by Tyler, Terry
Conor seems friendly, but when Kendall asks what led him to this place he shuts down.
I glance down the queue; people don't meet your eyes. If they do, by accident, they look away.
Inside, the shelter doesn't look too bad. It's not as seedy as Horizon. We have to register, have our photos and fingerprints taken, and supply ID as it’s our first time; we're checked for weapons, alcohol and drugs, after which we follow Conor's advice and put our belongings in lockers. We're directed towards huge rooms with bunk beds, which look clean enough. Kendall and I head for the women's section; there are no mixed dorms.
In the back of my mind I'm aware of how easily disease could spread in these places; there is a doctor available between six and eight in the evening (first come first served), but that's all. I guess they don't have the resources―all we did was say 'no' when asked if we were currently suffering from an infectious illness.
Everything is a blur, like a dream. We choose a bunk in a corner, but an ogre with BO tells us it's hers; a skinny woman with a kind smile and a dirty kid with tears down his face tells us that regulars have their spots, and points to one in the middle of the room that will be free.
I feel so dazed that I just nod at all of it; I can't speak.
I'm the homeless first-timer with the bewildered expression who can't believe this is happening to her.
I take the top bunk and curl up to listen to The Road on my phone―I'll risk the bandits. I sleep, for hours and hours; now and again the sound of someone crying, or arguing, wakes me, but I drop off again quickly. In the morning I experience those few seconds of thinking I'm at home, but reality doesn't waste much time kicking in. I shut my eyes tight and think of my room, and the pain of losing it is as bad as any loss I have ever experienced.
I don't cry. I'm dry-eyed and blank.
I swing off my bunk and find Kendall quietly sobbing into her pillow. Her lovely face is pasty and drawn.
I pat her on the shoulder. "Come on, buck up. Let's go find Nick."
"I can't do this," she whispers. "It's horrible."
"We don't have any choice."
A guy in the canteen queue advises us to pay for the full breakfast if we have any money, because it's cheaper than cafés. He leans in, closer.
"You haven't got a bit of spare, have you? I'm a quid short." I give him a pound coin and get a brown-toothed smile in return. "Cheers! Gotta get y' breakfast. Sitting out there all day in the cold, it takes it out of you." He takes off his rather unsavoury looking brimmed hat, and I get it. He begs.
"Don't you worry about getting picked up?" I ask. "Zero tolerance for vagrancy, and all that?"
"Nah, if I see 'em coming, I run. I ain't going into one of them Hope Villages. You need to watch it, though; if you spend too many days at the library, the staff rings the Gestapo." He laughs. "They've got the fucking phone number on speed dial." He leans in close again. "Whatever you do, don't get hauled off to one of them Villages." He nods, as if I must know what he means.
Breakfast is edible, which is about all I can say for it, and we mooch off to the library. The October weather is growing cold; when the leaves first turn I always think, oh good, lovely golden autumn, but I forget that sometime during the month the air changes from crisp to dank, heralding the onset of winter.
In the library, I settle down with social media, but it all seems trivial, irrelevant. I scan my emails; a new author wants to advertise his book on one of my larger spaces; he's heard that my blog is the place to be. I wrestle with my conscience and warn him that it's not so active any more, but he still seems keen. I'm just about to think 'fuck it' and take the fifty quid, when some shred of decency kicks in and I tell him he'd be wasting his money.
Lita Stone has left the building. Old posts are still passed around, but my presence is only a whisper, now.
Kendall spends five minutes on uChat, then sighs so loudly that people turn round and give her disapproving looks.
"They're all idiots," she whispers to me. "Yapping on about a load of stupid shit that doesn't matter."
Nick uses the time more wisely, on the job sites, then the three of us find chairs in the reading room; Nick picks a Noam Chomsky, I find a nice light zombie apocalypse, and Kendall selects some chick lit to cheer herself up. I think two hundred pages of kooky girls meeting alpha males in cupcake shops might finish me off completely, but each to her own.
