hangers-on. This wasnât the gentrification of the Eighties City yuppie, however, this was a new kind of colonisation; the creatives carving out a new capital for themselves, literally in some cases, turning warehouses and old schools into lofts, studios. Everything had a neo-primitive look, as if the lack of amenities was something in itself to be proud of.
Larkin walked south from Old Street tube, down Rivington Street onto Curtain Road. Everyone he passed seemed to be wearing regulation fleeces and cargo pants with trainers on their feet. They all looked to be well into their twenties and thirties and dressed like seventeen-year-olds, except not that many seventeen-year-olds could afford the labels on the clothing and footwear they wore. Cropped hair and goatees were de rigueur for the men and the women all looked like they had shares in the Severe Black Glasses Company. The bars and cafes werenât just that, they were also galleries, film clubs and internet access centres. He caught snippets of converation as he went, overheard customers loudly declaim themselves to each other. For people who make a living from communication, thought Larkin, they didnât seem to have anything to say beyond self-promotion. Larkin couldnât talk: if spouting bullshit in pubs was a crime, heâd have been locked up a long time ago. There was a real buzz about the place, though, a happening vibe that was worlds away from the smug City wine bars that lay half a mile to the west.
He crossed the road and walked over Hoxton Square itself. Leafless trees and threadbare grass, February-bleak. It looked like the kind of place where Sorenson and Sipowitz of NYPD Blue would find a dead body. Maybe the artists liked it that way, found it inspiring. He walked further and found the fashionable people thinning, and an unexceptional working-class area taking over. Shops, pubs, cafes. Nowhere near as hip as round the corner, but not that bad. It even had the Hackney Community College, a beige brick building done out in the architectural style of Modern Aspirational.
Larkin began to wonder why Jackie Fairleyâs people hadnât followed up the lead â this area didnât seem so threatening. Once he reached the Atwell Estate he had his answer. There would be no ultra-hip coffee shops here, no artists revelling in artfully arranged lo-fi surroundings. This wasnât just a sink estate, but seemed to have been designed by the same architect who did the old Soviet gulags. It probably served the same purpose too, as a sinkhole down which had been poured all the undesirables in the area: problem families, fucked over-adults, fucked-up kids, misfits, outcasts and those who through no fault of their own were just plainly poor. Council flats whose inhabitants had slipped as far down the food chain as it was possible to go.
Perhaps it hadnât started out as a slum, but thatâs how it had ended up. Police, local authority and social workers were afraid to enter, leaving the purest form of Darwinism to flourish. A warren of huge tenement blocks, bolted-together concrete slabs that managed to look both impermanent and as if theyâd been there forever. As Larkin walked, he looked at the windows, wondered who was behind them, what wretched things had conspired to bring them here. The despair was almost palpable. Graffiti beginning to proliferate, wall-scrawled territorial, tribalist markings giving Dante-esque warnings to the unwary. Citizens stay out. Larkin entered.
He went down the deserted street, feeling unseen eyes chart his every step, a sharp-edged wind blowing dust and garbage around him. He had memorised the route, not wanting to bring out the A to Z for fear of looking like a tourist, and was tensed and ready for trouble. Were the streets really curling, taking him further and further towards the centre, spiralling deeper and deeper downwards, or was it just his imagination working on him? A slice of fear lodged
Larkin walked south from Old Street tube, down Rivington Street onto Curtain Road. Everyone he passed seemed to be wearing regulation fleeces and cargo pants with trainers on their feet. They all looked to be well into their twenties and thirties and dressed like seventeen-year-olds, except not that many seventeen-year-olds could afford the labels on the clothing and footwear they wore. Cropped hair and goatees were de rigueur for the men and the women all looked like they had shares in the Severe Black Glasses Company. The bars and cafes werenât just that, they were also galleries, film clubs and internet access centres. He caught snippets of converation as he went, overheard customers loudly declaim themselves to each other. For people who make a living from communication, thought Larkin, they didnât seem to have anything to say beyond self-promotion. Larkin couldnât talk: if spouting bullshit in pubs was a crime, heâd have been locked up a long time ago. There was a real buzz about the place, though, a happening vibe that was worlds away from the smug City wine bars that lay half a mile to the west.
He crossed the road and walked over Hoxton Square itself. Leafless trees and threadbare grass, February-bleak. It looked like the kind of place where Sorenson and Sipowitz of NYPD Blue would find a dead body. Maybe the artists liked it that way, found it inspiring. He walked further and found the fashionable people thinning, and an unexceptional working-class area taking over. Shops, pubs, cafes. Nowhere near as hip as round the corner, but not that bad. It even had the Hackney Community College, a beige brick building done out in the architectural style of Modern Aspirational.
Larkin began to wonder why Jackie Fairleyâs people hadnât followed up the lead â this area didnât seem so threatening. Once he reached the Atwell Estate he had his answer. There would be no ultra-hip coffee shops here, no artists revelling in artfully arranged lo-fi surroundings. This wasnât just a sink estate, but seemed to have been designed by the same architect who did the old Soviet gulags. It probably served the same purpose too, as a sinkhole down which had been poured all the undesirables in the area: problem families, fucked over-adults, fucked-up kids, misfits, outcasts and those who through no fault of their own were just plainly poor. Council flats whose inhabitants had slipped as far down the food chain as it was possible to go.
Perhaps it hadnât started out as a slum, but thatâs how it had ended up. Police, local authority and social workers were afraid to enter, leaving the purest form of Darwinism to flourish. A warren of huge tenement blocks, bolted-together concrete slabs that managed to look both impermanent and as if theyâd been there forever. As Larkin walked, he looked at the windows, wondered who was behind them, what wretched things had conspired to bring them here. The despair was almost palpable. Graffiti beginning to proliferate, wall-scrawled territorial, tribalist markings giving Dante-esque warnings to the unwary. Citizens stay out. Larkin entered.
He went down the deserted street, feeling unseen eyes chart his every step, a sharp-edged wind blowing dust and garbage around him. He had memorised the route, not wanting to bring out the A to Z for fear of looking like a tourist, and was tensed and ready for trouble. Were the streets really curling, taking him further and further towards the centre, spiralling deeper and deeper downwards, or was it just his imagination working on him? A slice of fear lodged
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