“Gritty and real,” Jack says, pointing at the demolition site. “Zoom in on the bulldozer and those local people we met earlier.”
I aim my camera: a flare of possibility, a lodestar of hope. Sleek black edges, alloy chassis, lens as clear as the inventory it’s about to take. As I twist the rubber-ridged focus, my right eye attempts to center on Borough Market, where buildings are being pulled down so commercial venues can be erected and sold at extortionate prices, making it near impossible for locals to stay where they’ve lived for most of their lives. Click. A captured moment of destruction.
Daniel’s words from yesterday’s session suddenly come flooding back: Your father, you still search for him. Everywhere. My witnessing of destruction conjuring up memories of my father’s abuse.
Click, click.
Jack checks his phone.
“Take your time,” he says, scrolling the screen. “The picture editor at the Guardian just messaged to say the story’s going ahead, so make sure you get some solid shots. Something that’ll make front page.”
Click.
I stare down at my Converse—tired and battered—clearly dressed for the part as Jack and I manage a quick scan of the East London site. My camera focusing on the sponsored demolition panels where investors have advertised their new commercial venues and luxury apartments about to mushroom. An importance felt in my gut that I need to bring together this frightened community, and have it documented.
“Try getting a little heart into it,” Jack says, and I nod, knowing exactly what he means. His suggestion that we get a shot that pulls on the heartstrings of London’s mayor and the district council, supporting our cause, and the editor’s wishes.
“I’m thinking local shop owner, community outreach worker, sad child on a swing,” he adds, pointing at the local park. “Come on.”
We push open the gate to the park, where local children are hanging off jungle gyms, others on swings. The younger ones balancing on playground spring rockers. Their mothers huddled together drinking takeaway coffee while keeping a close eye.
Click. Click.
Over the years, photography has allowed me to do what I did as a kid—record another world—that first camera given to me by my father a distant memory but most likely a muse. When you spend so much time obsessing over your past, photography is a gift. It cuts you loose from your ego. Sets you free from decline. It takes your very angry little heart, cupping it lightly, and speaks: Let go, let go. For me, the activity is so soothing I almost believe my life divided into two parts: before I took photographs, and after. The latter a salve for the preoccupation I had with some of the uglier aspects of my life.
“Good,” Jack says. “Got it?”
“I think so,” I say, “but I might hang around a while. I wanna get some shots of the local shop owners, and some of the families who’ve been forced out.”
“Why not,” he says, strolling toward the edge of the playground.
I take a moment and aim, like an arrow, at the pale blue sky. The movement is smooth: my arms raised, shoulders locked, fingers poised. A steady hold while the camera frames a view directly above me, capturing a rectangle of clouds, feral wood pigeons, and the movement of ancient green trees. Click. That’s so, so lovely. Dolly sighs, her most favored pictures usually involving animals of any kind.
I feel a cool lick of breeze on my neck as I approach, I assume, a mother and son—matching smiles—conveniently on a swing.
“Hello,” I say, “I’m covering a story for a national newspaper about the demolition of community homes over by Borough Market. Are you local?”
“For almost fifteen years. We live on the corner over there, just by the Hare and Hounds.”
Ironic, Oneiroi scoffs.
“Where will you go?” I ask.
“Who knows? My son here just started grade school, and his two sisters just started nursery. I’m going to contact the council again, but that could mean a long wait for decent housing. I guess we’ll have to take what’s offered, which could be miles away. But we don’t have much choice: If we refuse we go right to the bottom of the list. There’s a points system. I’m Sandra, by the way.”
I lean over, shake her cold hand. “Alexa.”
“So go ahead, we don’t mind. Do we, Billy?”
Billy shakes his head, avoids my eyes. Squealing happily as Sandra pushes harder. Her fingers tickling his navy puffer waist. Click. Click. Click.
“Thanks, Sandra. Billy,” I say. “Good luck.”
