Disturbing

Going through the blocks out to lunch the slaughter scene of the dark young men down on the concrete of the Voids again. Splayed every side as if just popped minutes before by a deranged American shooter. This afternoon there did not seem to be a single sheet of cardboard beneath any of them. The first weary head below Block 8 lay on its side without any cradling of hands. Beaten and weary. Another young Indian had chosen one of the iron benches along the sheltered walkway for repose. Swivelled around to one side the chap’s back was turned to the path, head resting on his hands on the top rail of the seat. Catching him there the reminder of children’s Hide-and-seek, the one chosen covering eyes while the gang scampered for their places. Presumably even in such a posture a few minutes would restore the young guy. As he sat twisted on his bench like that a young Malay happened to pass, taking the angled, unsheltered path over the grass and striding along on what may have been the sweaty soles of his plastic sandals, new purchase possibly. SqueakSqueakSqueak rapid tempo as was quite uncommon in the Tropics. The children’s variety squeaky trainers offered parents some kind of monitor of their venturesome pets. Here the squealing footfalls only produced annoyance. Certainly for the hot and flustered Indian labourer in the company issue blue polo seeking some shut-eye on his bench. A bleary-eyed weary head turned to cast a withering look at the retreating intruder.