in the distance. I dread to think how many poor souls have been hurt or killed, and whether there have been further attacks.
A fortysomething lady appears pulling a suitcase. She is wearing a floral print dress and has her auburn hair cut in a Mary Quant style.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Be my guest. All dressed up and nowhere to go?’
‘Got it in one.’ She has a north American accent. ‘I’ve been walking around for hours with lots of other confused and disoriented folk. It’s as if time has stood still and none of us can move backwards or forwards.’
‘I know how you feel.’
‘In the circumstances, you either become a stoic or go stir crazy. Boy, do I now regret deciding to break my journey in London. I wasn't bargaining on a visit to Armageddon.’ She sighs.
‘Where did you fly in from?’
‘Rome. The US my ultimate destination. Are you stranded yourself?’
‘Yep. I travelled up from Peterborough to meet someone.’
‘What a drag.’
‘By the way, I’m Ian.’
‘Cindy’s the name.’ Her green eyes scrutinise me.
‘Were you there on holiday?’ I ask.
‘No. I was there trying to connect with my younger self.’ She laughs
‘Did you succeed?’
She frowns.
‘No. I studied art history there when I was young and lived the dolce vita. It was a wonderful time and it’s where I met the love of my life, Gianfranco.’
‘Is he still there?’
She shakes her head.
About the author
Rob lives in Edinburgh but lived in London for many years. He started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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