by Tyler, Terry
In the office, a red-haired, bearded guy in a hoodie is organising a muddle of random items into brightly coloured plastic cartons. People's personal belongings, I'm guessing. He smiles at me. "Can I help?"
Ah. What do I say?
"I'm not sure―I hope so. I'm, er, a journalist. I was hoping to write a, um, community interest piece. About, you know, the homeless." Even to my own ears I sound like an idiot. "I wondered if anyone would let me interview them."
The smile fades from his face. "Where are you from, the local paper? Or a news site?"
Shit. "I'm freelance. I thought I'd write the piece and―"
He looks away, and continues placing books, photos and pieces of jewellery into the containers; each is labelled with a name, in black marker. "You're a blogger."
"Yes, I am, but my site's read by thousands." And suddenly I really do want to write this piece.
"Don't think so, sorry."
"Can you tell me why not?"
He stops, breathes in, then shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to face me. "Because the people who use our shelter aren't oddities to be exploited by bloggers" ―he practically spits the word out―" who get them to talk about their bad luck, write up their oh-so-heart-rending story, tweet it with some bullshit about 'raising awareness', then forget all about them." He shuts his eyes, tightly, then opens them again; I've never been looked at with such disdain. "The last one like you encouraged one of our guests to pour out her heart and soul, then splashed her private life all over the fucking internet. Pictures and all. Kid thought she'd actually cared, that she wanted to help, but of course she never heard from her again. It set her back weeks."
I hear movement behind me, and glance back; a few people have gathered in the canteen doorway. Blank faces stare at me. They don't look hostile. They're just staring.
"I'm sorry," I say. I've intruded. And he's right. I mean, I do actually give a shit, but I mainly wanted to do the piece for the good of my blog, which will now be my only source of income. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
"You want to do something for the homeless? Give up your time to work here, for no pay. Do some fund-raising. Petition that arsehole Guy Morrissey. Otherwise―"
He turns away and carries on sorting out those sad little items. I'm ashamed of myself, and retreat down the corridor with some haste.
As I'm heading out of the door, though, I hear a voice behind me.
"I'll talk to you."
I turn.
In contrast to the brightly lit corridor, the damp stairwell is dark. It's one of those winter days that will never get properly light; buildings to the back and sides of the shelter obscure what daylight there is. The speaker is a tall, thin man, probably in his late forties. His fag ash-coloured forelock falls into his eyes, his hands thrust into the pockets of a dirty parka.
He's got a weird look in his eyes, but despite myself I feel the thrill of a potential story. To be honest, I think I'm smarting over Kendall's totally innocent remark about me not being a proper journalist like Nick. Maybe I'm ready to move on from trivial rubbish like social media trends.
I give him my best, warm smile. "Shall I buy you a coffee somewhere?"
"No." He's shaking. "We can talk here." He plonks himself down on the low stone wall. I remain standing; something tells me not to get too close.
"Okay." I realise I haven't got a notebook and pen. "Is it alright if I record our conversation?"
"Nuh-uh." He shakes his head. "No way. They've got voice recognition, you know."
"Yes, but only I will hear it―"
"I want to tell you what's going on in those Hope Villages."
A thrill rushes through me; I actually feel the adrenaline surge. I have my hand in my pocket, about to press record on my phone, but I stop myself, remembering what the guy in the office said. I don't want to be that person.
"Have you lived in a Hope Village?"
"No, but I know a man who did." He laughs; the sound is like a magpie's caw. Suddenly he stops, bares his yellow teeth in a menacing smile, and hisses, "Get it out then. Your thing."
What? I take a step back. "Um―get what out?"
"Your phone thing." He points at my hand, still in my pocket. "With the internet. Look it up."
"Look what up?"
"Babies. See how many babies there are in the Hope Villages."
"Why?"
"'Cause there aren't any." He points to my pocket again. "No babies. Look it up."
Oh dear. My nutter radar isn't working well today. "What, you think they're killing them?"