Take some more of Billy laughing, Dolly insists, jiggling on the spot, but then Runner seizes the Body and swings our attention toward a fit woman in tight leggings, running alongside her cocker spaniel. Now there’s a shot. Runner smiles. Click. Click. Dolly quickly snatches the Body, aiming now at the spaniel. My turn, she insists. Give it back. But Runner nudges her hand, zooming in on the fit woman getting away. They tussle, and I imagine I must look like someone having a mild seizure. Dolly starts to cry. Shhh, I comfort, Runner, let her take another shot. Runner folds her arms, allowing Dolly to take hold of the camera. Fiiine! she says, rolling her eyes.
Squabble over, I scan my viewfinder, happy with my earlier shots. Well, they’re certainly gritty and real, Oneiroi says. Your mother would be so proud of you, Alexa.
Affirmed by her words, I stroke my camera, delighted.
Approaching one of the park benches, I picture my sad, beautiful mother. How, when I learned of her death, I’d stared out of the kitchen window for what felt like days. Various birds nestling and balanced on the roof of the potting shed. The same potting shed where I, or rather Flo the Outcast, would later starve that poor guinea pig to death. At nine years old I still placed confidence in magical thinking: fat babies delivered by stem-legged storks, sugarplum tooth fairies, fluffy Easter bunnies, and Santa Claus. I also believed the birds perched outside carried with them my mother’s soul, though this I thought less magical, more real. In my mind she was a passenger on board their flight, soaring above giant trees, their wild wings spread and warmed by the changing angle of the sun. There she was, her soul still alive, despite it all. Among birds.
Days passed. Seasons changed. Visits from my father worsened. But what remained was the company of birds. Their frequent return was somewhat of a pleasant mystery to me, yet each time they perched, my baffled heart felt grateful. Simple miracles.
I supposed the birds cared for my mother. Her soul touched by their absolute freedom, her own wings clipped and broken for most of her life.
Jack joins me on the park bench, a smoke in his hand.
“Happy?” he asks.
I pause.
“I’m not sure what that means,” I reply softly.
He smiles crookedly. “Me neither. I don’t know why I even asked you that.”
His phone rings, so I busy myself, half listening to his conversation, half focusing on the mother and her son.
“East London,” I hear him say while checking his watch. “Yeah, should be finished around six.”
The little boy points at the sand pit, his mother now helping him down off the swing.
Jack coughs. “Whereabouts?”
She kneels down, searches for an instrument with which to dig the sand. Spots a polystyrene cup.
“I’m not sure I fancy a club tonight,” he says, cigarette flicked to the ground.
The little boy jiggles his chubby arms as she scoops up the sand, shakes the cup. Then turns it upside down.
“The Electra?” Jack asks.
My chest tightens.
The mother pats the top of the polystyrene cup.
“It’s not really my kinda thing,” Jack says, nudging the cigarette butt with his foot.
“Ta-dah!” the mother sings.
The little boy claps.
Jack ends the call.
“Friend of mine fancies a night out,” he says, lighting another cigarette.
“Oh,” I say, voice low and soft.
“Some club called the Electra. Grim place by the sound of it. I never heard of it, d’ya know it?”
My heartbeat quickens. I shake my head.
Liar, the Fouls scold.
I feel my chest tighten and focus on the kids while I attempt to organize them in age order. The boy hanging from his knees like a monkey, I decide, being the eldest: twelve, eleven, eleven, nine, eight and a half, seven, seven, six, six, six, six, five, four, four. Next, their mothers: thirty-seven, thirty-five, thirty-two-ish, thirty, thirty, twenty-eight, twenty-eight, twenty-five, eighteen, maybe nineteen.
Nerves settling, I take out my phone and switch off the silencer, a chime suddenly alerting me that I have two missed calls. Two voicemails.
I press the retrieve button.
It’s Ella.
“Where are you?” she’d asked. “You need to get over here. Right away.”