The man at the top of the monument

He looks up from yesterday’s Evening Standard and gazes vacantly at the darkness in front of him. The northern line window presents him with the reflection of himself: a middle aged man with tired eyes. The air is dense and sweat appears on his forehead, like pomegranate seeds. Yet he knows when he approaches the Monument, he will be greeted harshly, by the chill of winter dawn. He sips coffee. It’s so strong and bitter, he feels the caffeine sink down to his stomach and imagines it pulsing through his veins, hoping that it’s enough to wake him. As he gets up to leave, so does everybody else. He becomes part of an ocean moving towards the exit. Millions of people dressed in the same suits and haircuts; going to similar destinations. His own destination: A temp job at Pret a Manger. Well that’s how it begun anyway... A rush of regret washes over him, as his thoughts turned to the promotion that trapped him. Prisoner of his own desire to provide for a family he didn’t love, and a life he didn’t ask for.

He scans his oyster card on the reader; the photo of Jaynie in his wallet catches his eye- Her brown hair collecting the sea salt, on Bournemouth beach. She looks so happy. He made her happy. It hurts him to know he’s being unfaithful, but Laura maintains his sanity, whilst providing him with a fantasy that Jaynie can never give him. The reality is that he doesn’t love her in the same way anymore. He is tired of lying. Besides, being selfish was never part of the job description as a husband, let alone a father.

He sits on the bench facing the Monument eating his routine chocolate Danish. A Chinese couple take photos in front of it, as if they understand it’s significance. They don’t. It’s just a pretty statue to them. He remembered his son running out of school with an overflowing book bag, preaching about how the Great Fire of London began. He told me about the bakery on pudding lane. He repeated himself; going over it again and again. “Did you know it is two hundred and two feet high? That’s super high! It’s also the same length from the bakers shop to the Monument”. Admittedly though, he found it interesting- repetitive and irritating, but at the same time interesting. Tom himself had left school by the age of 16, and never really enjoyed learning until he was about 30, by which time it was too late. He found himself learning through his son. The Plague; Hamlet; Algebra; Grammar and Punctuation- he smiles to himself in light of his nostalgia. It frustrated him deeply to see people taking photos for the sake of it. Every morning he watched the same people, just with different faces take the same photos; without one person ever stopping to look at the commemoration plaque.                                                                                                              In fact the whole concept of tourism made him tense up. To them it was just another box to tick off of their ‘To See’ checklist. After his son taught him about the Fire, he since had done research of his own to satisfy his guilty curiosity. In 1750 some guy called William Green, who happened to be a weaver like his own grandfather, was at the top of the Monument. He reached over to get a look at a pigeon, lost his balance and fell to his death. He found another six people after Green that had used it to commit suicide, until the government finally built a cage. Tom raised his head, blinded by the morning sunshine. The thought had never crossed his mind until now. It lingers for a second before fading. His situation, although twisted, is bearable- for the moment anyway. But he promisea himself that he will not find himself looking up at the same view, on the same bench, eating the same god damn chocolate Danish this time next year. He promises himself if nothing changes, he will follow Mr Green to oblivion.

He brushes the crumbs off his lap and sets off to Pret. There is a vibration on his skin, through his pocket and the sound of a xylophone melody fills the fresh air. He picks up the phone- the name on it makes him stop for a second. Out the corner of his eye he notices a woman, petite, with platinum blonde hair and red velvet apricot lipstick walking towards him. Jaynie’s phone call persists and the xylophone sound will not stop. He hears Laura’s heels against the pavement; smells her perfume long before he embraces her. He’d forgotten... He’d told Laura he’d meet her before work and treat her to breakfast.

Behind him, while the phone proceeded to ring and Laura’s stilettos continued to clash with the cobble stones, the monument stands tall. Time stops and William Green stares back at him. Tom knows the man is dead; he also knows that a life of commute has forced him to sacrifice his lay-ins . But both William and Tom know in that moment, he must make a decision. Make a choice of safety or rebellion; comfort or happiness; a home of deceit or blissful loneliness.

The ringing ceases and the scent of Coco Chanel fills the air around him. Tom isn’t sure if he hears Green chuckle at the irony of it all, or if it is just his imagination. If it is just his inner self laughing crudely at the situation, for which he has nobody to blame but himself. William Green watches from above as Tom puts the phone to his ear and motions to Laura that he will call her another time. Green stands there breathing in the sunlight as if he were alive. Looking up at him makes Tom’s eyes sting so that when he blinks fiery blotches appear on the inside of his eyelids. Green smiles knowingly and dissolves into the rays of light.