He removes a huge, grimy hand from the depths of his coat, pushes back his forelock and does the magpie caw again. "No, you silly girl. They're not born in the first place."
"How do you know?"
"My friend, he told me. No women ever get pregnant. They're sterilising 'em. Everyone in there. No babies. Ever."
Oh dear. "Could be just a coincidence, that there weren't any born during the time he was there. I imagine women will be careful not to get pregnant; I wouldn't have thought a Hope Village is the ideal place to have a family."
He leans forward, and for the first time I notice the pinprick eyes, bad teeth and marked skin of the meth addict.
"Two years, he lived there, in a place with over two thousand people, and not one woman gets pregnant? People died, 'cause that's what happens, but there were no kids to replace them. Kill the poor. That's what it is. They're sterilising us. Culling the population. Two years, before his family took him back. And no babies. Not one."
"Don't people sleep in huge dormitories? There you are―no privacy, no opportunity."
His lip curls in a sneer. "Come on, lovely. You wanna fuck, you can always find somewhere. In the grounds, after dark. Out in the countryside; my mate, he used to go out walking on a Sunday. And they have couples and family units. Two thousand people over two years, and not one woman got herself a bun in the oven." He stands up, and clutches my arm; he reeks of stale clothes, stale fags and stale booze. "And that Stu. Ginger wanker in there." He jerks his head back down the corridor. "He's putting stuff in our food. I know he is. I told him I knew, 'n' all, but he denied it." He laughs again, and I recoil from the smell of rotting teeth. "Asked me if I wanted to see the counsellor. Thinks he can get 'em to say I'm mental, so no one will believe me." His grip on my arm gets tighter. "You go back to your office and look it up on that internet. You'll see."
He's hurting me now. "Can you let go of my arm, please?"
"No babies." He gives my arm one final squeeze, then drops it. "You go look." He sniffs, and wipes his hand across his nose. "You going to pay me, then? For the story I just give you?"
"Oh―yes. Of course." I dig a tenner out of my purse, which he grabs without thanking me and shoves into the pocket of his greasy-looking trousers, then he pulls open the door to the shelter, and the light floods out. He takes one look back at me, laughs, and lopes off, whence he came.
I'm not sure how to take that laugh. Was he making up a load of rubbish to get a tenner for a hit? Was I really conned that easily?
Even if he wasn't, his story sounded more like the deluded ramblings of someone who has heard another's deluded ramblings and embellished them in his addled brain.
But all the same ... it's interesting.
When I get home I can hear Nick composing a Widow Skanky, so I don't stop to tell him I'm back; I dash straight up to my little hideaway, power up, and search: babies born hope villages.
The first result is a heart-warming tale from a year ago, a two minute YouTube video featuring a young girl of nineteen who'd been living rough for two years, then went into Hope, met a fella, and gave birth to her daughter.
'I just wanted to get off the streets,' says Christy, 'I never expected to find a new life. The doctors here at Hope gave me the best ante and postnatal care possible, and I feel more happy and secure than ever before. Now, Mikey, Ava Grace and I have been given a family unit, and Mikey's just found work as a hygiene op
erative. With the help of the wonderful staff at Hope, we're back on track; our aim is to find a home of our very own, in a good neighbourhood where we can give Ava Grace the sort of childhood we never had.'
I recognise a puff piece when I see one. No surnames are given, no indication of whereabouts in the country 'Christy' lives; she could be an actor.
I find more 'I found love in Hope' stories, and click on articles showing smiling families thanking their Hope community for giving them their lives back. I look at birth statistics, but find only general figures. It's dropping, though; the last ten years shows a small decline.
I try 'birth rate statistics by class/income'. Until five years ago, the highest birth rate was in the lower income bracket. Now, it's in the middle range, with a drop in the figures for those with a low income.
Hmm.
None of this backs up my meth head friend's story, though.
I shut my laptop and go down to tell Nick about it, and also about Aduki.
