White Noise

On Wednesday night we had dinner and drinks with friends over at their place. I’ve not been taking Fluoxetine for that long so I’m still trying to figure out how it gets on with alcohol. Experiences with other antidepressants have been enough to put me off alcohol for many years now. Every now and again I take a chance and have a few drinks but it leaves me regretting the decision for several days afterwards as my mood plummets.

On our recent trip to London we had generous quantities of rosé with our meals without any unpleasant consequences. I was amazed. I used to say a house without wine is not a home, and the fridge usually had a bottle of champagne in it. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not suggesting I had a trust fund to dispense with at the local wine merchants. But it is fair to say that a significant portion of my student loan whilst studying architecture went towards supporting my friend, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. I think much of the rest fed the pool tables of south east London.

In conversation over dinner that night Alicia mentioned the fire. It’s been in and out of my mind since then. I used to live on the Old Kent Road… a road well known to players of Monopoly, the cheapest property on the board, and the training ground of boxer, Sir Henry Cooper. A man who was robbed of his chance to take down an unsuspecting Cassius Clay with his trademark left hook. How different history might have been if that day, Cassis hadn’t had his fall broken by the ropes, or his corner man hadn’t illegally treated him with smelling salts, or ripped his gloves to buy him recovery time.

It was a busy place to live, an artery into Central London, home to dubious night clubs hosting the occasional shooting, public houses with security, and side streets rife with petty theft. I had a room above a well known public house. A small room on the top floor, made smaller by the folding of the pitched roof and the intrusion of a set of wooden steps that led up to the tiny window, providing a primitive means of escape onto a small parapet wall four floors above the pavement. It was a place to sleep and a place to draw, all I really needed whilst I studied in London. That and clubs. Looking for student digs in London was a minor nightmare, made worse by the need to accommodate an A0 drawing board on a stand, something of an awkward room mate and travel companion.

One night I fell asleep like any other night, only unusually the black and white portable TV was switched on playing the soothing sounds of white noise to mark the end of the evening’s transmission. That exceptional circumstance would save my life. As the first broadcasts of breakfast television broke the early morning silence, I’d look up and see the black threads of smoke rising from behind the screen. What followed was my confused and sleepy attempts to make sense of what was happening. Not the TV, the bottom of the door, that is where the smoke was coming from. I opened the bedroom door and filled with fear from the confusion. Where was the window off the landing? It wasn’t there, nothing was there. It took a moment to understand what I was looking at. A new, live wall of impenetrable black smoke.

I flung the door closed… and shouted ‘fire’ as they do in the movies. My thoughts turned to the others in the building, friends. I opened the door again… I’d never seen anything like it. There was nothing but dense smoke, visibility zero. I could taste it. I couldn’t make it out there.

I had just enough time to put my jeans on, but that’s all. The smoked had filled the bedroom… and those funny little steps… that I used as a bookshelf… those funny little wooden steps that invaded my floor space and no other… provided a route onto that small parapet wall. I was terrified of heights, ordinarily. It didn’t seem to matter that day. I ran along the ledge to see what had happened to P, I called out for him and leaned round the corner of the building… and there he was… clinging to his third floor window frame with his big hands and just enough room for his toes on the ledge. And his first words “are you alright Med?” In the other direction M, I moved to his window and banged on the glass… my fist broke through. I remember at that moment worrying that the landlord would be angry at the broken window, I guess I hadn’t quite realised how serious the situation was. He woke and joined me on the parapet wall. Below people could hear us shouting for help. I shouted. I shouted as loud as I could… I realised afterwards that others mistook this for panic… I looked like I might have jumped… but I wanted to be heard. C was on the other side of the building, and her window had bars… how do you get other people to understand that in a hurry… I shouted.

When the fire crews arrived the frustration just grew. They refused to go in and look for her, insisting on getting us down first. I understand that… I don’t blame them at all… but I can’t help wondering if it could have turned out differently.

At St. Thomas’s Hospital, and at Southwark police station… I asked over and over if she made it. I should have guessed that what they weren’t telling me - told me everything I needed to know.

I look at that wall of smoke and wonder why I didn’t have the courage to go and get her. I wonder how different things could have been. I know people will say all sorts of things to reassure me, and they have… but I was the only one there. Nobody can know what I know. We all have things we have to live with.