Lost in our books, we don't get back to Roof until two-thirty; the queue is already much longer than yesterday by the time we get there. The door is shut about twenty people ahead of us.
I look around; the unlucky amble away, hands in pockets. I hear one man say there should still be some beds at Horizon, but I don't want to go there. I'm scared the red-haired guy in the hoodie might recognise me.
"What do we do?" Kendall looks like she's going to break down.
A woman wearing a khaki cagoule and matching waterproof trousers touches her on the arm. "We're going to try St Peter's Church; if you come with us, they'll let you in. It's cold, but the vicar's wife brings tea and biscuits, and you can use the toilet. What are you looking like that for? It's better than being outside all night, isn't it?"
It is, but I don't think I've ever been so cold as I am tonight. The vicar's wife does indeed bring us tea and biscuits, but I feel she's doing so under sufferance. And they're only Rich Tea. She could have forked out for some Hobnobs. The door will be locked at seven, she warns, so Nick and one of the other guys get everyone's pennies together and go out for sausages and chips.
They come back as pleased as Punch (however pleased that is), because the man in the chip shop gave them free batter bits and threw in a big bag of bread rolls that would have been stale by tomorrow, he said. He's even buttered them, bless his heart. Such small kindnesses mean so much. I savour the glorious, buttery, salty comfort of my chip butty.
"We could have afforded a few nights in a B&B," Kendall mutters.
"We could, but then all our money would be gone, and we'd have nowhere to go by the end of the week, anyway."
She doesn't answer.
We crowd around the one electric heater, all twelve of us; sitting there, in the dimly lit peace of that ancient building, away from the hustle and bustle of the world, it could be almost cosy if we talked, shared our stories, but after a little desultory conversation we sit in silence, then divide out the piles of thin blankets provided by the vicar's wife, make our beds with whatever we have (our clothes, in our case) and try to settle down on either the hard, cold stone floor (near the fire) or the hard, narrow pews (further away, but off the ground). One of the men keeps grumbling, saying that it wouldn’t have hurt her to bung some cushions our way. I’m just about to point out that she probably does this for people like us every night, which is a damn sight more than most, but I decide to keep quiet. As one of those who thought we’d done our bit by tossing the odd packet of Pasta 'n' Sauce in the supermarket donations box once a week, I’m hardly in a position to get sanctimonious. We use the hassocks as pillows.
I can't sleep. At about six a.m. I take my torch and wander around the church, looking at the plaques commemorating those long dead, advertisements for family worship, and requests for donations toward the church's upkeep. It's nice that they trust us not to wrench the donations box off the wall.
I don't mind admitting I'm tempted.
I hear footsteps behind me.
It's Nick.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Mate, I'm sorry to keep on at you, but you're going to have to get in touch with Brody. We can't live like this."
I direct my torch so that I can see his face. His chin is stubbly, and his eyes have dark circles underneath, his face kind of grey looking, like Kendall's. Mine too, I would imagine; I've avoided looking in the mirror for the past few days.
"I know," I whisper. I have to; there's nothing else to do. I can't face speaking to Brody, though. I sit in a pew and send a long email, instead. Takes me ages to compose; at first I pretend w
e're staying at Esme's, but then I realise there is no point in lying.
We've drunk Mrs Vicar's morning tea and are on the way to find a fried egg sandwich when my phone rings, and I know without looking that it's Brody. He's been back from Bristol for a couple of days, he says, and was planning to call me this evening, to see if I wanted to get together.
"Why the fuck didn't you get in touch earlier? How come I didn't know about any of this? Christ's sake, Lita! Didn't you think I might actually give a shit?"
It's so lovely to hear his voice that I feel all choked up, and my eyes well up, but I force back the tears. It's hard, though. My clothes still feel damp from yesterday, I'm hungry, cold and tired, I need a bath and my pack is heavy on my back. Most of all, it's just so horrible not having anywhere to go. A door I can shut behind me, somewhere I can take off my coat and shoes and feel safe.
