Rotten Lungs
Wednesday, June 14th, 00:40. Callum Lack had been at work for an hour. ‘One down, four to go’: the motivational mantra inside his head began…
Author: T.A Kay
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Wednesday, June 14th, 00:40. Callum Lack had been at work for an hour. ‘One down, four to go’: the motivational mantra inside his head began…
Wednesday, June 14th, 00:40. Callum Lack had been at work for an hour. 'One down, four to go': the motivational mantra inside his head began its nightly duty of propelling him towards the finish line of his shift, scrubbing whichever Tube station he was told to. After squeezing his girth into his high-vis jacket, working hard at the zip to make the two sides join up, he had collected the industrial pipe cleaners from the depot, jumped in the van and driven roughly 15 minutes to the job. Just before the end of Tuesday, June 13th, he had arrived at Latimer Road Station and climbed listlessly up the stairs to the overground platform.
"I've been cleaning so many overground stations these days that it don't even feel like I work for the Underground anymore," he griped to his partner, Leroy.
"Nah, man, it’s nice working in the fresh air innit. When you're in dem tunnels, it feels like you're gonna see a ghost or summin, proper spooky like that," replied Leroy through his pearl-white teeth. If by ' fresh air' Leroy was referring to a ubiquitous, suffocating smell of weed and chicken wings punctuated by the sounds of screeching tires of getaway drivers and the rally cries of rival West London gangs, then he might have had a point. But Callum wanted nothing more than to go home to his frozen burritos and sleeping pills.
"Yo, Callum move a bit faster, man, I'm halfway through the first railing but you've barely moved since we started - I want to go home ya know!" Leroy's pseudo-encouragement rebounded into the abyss of lost platitudes and speeches targeted at Callum. As he sluggishly brushed chewing gum and tar off of the tracks, he remembered his younger brother, Angus. The last time they had met, the night had ended with Angus launching a barrage of criticism at Callum; all the smug gloats and ego boosts from their parents spilling out, breaking the once-formidable walls of small talk, battering straight into Callum's feelings. Callum hadn't had a reply; how could he? Angus had paid for the meal, the drinks, the cab. They had both had to grapple with life in their own way but Angus had come out fighting, with his own apartment, a hot Bosnian wife and Arsenal season tickets, leaving Callum wallowing in the dust, in his mother's attic, overweight, with chronic back pain and an Odeon loyalty card.
00:50. The three tower blocks stood like totem poles, keeping watch over North Kensington. Each time Callum cleaned Latimer Road Station at night, the twisted boyish wonder of what would happen if one, or all of them were to just topple over, managed to push itself to somewhere in the confines of his mind. On June 14th, for some reason, it was at the forefront. Angus and Emina lived in Grenfell Tower, the furthest one from Latimer Road. Twenty-third floor, second from top. They had been there for three years. Callum had seen through the hypocrisy when Angus had explained to their mother why that’s where he had chosen to buy his own place.
“Why would you choose to go and live in council housing, son? I'm pretty sure the law treats you better than that!” his mother had exclaimed, through drags on a menthol.
“I just want to feel more connected, you know. I feel like lawyers are wrongly stereotyped as being, you know, snobbish. But with me, it's like, yeah, I could go home to my ivory tower, except it's not made of ivory. I’s made of bloody concrete,'”he had replied, with his charming smirk. Of course, their mother had bought it, no challenge at all. But to Callum, Angus's false humility was sickening. Angus had never cared about those lower than him; what he cared about was inflating his own ego at the expense of others.
PUFF, PUFF: Callum’s inhaler sprang into action as he began to suffer yet again from the combination of faulty, twenty-eight year-old respiratory valves, and playing with Pokemon cards under the bike sheds during his high school gym classes
"Whew!" he exhaled deeply, tapping into the familiar relief that he wasn’t dying of an asthma attack. He leaned heavily on the side of the platform, brush hanging lightly between his cylindrical fingers.
"Callum, bruv. You’re so wack!" yelled Leroy from the other side of the tracks.
"Thanks, Leroy, appreciate your support," Callum muttered.
"Nah, bro. I don’t mean no negativity or anythin like dat, I just think you should start going gym or even just stop getting Mcdonalds before work of SOMETHIN, man. You sound like some messed up whale over there."
Callum didn’t have a response. Maybe he would have one if he were clever, or funny. Through gritted teeth he found himself resenting Leroy’s charisma and athletic physique, and Angus’s … Angus’s everything - but mostly his wife. He leaned onto his cleaning equipment and resumed his war against the debris of commuter London.
00:53. Callum was behind. They were supposed to be deployed to two stations in five hours. He had only a quarter of the mileage completed and given the size of Latimer Road, Callum wasn’t finishing anytime soon. Leroy, for all his cheeriness, was the kind of guy who would leave him behind, ready to face the terrors of nighttime London, and the reprimand from Kenny the next morning. Fresh from the embarrassment of his asthma attack, Callum wasn’t going to let any crumbs or stains escape him. He remembered that it was his mother’s birthday in two days - he didn’t have a present. Even if he did, Angus’s would be better. The year before, in his 500th attempt to win her favor back from Angus, he had saved for months to buy a Swarovski necklace that he knew would look good on her. Angus had bought her a book; a second-hand book, a book that she had been meaning to read for years and one that would keep her occupied during retirement and take pride of place on her old bookshelf and could be shared with her friends at the book club. Callum had given up - Angus could get their mother a stone this year, and it would be welcomed.
"Yo, Callum, check it, there’s flames in the windows!" exclaimed Leroy, halting Callum’s thoughts like a drunk driver trying to avoid a pedestrian. Sure enough, there was a noticeable flicker coming from the middle of one of the towers.
"Looks like someone's midnight snack went a bit wrong!" he replied, pleased with himself. It was rare that he managed a quick response, even rarer to try a witty one.
"Nah, man, that’s messed up. I can smell it from here. The flames are getting bigger, I swear," Leroy added, with uncharacteristic concern.
Callum began to hear a crackling sound, like when girls used to pretend their line was weak when he called them. He looked over again. The flames were coming from Grenfell. Sirens began to sound, drawing closer. Now there was also some frantic shouting from the ground. The flames began to extend from the windows to the outside of the building. They were getting longer and angrier. They began to leap upwards, to where Angus was sleeping.
"Ohh, nah, nah, this can’t be real, man!" gasped Leroy,
It was real. It smelled and sounded real. With the urgency of a superhero upon realizing his lateness to a mission, Callum charged down the tracks, midriff bouncing.
"What da ….??" said Leroy as Callum pushed past him, eyes set on the staircase that led to the street level.
"My g, you’re gonna die, man! Slow down," Leroy added, as Callum’s laboured breathing was reaching competition level with the noise of the fire.
Oblivious to Leroy’s pleas, Callum was envisioning his climb up the side of the tower to save his brother. He couldn’t imagine the horror it would be to experience a peaceful sleep interrupted by impending death at the hands of an inferno. The crazy thought sprang into Callum’s head that his job after all, was really good. It was easy. And it was safe. But Angus in the tower had no protection; the flames would not bend to his natural charisma, the fire would be immune to his successes.
"Nearly there… nearly… there." Callum could hear more sirens, and wild tribal cries, but his body was now betraying him. He seemed to be getting slower. By the time he reached the stairway rising out of the station he had to focus hard just to clasp his left hand on the stair rail.
“Like Spiderman!”, he psyched himself, attempting a four stairs at a time jump, when he noticed his body wasn’t following his hand. Amidst the distant roar of the fire, Callum Lack heard a defeating thud as he slapped against the dry platform like a captured fish, listening, powerless, as the fire got stronger.
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