That could have been my child...

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

It's been raining all day; that thin, gentle rain that almost feels like mist. It clings to my hair and eyelashes and makes me look as if I'm crying.

The place that used to be Camden looks as if it is crying as well. The rain trickles down the blasted grey stone which used to be the walls of houses. It drips off the warped metal poles which once made up a child's climbing frame, five minutes walk away from the old stables market. A bunched up piece of cloth which was once a wall hanging, displayed proudly for potential buyers, is sodden with rainy tears.

I feel like crying.

Last Thursday I picked up a copy of the Times. On page four someone had listed every single child who died in the storm. There were so many of them. Some had pictures in the newspaper; Jack Thomas, who was pictured in the Arsenal shirt he was so proud of, Aisha Jackson, who had her hair plaited in cornrows, with a tiny bright plastic animal at the end of each braid, Adrian Francis who had just lost his baby teeth, and had a wide and gappy grin.

I keep thinking of Caitlin. I've asked Fergal so many times if I can have her come and stay with me. What if he had said yes? Would she have been in Camden on the day the storm hit? Or maybe she would have been another who was taken by the plague, or buried in the wreckage of St Pauls. I can understand why Fergal wouldn't want his daughter coming to this land - this place of death and chaos.

I shouldn't be in Camden. It's all been cordoned off by the police, but no one is bothered to keep an eye on all the many streets going in and out of the ruins, and I'm not alone here. There are others, stepping silently through the wreckage.

Down by the canal, I see a thin faced girl with hollow eyes staring into the water. I don't know what she's looking for but I think she's crying.

In what used to be a doorway there's an old man sleeping. Maybe he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

This is wrong! This shouldn't be happening here, in London. These scenes belong in Baghdad, or Beirut, not here. Not now.

Except they do.

I think I am crying now. I'm crying for every person who died here, but most of all, I'm crying for the children. I'm crying for every single one. I'm crying for Saba Patel, who was buried in the school uniform she never got a chance to wear. I'm crying for the children who's stories weren't in the newspaper; Hollie Kennedy, Ali Hussein, Charlotte Taylor, Harry Lewis, Amy Clarke, Ben Lopez...

There are just so many bloody names.

I pause underneath the archway that used to lead into the stables market. It's still standing. I don't quite know why it's still standing, but it is, and I linger there for a while. I've got my chalks and a couple of cans of spray paint on me. The rain is lightening now, and won't wash my pictures away.

I stare at the battered archway for a while, and then I carefully begin to write on it.

Jack Thomas

I pause. I don't want to just write their names. That won't mean anything. That's just a list taken out of a newspaper. I want to write more than that. I stare at the arch for a moment, and then take out the red stick of chalk. I'll need to rub the chalk into the concrete, to stop it running in the damp September air. Jack must have liked red, though. He was an Arsenal fan. There will be more I can find out about him. These children must have obituaries, and maybe some of the families could talk to me, if they don't mind being bothered. If not, I can go to the playgrounds, the libraries, the schools where they went and ask the objects themselves. I can find out about these children, and then I can make them a proper memorial in the heart of Camden.

I will make something for them. I don't want Camden to be rebuilt into something beautiful and shiney. I don't want London to bury them underneath a pile of glitter and sparkle. I don't want London to forget. Not this time.

I start drawing. Something moves at the corner of my eye, and I glance up, confused.

There's a man standing across the street from me. He is beautiful. He is as lovely as winter, clad in black with sad almond eyes gazing at me from beneath his black top hat. He is as slim as an undertaker's cane, and his skin as as white as death. He is beautiful and he is cold.

I stare at him for a moment. I don't recognise him at all, but he seems strangely familiar. Maybe he's from Silver Tara, or maybe I met him through Max once? I don't know. He doesn't make any move to speak to me, but a faint flicker of a smile crosses his face, and he inclines his head slightly. I think he approves of what I am doing.

I bow my head in return. I don't think I have anything to say to him, and so I return to my work.

I will turn this archway into a monument of tears. I don't want Camden to forget. That could have been my child, dying in a sandstorm. It was someone's child.

I want Camden to remember that. I want Camden to dream of that.

Forever.

Comments

[twicedead.livejournal.com]

People must be flooding out of London now.

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

They aren't moving into London any more, although I suspect there should be some disasters happening elsewhere in the country too - the Sabbat hold Manchester, for example.

Bits of London are still very nice. Weirdly, having Silver Fangs living in your neighborhood seems to be the best way of keeping the property prices up. Nothing bad ever happens in Hampstead, and the Silver Fangs own most of Hampstead village now.

[twicedead.livejournal.com]

BTW, it's a lovely piece.

[cleosilver.livejournal.com]

My Verbena's safe then. Is her home the only one they don't own yet or are there others?

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

There are others - they just own a lot of the property around there. Having said that, I think your verbena probably has her own brand of danger attached! Garou/Mage relations have SO not been great for a while!

[adze.livejournal.com]

Really nice piece, and is busily inspring me to do some stuff...