He tells us to be at his house by four-thirty; he's got meetings, but he'll leave work as early as possible.
Eight hours, then. Eight hours to shuffle between libraries and cheap cafés before we can sit down somewhere without having to worry about keeping under the radar of the vagrancy police.
A year ago, if you'd told me I'd ever have to worry about such a thing, I'd have laughed.
20
Betrayal
I long to fall into Brody's arms when he opens the door, but I can't bear the thought of his pity.
When I see the expression on his face, I'm glad I held back. He looks hassled in the extreme.
"I'd let you all stay here for as long as you need, of course I would, but it's not up to me," he says, as he leads us into the living room. "I'm hardly ever here; I don't get much say in how the house is run."
His four housemates have agreed that we can sleep in the living room tonight, but have made it clear to Brody that he must find us accommodation as quickly as possible.
"I'd have thought they could sacrifice their living room for a few weeks, but―oh, never mind."
"Can I have a bath?" Kendall asks. Her bottom lip is quivering. "I stink."
"You don't, but of course you can. You all can. We'll get your clothes washed, too." He puts arms around both her and me. "You get yourselves sorted, and I'll go out and get some stuff for dinner."
The other four―CJ, Jenny, Dan and Curtis―are helpful enough, showing us how to put the washing machine on and finding us fresh towels, but it's all a bit awkward, probably because we three feel so embarrassed to be in this situation.
Brody makes a butternut squash curry and we sit around the dining table to eat; the others come in to talk to us, to hear our tales of woe, basically, but even though they express sympathy and say stuff like, "Bloody hell, that's Guy Morrissey's Britain for you" and "Whatever happened to human rights?" I feel like we're exhibits.
The Homeless, appearing live in their dining room.
"This whole Fit For Work thing is seriously spooky," says CJ. "Kendall, do you mind if I blog about what happened to you? Would it be okay if I name you? Use some of your social media pictures?"
Kendall shrugs, like she doesn't care.
I've never taken to CJ. I hope it's not because Brody used to fuck her. I hope I'm not so totally uncool as to be jealous of exes, especially as Brody isn't even mine to be jealous about.
Dan says, "Nick, I don't believe it―you're Widow Skanky? Your posts were immense! Talk about sticking it to the man, right?" He puts his hand up for a high five, and Nick just stares at him, expressionless; Dan goes pink above his sandy beard, looking as much of a chump as he clearly feels. I want to laugh; it's the first time my lips have twitched skywards in days.
Shortly afterwards they wander out, no doubt to saturate Twitter with socially aware hashtags.
Brody says, "They all mean well, but―Dan and Jenny in particular―they wave the banner about a more caring society, sign petitions and do their little bit of fund raising, but when they're asked to do something that really will make a difference, like give three homeless people somewhere to stay, they're no different from any GuyMo supporter."
I'm about to open my mouth to say something about this, but then I wonder. Would I have been open to having a stranger dossing down in our flat?
After the last few weeks, it's lovely just to sit somewhere warm, comfortable and private, and watch telly. Brody puts his arm around me on the sofa, kissing my newly washed head, but I tense. I long to curl around him, sink into him, but I can't. We've always been on an equal footing. Independent, coming together when it suits us both. I can't see how whatever it is we have can continue. I'm hardly the cool, together woman he first met.
Your place or mine? It's a bit draughty in this doorway, but I've got a nice bit of cardboard for you to sit on.
"Kendall can have the sofa and I've got a mattress for Nick," he murmurs, kissing my cheek. "I don't know about you, but I could do with an early night."
I pull away from him. "I'll sleep down here. With the others." I force a grin. "Solidarity, and all that."
His frown shows his disappointment. "Really? Are you sure?" He takes my hand. "I'd like to spend a bit of time with you. Alone, I mean. I need to talk to you."
I want to, so badly, but if I do, it's going to be harder to break away.
