Walks in the night
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggests. There is no debate. He wants to go for a walk. We are going for a walk.
It is eight in the evening, in March. It is dark and cold, but the harsh edges of winter have worn away. The city is lit up. It could never not be. The blackout blankets over the city that warded off Blitzkreig are an almost-forgotten memory.
Tonight’s walk is like many perambulations together. He knows the city well, a true son of London. There is a tale for every street, from a life richly lived and a brain that never forgets. I am envious that one place can hold so many cherished memories. Mine are scattered and it feels impossible to find all the pieces to put my story together.
We pass beautiful stucco homes. One of them reminds him of where he used to live. I see a room filled with bookshelves, just like today. But he tells me what his life was like then. A different time, with fewer responsibilities. Every stop on our walks is another tile in the mosaic of this person, the whole becoming clearer as more fragments are set in place.
We walk to the water. The Thames glitters, the night obscuring the water’s poison. The only people on the pathway with us are harried joggers, fitting in a last burst of activity before turning in. Soon there is no one else. He points out a balcony where a young man committed suicide, after he fell in with the oligarch crowd. The fall looks grim.
We reach Millbank, the former headquarters of the Labour and Conservative parties, now home to innumerable lobbyists and thinktanks. He tells me of the student protests in London in 2010, when they stormed Millbank in response to tuition cost hikes. The building is serene now, and unbroken.
Soon we solemnly pass the MI5 building, with MI6 looming across the river. These are Britain’s security services, out in full view. I feel like I’ve never seen these buildings before, somehow, mirroring the surreptitiousness of the services themselves.
We loop around, pausing on a bridge. The Palace of Westminster is illuminated in a papyrus-coloured hue, haunted with the promise of democracy. We stand in awe for a moment. There is no one else on the bridge. We both feel privileged to be here.
We amble back to the flat, taking an extreme detour to visit the Army Museum. It is closed this late, but we can still admire the tank outside. These tanks are being used in Ukraine, says a plaque. He gives me a lesson in modern cavalry units, and it reminds of playing Civilization VI. In the game, horsemen magically and very logically evolve into tanks as technology improves.
Towards the end of the walk, we pass a Qatari-backed hotel development. I learn about how the Candy brothers, property developers, were shortchanged in this deal, after a quick word from Prince Charles. They are still very rich.
We arrive at the apartment building. My head is spinning, brimming with brutal contradictions and quirks about the place I now call home. My heart also feels full. It is on these walks that I learn the most about the past that has made him, him. I’m not a fan of long walks in the night, but if he is the guide, I could never say no.