Summer came and Alfred found work again. Alfred Joined London archaeological services as an experienced archaeologist and enjoyed his work.
He woke up without a sigh but a deep breath to start the labour of man. He did not wish to stay under the covers, even though Citra lay beside him, sweet, asleep and loving him.
The story of man’s struggle lay under streets and car parks. Layer by layer he scraped away the silt to reveal all left behind.
The bracelet fallen in mud and forgotten, for which a girl cried for, for days.
The coin to feed a family fallen between the floor boards.
He would never know the true story of these objects but he knew once they were owned and precious.
On a warm Friday when his pay came in, he rushed home, smiling on the tube, listening to his music. He never loved the concrete tomb as he did that day.
He couldn’t wish more than to go home to be with Citra.
He opened the door so quickly, it swung open and it hit the back wall.
He hunched as he ran up the stairs of his cramped flat. He was taking off his crisp white shirt as he came into the bedroom.
She was lying there in her light blue jeans, listening to music and smiling excitedly. He got to her before she could reach him, hugging against the bed. They began to kiss violently.
He began making his way down, kissing down her body. He began pulling at her jean buttons when he saw the foreign secretaries laptop down the side of the bed. He slowed, but did not stop. This was now something which concerned him but he thought it could wait.
He began to think, but the animalistic instinct took over and they loved each other until they reached their apex.
She left the bed to use the bathroom. They showered together and prepared for sleep.
She filled up a glass of water and crushed 3 sleeping tablets and dropped them in his glass, waited anxiously till the powder had diluted and gave Alfred his nightly glass of water.
Alfred had fallen asleep in the almost instant he hit the bed.
He remembered her kissing him on his forehead and telling him “I love you and even after what happens, I want you to love me like you did the St George’s day, the night we danced under Starlight”.
She had taken her bag and a small suitcase she hid behind the door. A cab was waiting.
In the early morning, the ground began to heave, blue lights lit the brick corridor. A light in the torrent of darkness.
Men in black Kevlar marched, marched in the moonlight, through the corridor, blue ribbons tearing through the night.
Their boots tramped the silver floor. A ghostly galleon raged in the beginning of light sky.
The army moved closer to their enemy, a sleeping man.
Oh the innocence sleep so well. To have ambition, is to be robbed of sleep.
The men in black fell from the sky and into the flat.
The men in black on the street fired through the door, slamming it against the wall.
Black powder fury, the enlightenment of a working class home should not have been through bullets from a policemen's rifle.
Traitor to the state, but if the state is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent, why would they sink so low. What great shame do they hide? Why did a boy have to die?
Why did a sleeping man, have a 5.56mm bullet enter his occipital lobe and exit orifice in the right temporal lobe?
The moment a light was drowned and the world had lost a smile, a mother her world and a father his legacy.
The coroner did not speak and the press were not called.
For what is good for the Queen Honey bee is good for all who serve her. BBC did not spread the word and the Newspapers thought it more important to judge women’s skin.
Only the movement spoke of the fate of the dead man.
This is how you disassemble someone’s life.