I long and long to sleep with him, to feel his skin against mine, but I don't think I can handle the emotion. Even just being here, next to him, has made a lump form in my throat. Holding him, in bed―no. I can't risk letting my despair out. I can't, I mustn't. It's an indulgence I can't afford.
Kendall thinks I'm nuts.
"I'd give anything for a hunky man to curl up with," she says, snuggling down under the blanket on the sofa as I make the best of the wafer-thin mattress on the floor. "Specially one who actually gives a stuff about me."
"Also," says Nick, who has the chair, "curry makes me fart up a storm. You might wish you were upstairs, in about an hour's time."
I doze in and out of semi-slumber, the possibility of a good night's sleep hampered by both my screwed up head and Nick's malodorous trumpeting.
At about one a.m. my eyes spring open; when I creep out to use the loo, I realise it was noises elsewhere in the house that woke me.
Upstairs, Brody's bedroom door is open, with the lamp on. I resist the temptation, go to the loo, and creep back down the stairs.
Down the hall, the light is on in the kitchen, the door ajar; low voices float out.
I'm just about to go back into the living room when I hear my name mentioned.
I tiptoe forward.
Through the crack where door meets frame, I see them, leaning against the kitchen worktop.
Brody and CJ.
"She can't expect you to ride in like a knight on a white charger and put right all her fuck ups, though," CJ is saying.
Bitch!
"She doesn't. Lita's not like that." Brody.
Thank you.
"Good. So, you going to tell her about Jaffa, or what?"
Eh?
What?
Who the fuck is Jaffa?
"Not yet. I was going to, tonight, but yeah, you're right; it's too soon."
I lean back against the wall. My heart is thudding.
CJ: "It'll be a lot for her to take in. Wait until you're actually living there. It'll be easier, then."
Living where?
"Ah, my new life!"
I can hear the smile on his face.
She gives a little laugh. "Yep. Your new life."
What new life? Where?
And who the fuck is Jaffa?
"Jaffa needs to get used to me, as I do her, so I'm just going to play it by ear," he continues. "And right now I don't know how Lita would feel about us living together."
What?
Living together?
"Jaff's going to be so good for you," says CJ.
"I know. She's great. I'm so damn lucky."
Oh.
Oh oh oh.
I get it.
Oh yes, I get it.
How
long has this been going on?
Don't you think it might have been nice to mention it to me?
I feel sick. Like my stomach is filled with screams.
It's happened.
He's met that special someone. Yes, I know, I always knew he might, but why now, when the rest of my life has collapsed so spectacularly? Why this, too?
They're still talking, in low voices, but I can hardly bear to listen. I put my hands over my ears; stupid, when I could just walk away, but I'm glued to the spot.
I peer through the crack. He looks so happy.
CJ again: "Wait till the time's right before you tell her about Lita. When you've got your feet more firmly under the table." They both laugh at that. "And be honest―you know, about exactly who Lita is. Jaffa sees through bullshit."
I see Brody nod, and smile. "Yeah, I will. Then again―maybe it's not such an issue now. I think it's all over, to be honest. And in the meantime, if I can't find anything else, the three of them will be safe in Hope 37 for the time being; it's not that bad a place, a completely different kettle of fish to those hell holes I've been to recently―"
My heart pounds. I'm gutted, but there's fury in there, too. He's going to pack me off to a Hope Village, is he? Out of sight, out of mind? So why did he ask me to sleep with him tonight if he's moving in with someone else?
Cheeky bastard!
I think it's all over, to be honest.
I hear them pull out kitchen chairs and the kwissh of beer cans being opened; in the dark I slump back against the wall, my eyes closed.
I'm outside the door of that other living room, twenty-two years ago. When I thought I had a home, but they were preparing to send me away.
Back then I was a child, with nothing. No one. Completely dependent on the goodwill of others, and they didn't want me any more.
How far I have come. Not.
I never expected fidelity from Brody, but I assumed I was important enough for him to tell me if he had big stuff going on in his life.
Like a new relationship.
Must have been going on for a while if he's ready to move in with her.
Jaff's going to be so good for you.
