Photograph Tina Bexson
by Tina Bexson
I decided to run extra early. Just rats and foxes to eye me from the sidelines, penetrating the air with their activities of the night. And like a cat burglar at his most productive I prowled the streets with omnipotence. My darkly clothed lithe frame, and wide stride, ensured silence and invisibility. My training had hit a peak, the adrenaline soured freely and I forced myself to remember to keep my speed in check, mustn’t let the fuel burn itself out, not yet. There was still another five days until my last fight.
A soft jog to the end of the road then a short sprint to the top of the hill, up behind St Mary’s Church. Pause for two minutes scanning the view in the park, all the way from Canary Wharf across to Battersea Power Station. It’s quite splendid in May. The final Cherry Blossom of the season, the rich deciduous trees, their leaves full of moisture from a long night’s drinking to the bowels of the earth. I soaked in the scent before focusing back on the view.
Condensed black smoke from the incinerator towers pierced the grey horizon. The three ‘Mary, Mungo and Midge’ tower blocks were reminiscent of the seventies and innocently surreal children’s television programmes. The blocks oval roof top heating rooms decorated with TV aerials, masts and pilot lights were like three gigantic birthday cakes in the sky.
Then something happened. Slowly, the ghostly outline of a child emerged before me.
In the shape of a small girl, wearing baggy lose trousers resembling pyjama bottoms and covered by a knee length summer cloth dress that was far to big for her. Her thin arms were hard and sinewy. She had dark scruffy hair and pupils too wide. She just stood still and stared. Her eyes focused on a point past me in the distance. She looked like she’d stepped out of the Seventies what with her dated clothes. But they were not from my country but rather Palestine, at least from what I remembered from my time there in the past. She had some kind of stick, bent and wobbly, and let it swing freely in her hand. Apart from the stick’s gentle swishing through the long grass, only a cuckoo sporadically broke the silence.
When she turned and caught my eye I saw she looked as frightened as I had began to feel. There were a thousand things I could have said to ease the dreadful discomfort but I uttered none of them. I looked away to reject the girls stare and as I did, out of the corner of my eye I saw her outline slowly retreat, swallowed by the low-lying fog, leaving me with a vague sense of deja vous. Or was it a memory?
But still I felt her. I tried to run again. Blood hammered the walls of my heart. Movement became impossible. ‘Hide, hide. Find a place to hide.’ The mantra pierced my limbs until they began to move in obedience.
I crouched down into the undergrowth from a secret place in a small dense copse at the edge of the park. It was still too early for the sun to rise and the ivy invaded log I hid behind smelt heavily of the night. It was a perfect hiding place. Beyond the log an assortment of hawthorn, blackthorn and elder trees provided another layer of cover. And there were these sporadic clusters of shrubs too. Their bright orange berries gave me an idea of the distance I’d have to cover to escape from the copse if the ghost girl found me again.
I cannot begin to explain to you what happened to me whilst I lay there in the earth. It can only have been some kind of one-off madness that took me to another place. After it ceased, I felt almost euphoric with relief. As though I had just had a death sentence overturned, a poisonous tumour sucked out of me. And besides tomorrow I had the fight to worry about. I wasn’t going to let anything mess that up, not even a God damn ghost.
By the time I’d managed to scramble out of the copse and reached the edge of the park, I was laughing. A small child could only ever be harmless. Fuelled by some kind of release, I ran faster than ever. Everything felt good. The sun had managed to scrape through and I extended my run, making for the Thames down a steep hill I knew would be torturous to climb on my return.
Soon I’d built up such a momentum on the run down that I thought I’d fall over myself and somersault all the way down the hill. Bend over and disappear into my stomach, again and again. A bit like doubling up and protecting yourself in the ring except then you are always still fighting in one way or another.
It was high tide at the bottom. The first upstream boats of the day had just dropped off the city workers from Greenwich on the other side of the river. I found an isolated corner along the river path and completed a round of shadowboxing. Then the kicks: Step, swivel, lift, straighten, kick, retract. Step right, step left, swivel and full turn, lift, kick back. I must have switched off, lost track of time or something because by the time I’d paused for a breather I knew I had an audience.
A shudder of death slowly fell upon me. Her presence was all encompassing and it was as though her soul had entered inside me though I know not how. It was all so hazy that I’m not sure whether she entered from below the ground or from above. All I knew is that when I could not see her, I felt her more than ever. Is it possible for the ghost of a child to enter inside of you so you feel how they feel?
Tina Bexson lives between Sinai, Cairo and London, and has done for many years. She is also Ars Notoria’s Middle East Editor. Tina is a freelance researcher and news and features writer for both national newspapers and magazines. Publications include: the Guardian, London’s Evening Standard, The Times, Ars Notoria, Environmental Health Journal, Environmental Health News, Public Health News, Your Life Magazine, Hotdog film Magazine, Mental Health Today Magazine, Jack, Maxim, Midweek, and Living Abroad Magazine. She writes about health, psychology, war, the military, crime, criminology, prison, psychiatry, social issues, environment, lifestyle, film and the arts and does Travel photojournalism,
Discover more from Ars Notoria
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