He laughs, in a nice way, about my attempts at a journalistic scoop, and tells me not to worry about losing my job.
"It's a bummer, but your blog's thriving, isn't it? The more widely it's read, the more you can charge for advertising and reviews. You're sorted, don't worry." Then he asks me to go back over the 'no babies' thing.
"Why, you going to nick my research again?"
"No, there's no story. Even if you wrote about the figures you looked up, anyone could reasonably comment that the dip in birth rate amongst the lower classes is down to fear of unemployment and homelessness." He bites a thumbnail, and frowns. "Interesting, though, isn't it? I wonder."
He doesn't tell me exactly what he wonders, but his avowal of faith in my blog makes me feel better, and I nip back upstairs, creative nerves tingling, itching to write a sensational blog post that will garner views to rival those of the Widow.
Trouble is, I haven't got anything to write about, apart from general feelings of irritation and dissatisfaction about GuyMo's Britain.
I think Nick's use of voice activated software is what makes the Widow's pieces work so well; they're conversational. He does the same with his articles for Global Online. Says he can get his thoughts together more effectively when he's talking, but they tend to need a hell of a lot of editing by Global's team.
Maybe I should try his method.
Ah well. I have books to review.
Late in the afternoon, as I'm writing one up, a moment of gut-wrenching panic hits me. Myself and my keyboard are all I have to keep the roof over my head. I have no back-up plan.
I think of the man at Horizon, and all those faces staring at me from the canteen door. I must never, ever take what I have for granted. I have my wonderful home, and my pretend family; I am so, so lucky.
I have no idea.
I have absolutely no fucking idea.
9
The Winter of our Discontent
On Town Crier:
When the going gets tough,
the tough close their doors
In the week that the Roof Group of Charities reported that two million people in the UK are either resident in a Hope Village, sleeping rough or inadequately housed (bed and breakfast hostels, shelters or 'sofa surfing'), our unbiased survey revealed that 66% of UK citizens questioned would not provide a home for a family member down on their luck.
Shaun, 38, data analyst: 'My sister has been given a place in a Hope Village. She lost her job because she failed random medicals. She drinks, and lives on junk food takeaways. We grew up with the same advantages and opportunities; should my family suffer because she made the wrong choices? Taking her in would mean my kids losing out on having a bedroom each.'
Arya, 32, life coach: 'I provide my clients with empowerment tools to develop their own coping strategies, and I am prepared to offer my brother the same coaching, free of charge, but I refuse to be his backstop. Aside from this, I need my personal space in order to maintain my emotional equilibrium. Without it, my clients suffer.'
Janine, 58, care worker. 'I've done enough to support my kids over the years. My son was offered a bed in a Hope Village; he chose not to take it, so now he dosses down with friends. I let him stay here sometimes, but I'm not giving him a permanent home. I've done my bit. He's an adult; if I keep bailing him out, he'll never learn to stand on his own two feet.'
Ritchie, 49, Cabz driver: 'My daughter and her kids live in one of those homeless communities. Far as I can see, there's nothing wrong with the place. It's a roof over their heads, and they get fed―what's the problem?'
Zoya, 43, lawyer. 'This world has always been about survival of the fittest. I wouldn't expect charity if I allowed my own life to fall apart, so why should I provide it?'
I'm contacted by a self-styled thought leader/inspirational 'guru' type who wants me to compile his blog posts into a book. He hasn't got anything new to say and much of it is waffle and padding, but it's money in the bank for the next lot of bills. Shame it's a one-off, that's all.
Gloomy February slides into March; Kendall embarks on a new diet each morning and breaks it each evening. Meanwhile, Kylie Jordan loses her second stone (#TwoStonesDown #FitForLife), another supermarket chain falls prey to Nu-Mart, and announces that they will be replacing all remaining checkouts with self-service, with a loss of three thousand jobs (#BringBackOurTillOps). The owner of a nationwide parcel courier service boasts huge profits after changing to a ninety per cent automated workforce (#RobotWorld). Nu-Pharm announces great leaps forward in cures for clinical depression, another three Hope Villages are opened, and I realise how much I relied upon the Aduki wages for a bit of pocket money after I'd paid for the basics.
