Reversible

London, afternoon, quickly. The warm dark body lies on the virus dark road. The virus dark road loads up with warm dark bodies, a surprised group, eyes obscure dull. Raised voices excoriate the ear. Arms broaden, fingers point. Retail laborers in bookie-red Shirts, ill defined Primark pants. Lager bellied men wear following paper caps, the weak smell of seared chicken. There are hoods, topped covers, strong puffed coats. There are thin dark covers, scarred and pointed shoes, red ties, 12 PM coats. A couple of in the group lift youngsters, five or six years of age, best case scenario, held close, faces protected, little heads drove profound into grown-up necks. Fresh introductions dart like raindrops, join the mass. Staccato blue lights, the murmur of prattle. They pool, flood, flood advances, nearly filling the roundabout stage in which the body rests, spilling.

A bluebottle multitude of cops safeguards the circle, attempting to oppose the flood. Visor-clad officials circle the body, grasped by dull gravity; others without headgear stand side by side, confronting the group, seeing nobody. Blue-and-white tape, the rehashed request not to cross. A half-raised self-loader held by the clear police officer who remains close to a Honda Municipal, entryways open, motor running. His associate talks into his ear. He is gesturing, not tuning in. He investigates the group, gesturing, not hearing. Blue lights line up with the mechanical falter of the helicopter, worrying like a mosquito. Its motor floods and subsides, similar to the group.

The blood underneath the body eases back to a stream and stops. It makes a sluggish get back inwards. There's a little shift of gaseous tension, causing filaments on the fallen baseball cap to influence like kelp; nobody sees this movement. There's a quiet in the air. Sound vanishes. The body starts to mix.

Individually, individuals leave. They don't hustle. They just step into the sunset from which they came. The eyes of grown-ups augment, jaws drop, mouths expand and snap shut. Youngsters' appearances ascend from shoulders, hands are eliminated from their eyes and they see everything. They extend their necks, minuscule hands spread starlike on grown-up shoulders.

The group step back. The dubious suits, the bewildered office laborers, the furious retail colleagues. Chicken shop stewards, the cabbie, Bluetooth squinting in his ear. They step back until there is nobody left except for a triplet of young fellows, Polo seals on their chests, hands overhead, bringing toward the police.

The police sparkle and mix, lift and isolated. Arms and legs cylinder hard, five officials backstepping quicker than the group. They dash away from the body until they enter a stopped ARV, three toward the back, two in front. The vehicle acquires life and thunders into the distance. One of the excess officials, a tall, emaciated lady, pulls in blue-and-white tape, looking at the young fellows with a glare hidden by an undetectable sheen. At the point when the tape is a tight blue-and-white snail in her grasp, she likewise withdraws, moves inside a vehicle with her accomplice, turns over the motor and they roll away in reverse. The visored official joins his visored partners, where they accumulate like a grouped clench hand, self loading rifles raised and pointing.

The body lifts, outlandishly. Ten degrees, twenty degrees, ninety; the fallen baseball cap flips from the beginning, the head, and the man is half hunched like he could run. He holds his left arm up, fingers going after sky, one brilliant palm confronting the officials while his right hand grips his heart. Drops of sweat fly towards his sanctuaries, as his head turns left, right. Thicker dabs of red tunnel into three puckered openings in his Nike windcheater, uncovered underneath his fingers. He squints one eye, like he's winking.

He isn't.

Little dark spots jump from his chest like bugs. Three tufts of shoot are sucked into the rifle barrel. He stands and lifts his right hand to his flickering eye, nearly wipes, and afterward the two palms are raised. He is shaking his head. His mouth is moving quick. His eyes are moving rapidly. Streetlamps abandon orange to dim.

