Perspectives (1) - The Street

a

So I'm waiting for Becky at the corner of Boswick Street, my camera snapping shots of pink clouds reflected in the large dark windows of the old Eduardian tenements, and wondering why Mike `the Bastard' should want to see Becky and Barbara `the Bitches'.

Neither Becky nor I had had any idea that Mike had been two-timing each of us with the other, until he was arrested. Becky had thought him `just a typical commitment-phobic male', and I - well, I find it difficult to live with anyone. So we'd never met, not even suspected the other's existence. When we were introduced to each other, it was at the police station, of all places. It was hate at first sight.

But we overcame our mutual hatred to plot revenge, and deliciously cold it was too. Becky and I have been friends ever since.

Mike's been out of prison for a year now. He's got more muscles, and more neuroses, and at least one tattoo. Inevitably we end up at the same parties and stand at opposite ends of the room. Becky ignores him - when she's sober, anyway.

The sun catches my eye - I'm seeing a reflection of a reflection. Quickly my camera catches the effect. Snap! Snap! I wish Becky were here. Another reason I like her so much is she's incredibly photogenic. I'd love to get her standing by that window, with the doubly-reflected sun and the corona of Virginia creeper.

Boswick Street fascinates me. This end edges onto a wealthy area of town, and the tenements here are sandstone blackened with age and atmospheric polution. Inside, the rooms are grand and spacious, and I can see from here the decorative cornices. Outside, there are iron railings with spear-heads, rust showing where the black paint is scratched and chipped. And yet, fifty yards up the street these flats stop abruptly, with sheer side-walls marked only by the lines of chimneys.

Beyond are modern, ugly red-brick student flats - where I stayed for my three years at college. Beyond them, by the cross-roads, are the old library and the brightly-lit 24hr-Spar. The Spar is new; there used to be a delightful church there - Catholic, I think - but it burned down.

Even as the sun winks out I see Becky. She looks thoroughly pissed off, no doubt because Jimmy the Rat is with her. Everybody hates Jimmy. Probably even Jimmy hates Jimmy. He's unnaturally thin and his skin has an unhealthy pallor, and he chain-smokes roll-ups - as his brown-stained fingers attest.

`Jimmy thinks I know where Mike is!' Becky complains to me, scowling petulantly.

`Do you?' I ask.

`No! I told him I was just meeting you here to take some photos.' Her eyes fix on my camera with some relief - not that I go anywhere without it.

`Yep,' I confirm to Jimmy. `I want to get some shots of the car park for a new project.' Which happens to be true. `Bye!' Taking Becky's arm I lead her up Boswick Street; if Jimmy follows I may just have to break his knee-caps. But, no, he's just glaring after us suspiciously.

`Where is Mike?' I demand once out of Jimmy's ear-shot.

`Boswick Court,' Becky replies miserably. `We can't go there with Jimmy watching.'

`Why not?'

`The police think Mike was behind that raid on the jeweller's and now half the city's looking for him.'

Bloody typical, I think. Probably was Mike. Becky's right: we can't go see him while Jimmy the Rat is nosing about.

`Come on,' I say. `There's still half an hour of good light and the sky is gorgeous tonight. Let's ``take some photos'', as you say.'

Becky assents, and so we cross over by the old library and head towards the car park, pausing on the railway bridge to look for foxes. They don't run trains along this line any longer and the tracks are all rusted. They used to shine in the moonlight.

But my real interest here is the neighbouring multi-storey car park - or, rather, the one-and-a-half-storey car park, since the contractors went bust. It puts me in mind of one of those ultra-secret radar stations, except after a bomb has hit it. There are holes everywhere and lots of high jagged metal struts thrusting into the air.

Grinning happily, I am soon ordering Becky about as I put my camera through its paces, capturing the contrast of her cultured boredom with the almost sinister shadows of this grotesquerie.

b

At first I can't see her and I am cursing Jimmy for sending me on another wild goose chase, but then she steps out of the shadows of the car park. She's wearing a black leather bomber-jacket, blue jeans so tight I'm amazed she can walk in them, and calf-high Docs. Her dusty blonde hair is tied back in a messy knot. The whole outfit just screams `I'm too cool to care how I look.'

At least her little friend is wearing a skirt, though she must be crazy to wear a skirt that short in this neighbourhood. Her high heels are totally inappropriate too and even from here I can hear her whining as she stumbles over rubble and rock. If she falls she'll probably end up looking like a hedgehog, what with all the discarded hypodermic needles that litter the ground here.

Barbara, however, exudes confidence and I confess a grudging admiration for her.

Reaching the street they turn in my direction, but I slink back into a recess and they pass me by without notice, heading on over the rail bridge. I am about to follow when they pause.

`Hey, look!' Barbara says excitedly. `There's one.'

`Oh yeah!' her friend choruses.

When at last they move on and I reach the same point, I look over but all I can see are the dark bushes and dark trees and dark railway tracks.

There's a prostitute standing at the cross-roads. She's wearing a black PVC trench-coat and very little else, and is attractive in that brutal way that no heterosexual male could fail to notice, but the two women walk past her without breaking stride, unaware of the disdainful sneer directed at their backs. Then she sees me and her half-smoked cigarette disappears magically, to be replaced with a fresh one and a false, friendly smile.

`Got a light, love?'

Perhaps she's a good actress, but she seems eager for my custom. Cynically I know that really she's just desperate for money, or warmth, or relief from the tedium, or perhaps the real reason is the silhouette in the shadows of the recessed doorway of the old library.

Suddenly she recognizes me for what I am, and her smile is replaced abruptly by weary anger. She swears, and produces a cigarette lighter from some deep pocket.

But I just chuckle and leave her standing there dumbfounded.

I pass by a new laundrette and am struck by a profound sense of irony. Until five years ago there was an Italian restaurant here, notorious for laundering money for the Mafia. Until, that is, persons unknown blew out the pilot light and switched on the gas. According to the pathologist's report, the explosion hadn't been the cause of death.

Barbara and her friend stop at Boswick Court student flats - I don't see which number on the entryphone her friend pushes. After a minute they get buzzed inside. The door slams shut before I reach it.