Fully English

CHAPTER 3

Someone broke into the flat and tried to kill Karma.

This was the phrase that my housemate Prudence spouted to everyone who lent an ear including our two other housemates – Hamid, Willy, Willy's flame of the week and the whole of our block – Jupiter Terrace. The gossip was flying thick and fast around campus and for that reason, I couldn't see myself going back there until the buzz died down. And so, Tasha's couch became my bed for the next few days and I booked the soonest coach I could afford back to my mother's house in London.

On account of my hospital stay, the university both booked a meeting with my counsellor and extended my work deadlines but I've chosen to neglect both. I am not in any correct frame of mind to consider the affairs of campus life - I just need to be in London and far away from here so I can recuperate at home, even if that being with my mother. Besides, I'm sure she could use the company and I could definitely use the free meals and vacant shower.

The coach pulls up to the stop and I alongside a dozen other early risers file in a line at the entrance the way non-Londoners do. One by one we show our tickets to the driver and ascend the stairs to the seats lining either side of the coach. Immediately I travel to the back and settle down in the window seat before dropping my hand luggage between my legs. I keep my head down as I look at my phone in search for the perfect Spotify playlist to keep me company.

"Hey."

I look up to see a male form, the face obscured by a huge bag which is being heaved into the overhead compartment. I don't know why people use those things when there was always room around the seats.  

"Hi," I answer flatly.

"How are you?" The face becomes visible soon after and I realise he is familiar. I've definitely seen him before, some time at the beginning of the semester but I can't pinpoint exactly where. He hangs with Otis, the president of the African Caribbean Society.

Ahh yes, now I remember him. He was the token white boy that everyone spoke about - the kind that calls your mother Auntie and has a playlist of Reggae and Afro-beats on command.

"I said: how are you?" he repeats. Slowly, he lowers his tall frame into the seat beside me and beams – his chin a mosaic of thin dark hairs that move with his jaw as he talks.

"I'm good."

I unwind my tangled headphones and prepare to indulge in a session of slow R'n'B jams: R Kelly was calling my name.

"You know it's courtesy to ask how someone is after they ask you how you are right?" He smirks leeringly in my periphery and I catch myself. 

"Right, sorry," I apologise. "My bad." I gesture to my watch and feign a slight yawn – it was just gone 5am. Considering it was the crack of dawn, a slip at social etiquette could surely be excused.

He smiles again, this time with less mischief and stuffs his hands inside his jacket pockets. "Your name?"

"Karma," I wait a few seconds to tease him before parroting the question back. "Your name?"

"George." He extends a hand and I clasp it respectfully. "Karma," he enunciates. "Your mum chose that name?"

"Uh-huh," I glance out of the window and back at him. "Your mum chose your name?"

His eyes linger away from me to the back of the seat in front of him and I watch his profile as he talks. "Yeah, she named me in honour of my dad. I'm George Reginald Levantine the fifth," he gestures theatrically with his hands. "But you can call me George."