Ryan leans against the wall – red brick slashed with the neon of spray paint and whorls of dust. A plastic canister hangs loosely from one hand. He stares at nothing.
A flash of black and scarlet bouncing on the air draws his eye as it flutters on a crazy trajectory, triggering long buried memories – or perhaps dreams. Ryan peels his back from the wall, eyes fixed on the movement, and finds himself following. The glowing ember flies across waste ground; once a row of smart terraced houses stood here, bulldozed when, empty and dilapidated, the row became too dangerous to leave. Ryan grew up here, but the memory barely touches him.
He pads across what has become a makeshift playground, a world of grit and sand, planks propped up on empty oil cans, rubble piled into shapes that have meaning for the kids who play here at dusk.
‘Hey, mate! Forgotten where your standpipe is?’ A figure, hooded and suited in coarse white cloth approaches. Ryan stops, still focused on the retreating scrap of light.
‘Hey, Baz. Long time, no see.’
Baz comes closer, lumbering and shapeless inside the baggy cotton. ‘I usually go after, but I’ve got a long day at work today. Nina’s home from college so I’m getting water to keep her going till I get back tonight. She’s just graduated.’ Behind the mesh that shields the hooded face, Baz’s voice warms with pride.
‘That’s great, Baz. Got a job?’
‘Yep. Starting in the compound with her old dad as soon as her papers come through. Aircon maintenance. Job for life.’
Ryan nods, shifts uneasily, searching the sky for the flash of a scarlet wing.
‘But what are you doing here, mate? The nearest standpipe in this direction is two miles away. You’ll never make it back in time top put your whites on.’
The hood inclines a little. Ryan knows his old friend is staring at him. The holes in his hands. The tags on his face. He takes a shaky breath.
‘Thing is, Baz, I know how this sounds, but I think I’ve seen a butterfly.’
The hood scoffs lightly. ‘Ryan, mate, there hasn’t been a butterfly in this sector in thirty years.’
‘I know, I know, but maybe it escaped from a biodome.’ Ryan sounds weak and unconvincing, even to himself.
‘Why would it fly away from the compound? There’s nothing for it out here. It must have been a flake of ash, a scrap of linen.’
‘I think it might have been a Red Admiral.’ Ryan can’t keep the excitement out of his voice – the excitement of the child who pored hungrily over his Gran’s old books. Such vibrant illustrations of birds, fish and insects. Creatures to be held in the imagination’s eye, or glimpsed, maybe, if you were lucky enough to spot one during working hours in the Compound.
Ryan scans the horizon feverishly. ‘Got to go, Baz. See you later.’
A mere movement of air, a quiver in the growing light but enough for Ryan. He hurries away, following the spark’s erratic dance, down the baked terracotta roads, past ancient fences silvered and split, gravelled backyards showing striped between the palings.
He trudges on, oblivious to everything beyond the dip and flutter before him, barely registering the change beneath his feet as packed earth gives way to hardcore, to blistered tarmac. But suddenly long lines of white suits come into focus, already forming in front of the shuttered gates of the Compound. The workers for the morning shift so eager to be let in, so thankful for the relief of hours spent in cool, filtered air behind UV screened glass, so desperate for the chance to save some money, for the dream of one day being able to afford a house in the Compound or any of the gated communities spread across this vast city. Money means shelter, ease, and the pretence of an old normality found only in films and stories.
Ryan lifts his eyes from the queue he should be joining, his only thought to keep sight of the butterfly.
There it is. Perched, resting on a roadside stone, wings poised, trembling slightly in the dawn breeze. Ryan stands motionless, filled with the beauty of the living creature, each wing black velvet, a lash of flame cutting through the dark. His breathing slows, gratitude flowing through him.
He is barely aware of the warning siren but feels sudden warmth on his unprotected skin. Somewhere deep inside he knows it is six o’ clock. He tears his gaze from the life at his feet and looks out over the shards of his crumbling city to the shining rim stretching across the flat horizon, heralding the Life Giver, The Great Destroyer: Sunrise.
Notes:
Song: Kaval Sviri – Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares
As I listened to this, I saw a young man walking on dusty roads, past graffiti covered walls. I wanted to know where he was going so I followed him.
My city is London in the not too distant future. The ravages of climate change have taken its toll and the city is arid and crumbling. A laissez faire government allows market forces to determine people’s fate. The moneyed can afford to live in gated communities where air con, uv protected buildings, private bore holes and biodomes filled with the only surviving species of plants and animal life give an illusion of past normality.
Those formerly seen as middle or working class have been pushed into poverty by the rising prices for basics in a world with a blazing sun – water or sunscreen, vegetables or sunglasses. The majority have to rely on cheaply made cotton coveralls sold by Government outlets. The city is peopled by ghosts in white.
At dusk people come out to find company and a few hours respite from the heat and glare, while children play in the dust.
Medical care of any kind is a distant dream for the majority who have succumbed in their thousands to skin cancers and organ failure caused by persistent malnutrition or dehydration. The brightest and best are able to get work as cleaners or maintenance workers in the compounds.
The city is dying but those in the compounds haven’t noticed yet.
Val Joyce is a butterfly lover, gardener and ex Morris dancer. She spends most of her time trying to satisfy the demands of the birds, insects and small rodents that call her small garden home.