existence to contemplate. How can you manage to imagine the length of a billion years when you can’t contemplate the feel of your own life span? We have memories but can you explain how long time feels?
I’m turning on the spot, looking around me, so much space. It’s like standing in the middle of a church emptied of all its pews and religious icons, the trinkets of religion replaced with the trinkets of existence now extinct. A cathedral of nature. Which route to take? Which direction to lead our feet? I know Sam’s watching me, awaiting a decision. Logic dictates that we follow the route most lives here take when inspired by the skeleton standing before us. I point in the direction of the dinosaur exhibition. Our feet guide us to it.
Trust us to choose a day when part of the exhibition is boarded off, a day when hundreds of people want to see the dinosaurs and their history. It’s depressing, a reflection of modern life, I definitely don’t remember it being like this last time. Join the queue and walk in a circle, a continuous loop of tourists. How can we be expected to see anything when our attention is sucked towards this monotonous pattern of mankind, who through their excitement and awe can’t comprehend that they pass the same points twice, their minds focusing only on what they are expected to focus upon.
‘I don’t like this,’ Sam whispers next to me.
‘I know, it’s messed up.’ Too many conversations going on around me. Too many things to concentrate upon. Too many faces, people, dead matter.
‘It’s just a loop. We’re walking in a loop, in file and no one notices.’ He raises his hands to his face and wipes them across it.
‘It was never like this, maybe it’s just because they’ve closed off that section.’
‘Maybe. I wanna get out of here. It doesn’t feel right.’
‘Okay.’ I know what he feels, a swooping claustrophobia descending upon us. Too much to see, too much to deal with, too much space yet not enough to feel alone, not enough to breathe.
We rush from the exhibition, on its boundary there’s a feeling of relief, a feeling that everything will be okay. Hope. ‘Shall we try another exhibition?’ I suggest.
‘We could do.’
‘The human body?’
He smiles, such a beautiful smile. ‘Yeah, that should be a laugh.’
Smiling, happy, we approach the doors. My hand reaches out and grips the handle. Fear. Inexplicable fear runs from my fingers to my brain. Don't. Don't go in there. Nothing good can come of it. Frozen to the spot I look at Sam. His eyes meet mine. He nods, he knows.
‘Let's get out of here,’ he says, gripping me by the arm and leading me away from the door. ‘This was such a bad idea.’
‘Sam, how were we to know?’
‘We’re fucking stupid, we could have predicted.’
The entrance hall. So much bigger than before, the ceilings higher, the boundaries wider, so much fuller with life. The noise is unbelievable, so many voices merging together, hundreds of different conversations crossing and infringing upon each other. A merge of language where all words are indistinguishable, indistinguishable except for the words ‘don’t’ and ‘leave‘. They float all around us, wrapping their fingers across our bodies. The murmur, then ‘don’t’ murmur ‘leave.’
‘What the fuck?’ I stand, turn on the spot, lost in an open space.
‘Dom, let's go.’
‘Don’t’ murmur ‘leave.’
‘Can you hear that Sam?’
‘Hear what?’ Obviously he can't.
We start to move, as quickly as we can. Too many people in our way, blocking our escape. Eyes looking at us, watching, disapproving. How dare you come here off your face. Step after step. Murmur ‘don’t’ murmur ‘leave.’ I wipe my hand across my face. Try to not let all the noise hold me in one place like an invisible prison. Murmur ‘don’t’ murmur ‘leave.’ Fuck, why are so many people saying those words so soon after each other? Murmur ‘don’t’ murmur...
Open air. Cool January air rushing over us, silent, relaxing, free. Such a blessed wind blowing away the noise of the crowds that now surround us as we march with purpose down the steps and to the gates. It looks like a film set, like we’ve walked through the wrong door and into a movie. How many times have people walked solemnly from the museum to be met by a scene such as this? My mind casts back, I can’t help but imagine what this scene must have looked like a hundred years ago. This museum’s bricks standing unchanged and firm for decades, so many eyes falling upon it and seeing the same. A perfect place, a piece of the past housing the past for the benefit of the future.
‘I’m cold.’ Sam's voice.
I look at him. ‘Cold?’
‘Yeah, it’s got colder since we went in.’
