tangential lives
Aug. 6th, 2002 10:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
westernindTottenham Court Road tube station, on a muggy Monday night, around 10pm. On the way home from meeting a friend, one of the few from my earlier incarnation as a "high-flying entertainment tax accountant" that I bother keeping in touch with; Jean is really quite human despite having done a six year stint at PriceWaterhouseCoopers.
There's a girl on the stairs, accosting passers by, blonde, spiky unkempt hair. Too thin. The first thought is another beggar,keep walking and then I see the livid welts on her forehead and her chin. She's muttering "please help, you can have my name and address", and I stop suddenly , causing the two guys behind me to stumble.
The three of us listen to her story... she's had an argument with her boyfriend, she needs to get home to Tunbridge Wells, she has to get to Euston, she has no money.
Yeah, it could be a line. But she has bruises on her face. I get out my wallet, and one of the other guys - he has a friendly, open face - does the same. The second man, oozing cynicism, asks why she needs to get to Euston. "I can get the coach from there", she answers, flash-quick, kind of strange and rehearsed. First man and I each give her a fiver. She gabbles thanks, and heads up the stairs to the exit.
We walk to the escalators. Cynic says he's seen her before, and last time she had a different story. No, insists the friendly one, she's in the early stages of shock - he's worked with young people in difficulties, he's familar with the symptoms, her pupils were a strange, narrow shape. I say, I'm in no hurry, I'll wait a few minutes and go back to see if she's come back. Friendly guy says "if so, get my fiver back and have a drink on me" and I grin, and say I'll give it to a different good cause... and oddly, Cynic pulls out his business card and gives it to me, and says to let him know if I do see her again.
I wait ten minutes, and go back up the stairs, and there's no sign. The Evening Standard seller remembers her, says she headed to the bus stop.
I hope she got home OK.
I wish I'd gone to Euston with her.
I've this evening rummaged in my bag, and found the card - Andy Grant his name is, 'head of operations' for a company called 'Galaxy Light and Power' who apparently do 'resources and logistics for motion pictures and television'. I have no idea why he would care... maybe he did believe her after she left so quickly, and had a fit of remorse? But I see no reason to contact him.
Lives that touch briefly... won't ever find out the end of that story... have been thinking about it all today. But experience says that my memory of her will leach out by the end of the week.That's the reason for the guilt.
There's a girl on the stairs, accosting passers by, blonde, spiky unkempt hair. Too thin. The first thought is another beggar,keep walking and then I see the livid welts on her forehead and her chin. She's muttering "please help, you can have my name and address", and I stop suddenly , causing the two guys behind me to stumble.
The three of us listen to her story... she's had an argument with her boyfriend, she needs to get home to Tunbridge Wells, she has to get to Euston, she has no money.
Yeah, it could be a line. But she has bruises on her face. I get out my wallet, and one of the other guys - he has a friendly, open face - does the same. The second man, oozing cynicism, asks why she needs to get to Euston. "I can get the coach from there", she answers, flash-quick, kind of strange and rehearsed. First man and I each give her a fiver. She gabbles thanks, and heads up the stairs to the exit.
We walk to the escalators. Cynic says he's seen her before, and last time she had a different story. No, insists the friendly one, she's in the early stages of shock - he's worked with young people in difficulties, he's familar with the symptoms, her pupils were a strange, narrow shape. I say, I'm in no hurry, I'll wait a few minutes and go back to see if she's come back. Friendly guy says "if so, get my fiver back and have a drink on me" and I grin, and say I'll give it to a different good cause... and oddly, Cynic pulls out his business card and gives it to me, and says to let him know if I do see her again.
I wait ten minutes, and go back up the stairs, and there's no sign. The Evening Standard seller remembers her, says she headed to the bus stop.
I hope she got home OK.
I wish I'd gone to Euston with her.
I've this evening rummaged in my bag, and found the card - Andy Grant his name is, 'head of operations' for a company called 'Galaxy Light and Power' who apparently do 'resources and logistics for motion pictures and television'. I have no idea why he would care... maybe he did believe her after she left so quickly, and had a fit of remorse? But I see no reason to contact him.
Lives that touch briefly... won't ever find out the end of that story... have been thinking about it all today. But experience says that my memory of her will leach out by the end of the week.That's the reason for the guilt.
