Disbanded Kingdom by Polis Loizou

Author:Polis Loizou [Loizou, Polis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780995465787
Publisher: Cloud Lodge Books
Published: 2018-06-04T04:00:00+00:00

The headphones are back on his head, having been found by Carolina in a jacket about to join the Salvation Army. Shuffle’s on and Marvin Gaye is playing, Got To Give It Up. Showing the newbies how it’s done.

The track does the Hustle around his eardrums, but Oscar’s mind drifts to a different tune. One heading south of the border, down to Mexico.

The sax intermingles with the disco beat, Marv’s falsetto overlaid with the other man’s yearning, whoever he was, whoever his gang of boys chanting behind him were. The bongos, the castanets. Marvin’s bassline, his falsetto.

The beat shimmies down Oscar’s legs, makes them twitch. One, then the other. And when his hip starts moving, it brings the spinal column, and his head, with it.

Bassline. A spicy waitress.

Different bassline. Bell-bottoms and afros.

It’s like Tokyo on the train carriage — People are pretending not to look. The tourists and the chick with the hoop earrings popping gum in her mouth. Basic bitch. When Marvin’s over, The Weeknd comes in. His languid rap, the ice-cold synth. Nothing makes a white guy whiter than hip-hop leaking out of his headphones. Gum Girl is staring. Cracker, she’s thinking. But dancing is universal, eternal. Harks back to the Stone Age.

Charlotte hates rap. She finds it all offensive, from the rhythm to the content she assumes is there. She probably wonders why black artists are no longer Tamla. Tim will see all of this in her soon, if he hasn’t already.

The tube stops. People get off, chattering, taking their H&M bags and paperbacks. An old lady climbs on board, and she is bringing her A-game. Lipstick the colour of sunburn, matching hat and coat and heels, Youth Dew shooting forth. These old folks grew up here, their lives entangled with the city’s. Taking cover underground when the place was being blitzed by the Nazis, phoning grandkids as soon as the first Seventh of July bomb broke the news. Not even the threat of Daesh keeps them from living. Tories and Labour, Thatcher and Blair, Diana and Kate, protests and London Pride, everything seen and done already. Charlotte is just as much a product of this place as them, London as much a part of her.

But Tim isn’t a product of it. And since at one point in time an accent betrayed his background, it’s safe for Oscar to assume that he isn’t either.

When the music stops, the silence between the tracks allows the commuter noise to drip through. A beggar’s giving his speech to the carriage, about how he only needs a few pounds for the shelter tonight. Some folks look annoyed, others drop coins in his cup. Then there are snippets of conversation — Really need a sugar thermometer — before the next tune starts in Oscar’s ears.

Whatever it is. It’s not the one that’s making him dance.

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