Arrival

Roman lettering on terminal signboards spelt unfamiliar words to her. Confused and jet-lagged, she clutched her handbag tightly and watched streams of passengers exiting various gates and head to Immigration. She followed them and waited in line with trepidation, softly praying. Her documents were in order, including the invitation letter from her soon-to-be employers.

Larger persons blocked her access to the baggage conveyor. She squeezed through with difficulty. Various bags, boxes, packages, even a folded pram, passed by. Reminded of her little girls, she wiped sudden tears away.

Luggage safely collected, she made a lengthy stop at the ladies. She walked through sliding doors out of the terminal into a sea of faces. Most looked foreign to her when in fact, she was the foreigner. The hard bite of the winter dawn confirmed that.

A large woman waved, Agency placard in hand. What a relief it was to see this stranger’s face. After introductions, both women got into the back of a car that pulled out as soon as the doors shut. Through the window, she saw passengers standing in line for taxis. Others were crossing the road to get into waiting cars and buses. She was glad there was an Agency representative coming along to get her settled in.

City lights flickered in the distance. She felt a twin surge of excitement and fear on seeing this. The Agency woman recognised the look. She said, as usual, “Yes, there it is. Welcome to London.” 

 

Death & Papin

Papin was waiting for Death although he wasn’t sure which version to expect. His faith had taught him so many interpretations of the end that the anticipation was getting too much for him. He was propped up against a rock wall with his buttocks on soft, black soil. Aside from the pummelling in his unnaturally angled, cracked left leg, he felt lucid and alive. Behind and above his head was the moss covered ridge from which he had fallen. He knew the nearest town lay too far down the mountain-side. Feral beasts would begin prowling the wildwood soon and Papin didn’t fancy passing the night where he lay.

Where was Death?

The crowns of trees and shrubbery swayed in a prolonged breeze. The sun was dropping over the mossy ledge, and the trunks and boughs in front of him became imbued with a transient golden hue. Papin wondered why he obsessed about Death instead of angels. After all, his faith had taught him about those as well. Perhaps the idea of begging angels to save his life seemed beneath him. Or perhaps he already knew he was beyond their reach. He waited nevertheless. Night appeared from the roots of trees, stealing upwards and seeping into and smothering every other colour in its melancholy cloak. High above, angels passed by, ignoring him. God remained otherwise engaged.

Death continued watching Papin as darkness came.

photo from unsplash.com by Tom Barret

Bettie

A monk, sling bag over one shoulder, stood in line behind a tattooed youth and Bettie, who seemed too old to be pregnant. Policemen stared from behind barbed-wires. A nurse was seated at the checkpoint, ticking off names of casualties who had visitors. The Constable ran his eyes down the queue. After the monk, there was a couple carrying kids on their hips, a dignified looking man, two younger monks whispering to each other, then several other persons. Bettie, searched and cleared, walked towards two medical tents, sandwiched between an ambulance and an armored carrier parked under a leafy tree.

The tattooed boy stepped up to the policemen on duty. The otherwise deserted road was littered with torn protest banners, broken glass, remnants of fires and rubber bullets. Tear gas still stung the eyes.

‘This never ends’ the Constable thought. ‘Why do spiritual persons resort to protests and violence?’

But is it committing violence when you blow yourself up? Or set yourself on fire? This is where terrorism originates, if you believed the government – giving up everything for one’s beliefs.

The monk was being patted down by a policeman while another picked through his bag. The Constable couldn’t think of anything he’d willingly die for but admired those who did. Only, as a policeman, he had to clean up the mess each time…

His thoughts were shattered by a deafening shockwave, flooring him. Disoriented and frightened, he struggled to get up. Policemen and everyone in the queue lay scattered, in shock but alive. The explosion did not originate there. The constable looked back towards the tents. One of the ambulances was now obscured by venomous, black smoke from which yellow tongues of flame flicked ravenously.

It wasn’t a monk this time. It was the pregnant looking woman. Bettie.