. . . I digress
we all saw him coming.
We all saw him coming.
We heard him first, far away, calling from somewhere near the river. But nobody took any notice. At that time of day, after the offices have spilled their contents into the streets and all the bars have gratefully received the offering, the city is full of strange noises. Best not to pay any attention. Turn up the iPod. Rush on to the next bar.
I clocked him as he passed the bus stops opposite the Hilton. He was heading into town along the East side of Neville Street and I was heading out down the West side. He thumped the window of the bus shelter, both hands in unison battering the glass in a steady, rapid beat. There were three young women in the shelter, sitting quietly, communicating with their mobile phones. They stared at their devices harder. The man moved on. He shouted.
And he shouted again as he entered the tunnel. I couldn’t make out the words. I listened for the slightest shadow of sense, the merest scrap of syntax. The noise was beyond deafening. Part bellow, part cough, part retch, part sob. Wholly terrifying. Pedestrians stepped off the pavement and into the flow of traffic to avoid him.
He wasn’t travelling fast. I’d seen a busker on Lands Lane the other day, a fiddler with a crude devil puppet suspended on a couple of strings attached to a pole under his arm. The guy moved like the devil puppet - much agitation, little forward motion. His fingers writhed like upturned crabs. His jaw flicked from side to side. He walked like he’d snapped a couple of strings.
He wasn’t dressed for the season. There was no way he was one of the stag do crowd - he hadn’t come as a monkey or forgotten to leave his tartan pyjamas back in the hotel room - but neither was he in the recognised uniform of the damaged and deranged, any t-shirt with a wolf, tiger, or native American picked out in pink or purple glitter. His t-shirt was far too big and his Jeans seemed to be fitted to a person half his age. Most of all, it was minus four and dropping, parka and wellies weather.
Then he was gone. Round the corner near the Turkish restaurant and away. Still howling.
I’ve never seen so many people intent on contemplating the art in Neville Street before. Remarkable.
