Nowhere People

Maína, I don’t know how to send you this letter. I’m going to write it all the same. Here, where I am now, is on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, a city called London. There’s a river that cuts through the middle of the city, I really like sitting on one of the benches they have on the banks of the river. But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. I’ve been thinking of you a lot, really hoping that you’re doing well. Yesterday I bought a blue dress. I hope one day I’ll see you again and I can give you the dress I bought. Writing is difficult. I’ll try again some other time. Missing you. Paulo.

Ten-thirty at night, the lamb doner kebab that she brought back from her meeting with the other six who would be going with them tomorrow hasn’t gone down too well. Paulo’s stomach is hurting more than his leg. He still hasn’t been able to understand why she thought it best for him not to come to the preparatory meeting. ‘The less involved you become, the better’ — it sounded like an excuse. He isn’t going to go back to sleep (which has nothing to do with the imminent occupation). Not sleeping, not getting out of bed, just watching the bedroom window panes turning lighter and darker, just listening to the sounds from the endless blocks and towers that make up the council estates of Elephant and Castle and trying to ignore the voices of its children, the crows’ cawing, the sounds of the plastic bags brushing against one another as the person carrying them hurries to escape the rain that will be here soon: all this is part of the rules of the boring new game, defying him to ruin everything. And wide awake, watching her sleep, he does.