by Lee Wood
The most frightening thing is – I have a bad feeling our paths will cross again.
Chapter Five
DAVE
To the outside world, Dave appears to be a successful local businessman. However, in truth he’s a Jekyll and Hyde character, and things are not as they would appear.
He’s not a tall man, but the fruits of good living have expanded his waistline to forty inches and a weight of around seventeen stone. His doctor has told him this is likely to be the cause of his high blood pressure.
His public image depicts an upstanding member of the local business community who has spent years building up the three businesses which provide him with a luxurious lifestyle.
He has a permanent tan and wears an eighteen-carat-gold Rolex Day-Date 36 watch on his left wrist. He loves to wear crisp white shirts, dark coloured suits and a pair of Churchill shoes, size eight. He’s a season ticket holder for his football club, a member of the local golf club and enjoys luxury cruises. He’s a bit of a horse-racing fanatic and has a share in several racehorses.
The private side is much darker.
Look deeper and you’ll notice menace buried deep in his tiny black eyes. The inside jacket pocket of his smart suit conceals a switchblade knife purchased in Spain and smuggled into the UK. His two large chunky gold rings have seen action, and many times these have ended up embedded in someone’s face.
Today, Dave has been in a truly foul mood. As he relaxes on the plane, he thinks it all through.
To start with, the lady who cleans his house twice a week called in sick and he hates the place not being spotless. It also meant she wouldn’t be there to take in the parcel he was expecting, so he would need to wait in for the delivery man.
Dave’s never been what you would call computer savvy. He’s never bothered to learn about computers because he thinks things can be traced too easily and he certainly doesn’t want to record all the details of his illegal activities on a computer. However, he thought going online to order a special gift for his mother’s birthday would be all right. She’s going to be eighty in three days’ time and he wanted to buy something special for her. The website he’d visited also offered to gift wrap the item – part of the reason he ordered it from them in the first place.
Dave had hoped to spend a few hours with her today before leaving for his fortnight’s holiday, but his package had failed to arrive by three pm. He tried to contact the company, despite taking nearly an hour to find their phone number, but when he did finally manage to get through to someone they told him he’d filled out the wrong delivery date on the website and it wasn’t due to arrive until the following week.
Today of all days, this is not what he needed.
Finally, he had to drive into Trentbridge town centre and spend time walking around the shops until he found an alternative gift. Unfortunately, the department store where he purchased the replacement present for his mum didn’t offer a gift wrap service so he had to visit the convenience store to buy wrapping paper, take it home and waste more time wrapping it.
He loves his old mum. It’s not her fault that right now he’s in a rage. He had to rush to deliver the present to her in the luxury nursing home he’s paying a fortune for and then ignore the speed limit to get to the airport in time to catch this late night flight to Murcia airport in Spain, the closest to his luxury villa in La Manga.
Dave thinks back to the incident with the tramp who got in his way and tripped him up in the convenience store when he was buying the wrapping paper and his Lotto ticket. That really didn’t help his high blood pressure.
Cursing and swearing as he stomped away from the convenience store, he was still trying to brush the dirt off his smart trousers. Even now, he was sure he could still smell that filthy tramp or the ‘human piece of crap’ as he called him.
The day’s unplanned events meant that Dave only managed to spend half an hour with his mum. He’d make it up to her when he got back. They’d go out for a nice meal.
He’d invited her to come to Spain but she preferred to stay home. At her age, air travel is a lot of upheaval for just a two-week holiday.
Dave now sighs in relief. In spite of everything he made it to the airport just in time to catch this flight.
Yes, two weeks in the sun will definitely put things right.
Chapter Six
JAMES
When I first became homeless, I started off using hostels, but they should be called ‘hostiles’ as the volatile nature of the residents can make them more dangerous than the outside world. Some house some real scumbags who would gladly knife you for a few quid.
Most of the ‘guests’ are dependent on drugs or strong alcohol and although the staff do their best to check everyone coming in, they aren’t cunning enough to foil the addicts and alcoholics. Believe me, if a drug addict wants to get his stash into the hostel there’s nothing that’s going to stop him.
In the circles of the homeless, legal highs are in common use. Spice is the one favoured by many. It blocks out everything. And I do mean everything.
After trying the hostels, I progressed – if that’s the right word – to sleeping in shop doorways. However, you soon learn your lessons, especially on Friday and Saturday nights after the bars and clubs close. You get the drunken louts who think nothing of urinating on you, simply for the fun of it, and they’re the nice ones. After the fifth kicking and punching session, I decided enough was enough.
Things got to the stage where for the majority of my time I was feeling sorry for myself and not really caring about anything other than where my next drink was coming from. The world seemed to look better through the haze of alcohol.
With no real desire and no one to care about, I lacked motivation. I’d been on the streets for about four months. I didn’t care that I was slowly going downhill and my body couldn’t take much more abuse.