The young fellow is venturing into the Municipal. The cops are venturing across the road. The Polo young people on the contrary roadside stop people in their tracks, starting to boast that street man's opportunity has arrived, and seconds later, of Wiley's tweets about Kanye. They're giggling. They can't really understand. In the city, the young fellow drops his palms and hunches inside the City. He sits, puts his hands on the directing haggle. The cops quit yelling, they back further away. Adjacent to the void ARV, they bring down their quick firing rifles until the weapons are pointing at the dull road. Three get into the shadowed back seat. Two move in front. They roll in reverse, away. The Polo adolescents come to the closest corner. A blaze of enlightenment from Costcutter lights, and they are no more.

The young fellow arrives at down, beginning the City. He places the vehicle in gear and its tires turn anticlockwise, following the ARV; he could nearly be in pursuit. He isn't. He's investigating the rearview, biting on his inward cheek, a propensity he has gained from his mom. He's making an effort not to see his blue-colored Skagen. A prickling restlessness, palms shining like soggy earth; his hand lifts from the haggle wonders about this. He recollects that; he should watch the street.

He needs to message his young lady, yet he's reluctant about the possibility of pulling over. He maintains that his right foot should fall, yet knows where it will lead. Yards roll underneath him, and he quits focusing, disregards his rearview reflect. There's a tune he doesn't perceive on the radio. He taps the directing wheel in time. His palms are dry. He could try and be singing; it's difficult to tell. There are blue lights in each mirror. He hasn't taken note.

Uproarious blue darkens into dark quiet, yet he doesn't see this by the same token. Not many walkers notice the ARV rolling in reverse, or the baritone motor. Baseball-covered young people follow its section, just tearing their eyes away as it leaves. Expansive sections of men duck towards the clear mass of shops, conceal their appearances, loosen up shoulders and return to upstanding positions. An old lady attempts to slacken her spine, turns past the point of no return and grimaces, detecting a presence she can't exactly see, pulling her streetcar towards her stomach. School children in cockeyed overcoats and hindered ties, pink Nikes and petalled socks, lift their look from the asphalt and become terrible picture, before they retreat into a dusty corner store. The twisted entryway shivers shut.

The young fellow palms the directing wheel anticlockwise, turns left. The miserable looked at windows of unkempt houses very close to feebleness. The backward splash of thick green hoses inside a hand vehicle wash, a torpid funeral car and driver. Mustard block new-forms and the sparkle of a Metro store, tired ladies remained on corners the nearer he will home. They do whatever it takes not to gaze in; he make an effort not to gaze out. He doesn't see the green Volkswagen van creep behind him for another half-mile. He palms the wheel left once more, maneuvers into an impasse road. The green Volkswagen openings onto the side of his block. He passes by its standing by thunder, slips into an occupants' sound, and stop his motor. Taps his pockets ceremonially to ensure everything is there. He gets out and extends, twisted in reverse, coming to towards sky.

The sun on his cheeks, a periodic chilled breeze. Interwoven blue and dim above. The metallic gab of a house radio, yells of neighbors' children playing football. His windcheater ripples like a banner. There is shivering warmth inside him. It's bathwater delicate, alleviating, and briefly he grins. He waves at the children, who jump to their feet, shout his name.

Beam.

He is.

He doesn't see the man on a traffic intersection talking into his lapel. He misses dire eyes that filter the street and fingers squeezed against one ear. The desolate purpose.

He goes into the house, back and further back, drenched in turmeric walls, impersonation privateers' guides of back home, studio photographs of himself, his mom and problematic sister. He eases back in the limited entry. Grins more extensive. His telephone is squeezed on his left side ear, he's smiling. It makes him look more youthful. The telephone drops into his pants pocket. He enters the kitchen.

His mom holds him close like a commitment, one hand getting a handle on the rear of his head. Her eyes are closed. She shakes him peacefully, like he were as yet a kid. She knows and doesn't have any idea. He is mumbling about being late, yet she will not tune in. On the feasting table a plate is spotted with rice shards and pink fragments of curried sheep, dull cutlery laid inclined, fork supporting blade, a smirched glass guard next to them. He wrestles from his windcheater and tosses it onto the rear of a seat. He sits.