The City: Creating a Sense of a Place

A few miles south of central London, the gentle flow of an open sewer runs deep and green, glistening ever so closely to Green Park, pattering on at its own tranquil pace, before reaching off into the distance. On one side of this unappealing canal, the golden walls of the council flats reach on until clashing with the lively air of the vibrant city, but on the park side, the bank lined with shrubs- fresh and green with every spring, carry in their lower leaf junctures the reminder of the debris of the stormy winds; and broken bottles gleaming in the morning sun, tall dark weeds with their whittled leaves as a testimony to their harsh life. On the sandy bank under the bushes the leaves lie so crisp that even a rat makes a great skittering noise if he were to run across them. Gangsters came out in the evening, all of them looking frightened and panicky while looking around constantly as if they were expecting something bad to happen, once they're happy warm streets soon start teeming with the activity that can only be found in such an able community. The ladies of the nights hurrying along to their corners, their high heals clattering with every step. They leave a lingering scent of cheap perfume and their adventures of the night before. Each inhabitant looked as though they belonged no place but there. Suddenly the shady streets burst with the melodic roar of street life; the gentle sirens in the back ground, the arguing of neighbours that have become almost mandatory in this little place, the roar of the cars as they sped past and the sound of their horns when trapped like a corned beast, the incessant dog barking, the booming music with its heavy bass filling the streets and the wind whistling through the gaps in the buildings. There is a road leading past the bushes and through the park, driven rough by boys coming out of the nearby college, their wheels screeching like a tortured cat as they make their way to the city centre, and driven hastily by bureaucrats coming down from the adjacent office block to spend a night in the pub and drink away their guilty life. In front of the low horizontal limb of a giant sycamore nearby to this pub, there is a bench that's been worn down after many drunken nights; the bench's paint is worn by the many tramps that have spent night after night on it, the many drunks passing out on it and just your average common vandal looking to leave their mark in the crumbling neighbourhood, a desperate attempt to get some attention from the uncaring world. The evening of a hot day started with little wind, moving among the people, creating the effect of a Mediterranean bar. The shade climbed up the street towards the end. Outside the pub lone drunks sat noisily, like little grey sculptured stones, passers by hurriedly avoiding the stench of stale beer and urine. Then from the highway came the sound of sirens on a busy road, the drunks looked worriedly around, few even scattering into the shadows not wanting to be the one pulled away for a minor infringement of the law. Out of one of the flats a frightened kid hurried down the road and around the corner, fleeing from the familiar sound of â€Å"BOY, does your mother know you're out? † For a moment the place was lifeless, nothing was moving and there was an eerie stillness. Gradually two police cars emerged from the distance, creeping towards the pub only to pull up next to the park bench. Two policemen get out then pompously and arrogantly make their way to the pub while meeting the gazes of the nearby onlookers and revelling in the effect they had on the innocent drinkers. Everyone stirred, whether they were guiltily looking into their glasses or starting up a false conversation, they were all thinking the same thing, going over in their head all the crimes they had committed in their life, wondering about their innocence. Then, before the cops could even order a drink, a group of gangsters, covered from head to toe in black clothes, suddenly emerged from the shadows, their gold chains glittering in the dim light. They met eyes with the cops. There were a few moments when no-one moved before there was a crash as the cops outside table was overturned and used as temporary cover. Almost simultaneously, the gangsters dived behind some bushes surrounding the nearby park bench. The pubs customers were stunned in awe, they did not realise what was going on until the first piercing gunshot entered their ears, immediately followed by a blood curling feminine scream that lasted for only a few seconds before disappearing into the mixture of blood, gunshots and terrified yelps. At first neither side was giving in despite the incredible amount of frenzied bystanders. After a few moments of chaos people started stampeding and fighting with each other to get inside first. A mother tried to shield her baby in a pushchair as she ran for cover. A teenager films it with his phone from behind a bush hoping for the fame that usually preceded such events. No one is sure how long it lasted but all that was left was the bodies of the dead, the cries of the wounded and two extremely proud looking cops. No one dared to speak or even move, they rather just lay there, motionlessly. Then almost as if they knew their cue, birds started chirping and a gust of wind started blowing. And for a brief moment the chaos that had just consumed this little street subsided.