We’re not exactly dressed for a January day. Blue jeans, t-shirt and a hooded top, both in virtually the same colours, both our tops featuring skulls. Well, we were wearing that but somehow, at some point during our stay in the museum, Sam’s hoodie has disappeared. He stands before me, his torso covered only by his thin t-shirt.
‘Where’d your top go?’ I ask.
‘I took it off.’
‘No wonder you’re cold.’ I pull down the rolled up sleeves of my top.
‘Cold?’ He smiles, his teeth chattering together.
I smile back slyly. ‘A bit.’
We step against the edge of the path, making sure we don’t block the constant movement of people. Sam’s bag is swung from his shoulders and placed on the floor. Our movements are sluggish, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. We look like two old people huddled together, no, it’s not such a loving image, we look like two addicts huddled together not for a loving display of closeness but for the need to protect our weakened bodies from the atmosphere, searching through our bag, looking for any hidden narcotics that will aid in making the day go quicker. I pull Sam’s top from the bag and hand it to him, he slips into it quickly.
‘Any better?’ I ask.
‘A bit.’ He smiles weakly. ‘You know what we look like?’
‘I know, let's not talk about it and just get out of here, okay?’
Walk, just keep walking. I need a cigarette. I ask and Sam opens the pack for me. My hand goes to take one then stops mid-flow. ‘What the hell?’
‘What?’ Sam looks at the pack. ‘What the fuck?’
‘That’s fucking sick, they can’t look like that surely.’
The cigarettes look cancerously up at us. Their filters rotten, discoloured by the mould growing inside of them. Different colours, different shades of death. Greens, browns, flecks of black. To smoke these would be to smoke your last, the cancer growing fresh before you even light up, breathing in spores of death in addition to the smoke. We’re seeing the cigarettes as they look to the eyes of the dead. Death’s little game. You really need to smoke? Well, take your pick of these.
‘We can’t smoke those.’ Sam closes the lid of the packet. ‘There’s got to be something wrong with them.’
‘Maybe they always look like that but we never notice.’
‘Well.’ He drops the pack on the floor. ‘We’re not taking any chances.’
So what now? No cigarettes and in front of us a road filled with constant traffic, no gaps, no relaxation in congestion. ‘We’re not going to be able to get across there. Sam, I can see something going wrong.’
He nods. ‘But that only leaves one option of escape.’
We look at each other, dread in our eyes. The tunnel. The long walk through the crowded tunnel. One route and no escaping it. We walk and find a bench to sit on, delaying the inevitable.
Sat there, Sam rummages through his bag. We’d brought provisions, a faint attempt at preventing things like this from happening. Water and two giant packets of crisps. Sam opens a pack, we try to eat. Nothing. It burns, grates sharply against our throats. Drink the water, hydrate the body, it’s about the only thing we can do. Sit, relax, stay calm. We’ll get out of t
his area, we’ll get home. Trust us to end up in a place where the only quick way home rests under our feet.
‘What’s that smell?’ I ask, turning my head to look at the bushes behind us.
Sam sniffs. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Mushrooms. I can smell fucking mushrooms.’
We raise from our seat, the bitter smell evicting us from our location, forcing us along. Everywhere that smell, disgusting, potent. Then nothing, the smell of air. We’re at the entrance to the subway. I step back from it. The smell of mushrooms forcing me to approach it again. This is our only hope of salvation and even the atmosphere is telling us that, forcing us to get moving. Breathe, look, stay calm. One foot after another edge your way in.
A giant, never-ending tunnel stretching before our eyes. An extension of the Tube, styled the same, looks the same, smells the same, the floor worn by millions of footsteps. We walk quickly, ignoring everything, biting back any fear, any discomfort. Press forward through the claustrophobia, its presence thick in the air, its grip pushing us back, making us wish to turn back, but there is no choice for us, escape is the only option.
The tunnel exits out into South Kensington station, just a few steps, join the queue entering the Underground, walk through the barriers and then journey home. An easy series of events, easy to say, easy to think. Easy to hope. One problem, we can’t get near the Tube entrance, something prevents us. I don’t know Sam’s reasons, but I can’t breathe near them. It feels like a hand grasping