Across the city, past the cathedrals to authority and the chapels to oblivion, across the tame river and under the arches of an abandoned bridge left to the nightwalkers and the nocturnals denisons of the city a lone guitarist bashed out a few rudimentary chords to entertain his watchers. He felt for them. He really did.
The front of the house, anonymous and unmarked, crumbled in pace with London's dynasties. It had witnessed court cases, beheadings and coups, or so it claimed to the casual passer by. It suggested weight and history and intrigue and importance, certainly to the watchers. They reclined against the doors in their own daydreams, awaiting an aural prompt from headphones, awaiting an answer. What they got instead was a timid, counterfeit reggae.
"We, oh, we set the world alight
To set, set, set all our people right
And the righteous fight
Was always on our side.
When, oh, when the cry it sounds
We'll be here and all around
And we'll hold our ground
No I, no I, no I will never run and hide.
I'll never run and hide.
I'll never run and hide."
The voice was something of an enigma. The figure they watched entering and leaving, day after day, was substantial. The voice was fragile, vulnerable. It spoke of uncertainty. The body spoke in strength. The voice spoke in cliche, the body in stereotype. Still they sat, awaiting answers.