When I was growing up, we lived in a small flat on a council estate. My aunt and uncle ran a pub and as they didn’t have any kids of their own they would spoil me on the occasions I stayed with them for a few nights. Dad died when I was young and Mum passed away nearly three years ago. My aunt and uncle decided to emigrate from the UK to Australia six years ago.
With no close relatives and no one to care about I just thought, what’s the point? I’d been spending long hours begging and I’d held back on buying alcohol and food. Over three weeks I’d managed to save up forty-two pounds and my plan was to spend the lot on one gram of cocaine. As I’d never used drugs in my life, I knew my body wouldn’t be able to deal with the sudden surge and that it would kill me.
Chapter Seven
MY FRIEND STEVIE
I’m not sure what the statistics are on the number of people the average person meets during their lifetime. I guess it must be thousands? Out of all those people, perhaps twenty will become friends, and if you’re lucky the number of close friends can be counted on more than one hand. However, you only ever have one best friend. When Miriam was killed, I lost my best friend. I never thought I’d ever find anyone else to share my thoughts and feelings with again, but then I had the good fortune to meet Stevie Evans.
The day I bumped into him, I was at the lowest point in my life. I’d gone into St Matthew’s Church during the Sunday service for two reasons: one was to get out of the harsh rain storm for five minutes and the second was to ask God to forgive me for what I was about to do.
The previous evening I’d spent every penny of the forty-two pounds I had in the world and the item I’d purchased was sitting in my coat pocket.
Stevie didn’t know that the day we met was the first anniversary of the death of my family. All he saw were the signs of a man on the edge and he genuinely wanted to help. Without him there’s no way I could have coped.
Over the following days and weeks, his care and true friendship saved me. I couldn’t see it at the time but he put his own life on hold and spent every single second devoted to me. Whenever I turned round he was there, not b
ecause he needed to be but because he cared. We made a connection. He sees things in me that I’ve never seen in myself.
Stevie is a good natured Welshman with a big heart who moved to Trentbridge to find work after the high unemployment in his hometown meant he couldn’t find a job there. Being at his parents’ home all day had caused friction and rows, and as deep cutting words had been said, Stevie decided the best option was to move out of the area.
He’s an honest hard working person whose main weakness seems to be he trusts people too easily. He took the first job he could find, and things were looking good for him.
Four months later, he realised his shift manager and a work colleague were stealing goods from the warehouse, so he reported it to the branch manager. They disregarded his claim and blamed him for the thefts which resulted in him losing his job and ending up on the streets.
I soon found out that Stevie is one of those rare people who always see the positive side. He has taught me that life is precious no matter where you find yourself or how bad things look at the time. Stevie has also taught me to be more positive. His genuine kindness and understanding helped me to overcome the ghosts of my past.
Gradually, the black has become grey and then, little by little, the world has come back into focus. Back then, I wasn’t sure what the future held, but now I know I want to be part of it.
Stevie has even helped me to control my drinking to the extent that without him I doubt whether I’d still be alive, and I know that’s not what my Miriam would have wanted.
Thank you, God, for bringing Stevie into my life. He’s truly one in a million.
He’s the best friend anyone could ever wish for.
Chapter Eight
JAMES
The weather in May can be so unpredictable. Some nights are warm but there are still plenty when it’s extremely cold. I’ve also discovered, to my cost that many places are unsafe, which has led me to search for a sheltered location.
Using what I thought were my long-forgotten detective skills I found a spot behind the Albion, a four-star hotel. The main entrance is on Trinity Street but I discovered a sheltered area using the rear entrance down an alleyway on Green Street.
It’s secure and the best part is there’s room for two people so I could share the space with Stevie. We made sure to keep out of the way during the day. All we wanted was somewhere safe to sleep.
We even managed to make friends with a couple of hotel employees who keep an eye on things when we’re not around. I thank them on the odd occasion I see them. They just smile and say, “Its fine.”
We’d been there for four months when out of the blue Stevie told me he needed to move back to Swansea to look after his mother who had been taken seriously ill. I’m sure he’d only stayed around this long until he felt I was okay. That’s typical of Stevie; always putting other people first.
Naturally I was sad to see him go, but on the other hand I understood. There’s nothing like having a loving family.
After the shock of the incident with ‘Mr Angry’, I find myself back at the rear of The Albion Hotel. It’s a place where I feel relatively safe. The room service might be non-existent but the spot I have is sheltered. Because of this, I don’t call it ‘The Albion’; I have nicknamed it ‘The Ritz’, because for me it offers five-star accommodation compared to shop doorways and hostels.
There’s another reason too. The night porter, George Leeman, in his mid-forties and a gentleman in every sense of the word, once found himself in the same position. He took to living on the streets after losing his job, falling into debt and having his house repossessed, so he knows what it’s like. Fortunately his brother took him in, helped him get back on his feet and found him a job. On the nights he’s working, I can sometimes find a small bag of food from the kitchen leftovers.
