The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini Part VII
Welcome back fellow viewers of the future. Unfortunately, death seems to be on the cards, both for this blog and for my future self. A death that only rememberance can revive. And yet the rest is blurred. Let us delve into what happens next. The waves are, after all, here once more…
I come round and see the sky. The birdsong drowned by stale air and traffic noise. The cold windchill nipping at my goosebumped skin. Somehow, I’d managed to escape. It had been one long and painful year that I had spent in the hospital. Unbearable sickness followed me wherever I went. It was like having treatment for cancer, except that there was nothing wrong with me. I even began to doubt, at one point, my own innocence. There had to be a reason for my suffering. But here I am now suddenly outside in Hyde Park, London. What had happened? I walked around London for a bit, glad to see the outside of the hospital. As I walked past Goodge Street where a black man gave me a copy of the London Metro. The main headline was: “Bye Bye Blues – Chelsea relegated” and went on to explain Chelsea’s terminal decline since the unveiling of Scolari as their new manager, an event which saw a catalogue of different managers, Chelsea drifting to mid-table and Abramovich losing interest. However, further inside I saw another smaller headline: “Hyde Hospital Hopeless - Overcrowded Hospital lets patients escape”, apparently overcrowding meant that the criminals with minor offences were left around Hyde park this morning in an attempt to free up pressure that the government is putting on them. After all, patients still need to be treated. As a result the Labour party leader has spoken out about it and is looking for power to return to them, so they can sort out this mess.
You would think I would be happy to be out of my prison, but in truth I am not. The fact is, that despite my treatment, at least I got care there. I have nothing out here and no jobs will employ me with my criminal record. As a result, I am forced to beg on the streets and live homeless. I have always enjoyed whistling, so I take that up and busk for money on Oxford Street, before I am escorted away by police. Things look extremely bleak for me. And by nightfall I have only managed to raise £1. With night falling it all looks fairly hopeless. People just walk past me and think that I’m stupid or something, that I’m only on the street because I want to be. I remember what I’d always been taught and recognise that they may well be suspicious of what I might use the money for. The D-word is a bit taboo around these parts at the moment. I remember that the station is usually a good place to go for shelter, so I try to find a step that I can rest my head on and lie there trying to sleep. My feet are so cold, I find it impossible and consider that I’m lucky it’s June.
Suddenly I’m gripped up by the scruff of my T-Shirt. “Oi! What you doin’ on my turf!” My head is pounding and I can’t open my eyes. I’m cold and stiff as if I was already dead. Thinking so, I don’t reply as dead men can’t talk. “I down’d recognise you”. “My name’s Saund… Saund-ini” I think about saying my adopted name, but I decided that I couldn’t let on that I was rich once or I’d get butchered. “Right” he replied a crooked white smile. It was blurred behind a black silhouette, all that I can see. The smell of fags is suffocating my tight sinuses. He continued his face thick and white, “Well you won’ last long ‘ere if you don’ respec’ people’s property”. A skull grinned in front of me. “How’s about you do some work for me. Then I let you stay.” Its eyes are glaring red and seemed to envelop me. I want to say “No”, but what choice do I have? So I say nothing until his grip drops me; his message made and my flashback fades.
