The top deck is empty, except for a tall, thin slaphead with glasses who is sitting on the front seats, on the right-hand side. I wanted to sit on the front seats – my favourite seats – and still could, on the left-hand side, if I wanted to. But it would be too awkward.
After a few stops, he gets off and I consider making my move. But some guy beats me to it, climbing the stairs and collapsing into the front seats on the left. Before he did so, however, he shot a glance back into the depths of the deck and I recognised his face immediately. Khalil!
Khalil was one of my best friends in secondary school. I remember one of the first conversations we had, in Year 7. He told me how he used to put all his PS2 games and console in a black bin bag in his room, to protect them from dust when he wasn’t playing. One day, his mum assumed the bag was full of rubbish and threw it out.
Khalil would sit next to me in Islamic Studies class, slap a copy of the Metro or Evening Standard on the desk, flip it over to the back page and point at the footballer or manager pictured.
‘What’s going on, is Rooney leaving? What’s happening?’
I’d implore him to ‘just read it man, why are you always asking me? Read it!’
It only occurred to me years later that he probably couldn’t read. Or if he did, not well at all.
We lost contact after school. I learned from friends that he had been in prison, picked up an addiction to something in there, then got out, then his family went back to Algeria and he decided to stay here. I don’t know if any of that is true.
But for sure he was now homeless. I had seen him a few weeks prior, sitting on the pavement outside Foxtons estate agents in Finsbury Park. I had crouched by him, had a brief chat, returned with some food and money, then left, kicking myself that I didn’t take his number or find some way to keep in contact with him.
I get up and sit in the front seats, on the right hand side, and turn to him.
‘Khalil! How are you bro, do you remember me?’
‘…I’m good bro I’m good yeah I’m fine, yeah, yeah, how’s it going.’
He always had droopy eyes in school but this is something else. He’s wheezing as he speaks and eating his words.
‘Where are you staying now?’
‘Finsbury Park, Finsbury Park, I’m going there now.’
‘Do you have a phone? Pen and paper?’
‘Nah…’
I feel ashamed at his state. The smell of faeces…
‘Okay, where are you going to be this Saturday, in the morning?’
‘Probably Finsbury Park…’
He momentarily rests his head on the vertical rail in front of him.
‘Okay, listen Khalil, I will see you in Finsbury Park on Saturday yeah? Where exactly though?’
‘By the Lidl, outside the Lidl. Lidl.’
‘Alright man. I’m going to see you on Saturday inshallah. We’ll get you a phone, sim card, I’ll put my number in there so we can keep in contact.’
‘Inshallah bro.’
‘You know me and some of the guys from Park View, we’re going to help you get out of this situation inshallah. So I’ll see you Saturday morning yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
I bump fists with him before descending the stairs and pressing the bell. I’m four stops from where I need to be, but I get off.
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A Series Of Pointless Conversations 