George works a ten-hour shift five nights a week, from eight pm until six am. He usually takes his cigarette breaks on the other side of the hotel, but from time to time will come out to chat and make sure I’m all right. He’s a very private person and it took a long time before he eventually opened up about his experiences. I try not to ask questions but let him chat to me and tell me things when he’s in the mood.
Once every two or three weeks, I notice my ‘bed linen’ as I call it, which is actually a sleeping bag and two blankets, has been taken, washed and then returned. George never talks about this and when I try to thank him he just shrugs it off. I owe him big time.
I’ve been back here now for about three and a half hours. It’s ten o’clock – I know this because I’ve just heard the distant chimes of the clock from St Matthew’s Church – and if I leave now I can make it to Parker’s Piece where I’ll find the mobile charity tea stall. Usually three people are there –come rain, shine, snow or gale – taking abuse, getting spat at (or even worse) for no good reason, yet they give up their time for free. God bless them, I say.
Tonight there’s the usual mix of takers, and many more will arrive over the next couple of hours before they shut. I count fourteen of us including ‘The Two Ronnies’, so called because they are always together and one is a lot shorter than the other; Fergus McShane, your typical Glaswegian with a drink problem – (the problem being he will never be able to stop drinking until his liver collapses) – and ‘Young Ned’ with his dog ‘Buddy’.
I wait in line for my cup of tea and hot soup trying to avoid any conversation, which can be difficult when people are all fired up on drink or illegal substances. They want to engage you in conversation, ask you about trivial things, and often just don’t make any sense. Sleeping rough does that to you.
After I finish my plastic cup of tea and the vegetable soup given out tonight, I say a soft “thank you” to the people behind the counter and make my way back to ‘The Ritz’.
I’m anxious to avoid walking past the bars and clubs on my route as the teenage louts coming out into the night air after a few too many drinks like nothing more than to take out their frustration on anyone in sight. I’ve had a couple of beatings from them in the past. They’re fuelled by cheap alcohol deals and they really don’t care who they fight with or how far they go. They would gladly kick your head in without a second thought just so they can post it on social media sites and send it to their friends, saying, “Look what I’ve done.”
As it’s a Tuesday, my luck holds and the streets are quite empty. Fridays and Saturdays are the nights to avoid. I manage to return to my spot behind the Albion without any problems.
After Stevie left, and as I got to know George a little better, wooden pallets and a single mattress have ‘magically’ appeared. The pallets mean my body is not in contact with the ground when I sleep on the mattress and this helps to keep me warmer at night. While you’re tucked up in bed in your centrally heated home, people like myself are at the mercy of the elements. Sleeping on a concrete surface is horribly cold, even if you are lucky enough to have a mattress, and how many rough sleepers have that?
In summer, sleeping out of doors can be a bonus. However, in October, as we are now, the temperature can easily drop below zero and with no method of heating available, things can get really cold. Many homeless people become ill and this can affect them for life.
I’ve noticed the changes in myself. The loss of weight, the poor complexion, and my teeth are starting to discolour and hurt. I was twelve stones, but now I would guess I’m around ten. My belt has moved in three notches.
Life expectancy is usually much shorter if you’re homeless, particularly for those who turn to alcohol or drugs to try to escape from the harsh reality. Our prehistoric ancestors may have lived in the open, but if I remember my school lessons correctly their life expectancy was around thirty-five years.
You’ve probably never given it a thought but undertakers obtain a lot of their business from homeless hostels. On top of everything else, homeless people have to cope with heart problems and malnutrition, not to mention psychological problems.
I guess this is als
o part of my problem. As a detective, I should have been able to protect everyone, no matter what. Perhaps deep down inside, I feel it’s my fault I wasn’t there to save my family from the hit and run driver and therefore I deserve to be living on the streets.
Chapter Nine
DAVE
Dave buys his main supply of cocaine from a man he suspects is part of the Russian Mafia. He’s not sure of the connection because in the eight years they’ve been doing business, he’s been wise enough not to ask.
Dave had been selling cannabis for four years from his London contact, Mohammad Awan, when he decided to expand into harder drugs. He was constantly being asked for cocaine and Mohammad was happy to put him in touch with someone he said could be trusted implicitly.
The first time Dave met his new supplier was at the initial negotiations held at a ‘pay-by-the-hour’ office suite in London. The meeting went well and he agreed to take a minimum shipment of £10,000 every two weeks. Dave could see these people were serious. It was forcibly brought home to him that he was expected to always arrive on time at the agreed handovers, and to be professional in every way.
Since that first meeting, Vladimir Fedorov the Russian, never attends the handovers personally, preferring to send two of his men to handle the exchanges. Dave meets them at the Milton Motel just outside of Trentbridge every two weeks.