I'll get by.
I sense a darkness over our land, and it is stamped with the Nutricorp logo.
Then I stop thinking about all this stuff for a few weeks, because Brody is back.
10
Love in a Cold Climate
He's been in the North West for several months, coaching the Client Key Workers―the Beckys and Duncans with the bright yellow polo shirts and insane levels of optimism―how to empower the unfortunate to empower themselves. He says it was depressing in the extreme, though a few of the workers do genuinely want to help. Unfortunately, a larger proportion are empowered only by the prospect of gold stars against their name for boxes ticked: vitamin tablets down the neck of a poor, malnourished soul, a useless exam passed, a troubled mind prescribed effective anti-anxiety medication. And, as I guessed, Nutricorp isn't so nutrition-conscious where the homeless are concerned.
"The meals hardly provide even basic nutrients," he tells me, "never mind ten-a-day. Those poor bastards are lucky to get one bit of fresh fruit and a helping of canned peas. The meat is so processed it ought to come with a cancer warning, the pasta sauces are just additive-filled tomato flavoured gunk, and the breakfast cereals are so high in sugar that you might as well eat a Mars bar. There are problems with tooth decay, and―you won't believe this―illnesses like scurvy and rickets are making a comeback. I mean, what is this, the Victorian workhouse? It's a disgrace, and all I can do is write recommendations to give to a bunch of people who only pretend to give a crap."
It's the most he's told me about it, ever. I stay quiet, and let him carry on talking.
He says he hates himself for being glad to have left it behind, for being able to walk away, because he has a job and a home. Some Horizon shelters are being closed down through lack of funds, with those who relied on them for a roof and a meal each night being pushed into Hope.
"It's good in some ways because it means they can get medical care, but to be honest that's not up to much, either. A lot of the time they just shove them away with happy pills, vitamins and painkillers." He runs his hands through his hair. "I don't need to tell you not to breathe a word of this to anyone, do I?"
"Of course not," I say, though my fingertips cry out to be joined with their keys.
He looks so drained.
"I've missed you," he sa
ys, and I feel stupidly delighted that he came straight to our flat as soon as he'd dumped his bags at home. He lives in a shared house with four others; they're all super-leftie and earnest, and believe that they are 'making a difference' by taking part in #FeedTheUK marches. Brody: 'They'd be better off staying at home and making a casserole to take round to one of the shelters.'
He was offered the room by his friend CJ, with whom he had a relationship at one time; she's one of those frightfully boho, arty women who say clever, profound things about the role of women in society. She has a bleached platinum crop and endless legs that are usually encased in black leather jeans; she's a freelance website designer who vapes constantly and only ever drinks neat Grey Goose vodka, which I can't help thinking is just a pose.
Sometimes I wonder if they still fuck now and again.
Renting the room and sharing the living facilities suits Brody's scattered lifestyle, but he says it doesn't feel like a home, it's just a place to rest his head and keep his stuff.
I make a vegetable lasagne and we eat with Nick and Kendall, then go up to my room. Alone at last, and it's wonderful. I try to put sex out of my mind when he's not around. We've never talked about exclusivity―we don't ask each other what happens when we're apart. My fling with Andy happened eighteen months back, when Brody was working down in Devon for four months and we were hardly in touch. I don't know if Brody sleeps with other people or not. I imagine he does, now and again. I don't want to know. I'm sure he's not short on offers; I see the way women look at him when we're out.
More women look at him than men look at me. I appeal to a certain type that likes not overtly 'girly' women, but he has a more general appeal.
I wrote a blog post on this once; does being with someone who has higher 'market value' give you a boost to the ego, or dent your self-esteem? Maybe it depends how self-assured you are in the first place.
