by P R Johnson
Chapter 13
Matthew had no idea of the time when he lifted himself from the bath-mat upon which he had slept. Nevertheless, as he struggled to his feet and hobbled to the bedroom, he was comforted to see daylight breaking through the curtains, signalling that the night had been survived.
As he approached the bed and pulled aside the duvet, he ran his free hand across his forehead, shuddering at the deathly coldness of the skin. With stiff, aching limbs, he climbed onto the bed, wrapped himself in the quilt and plunged back into the darkness of sleep.
He was re-awoken a while later by a coughing fit that strained his chest and chafed his throat. The coughing subsided and he took a sip of water from a bottle on the bedside table, hoping to quell the rawness of his throat and dampen the bloody taste that lingered. When his belly accepted the water without reaction, he gulped what remained in the bottle.
His head was sore but his thoughts were lucid as he propped himself up in bed. He stared into the semi-darkness and pictured the dream he had just awoken from. The scene was clear in his memory: standing in The Golden Bottle disco, music pounding his ears and flashing lights disorientating him. He watched himself approach the side-room in which he had been subjected to those brutal threats. Withdrawing from his pocket a pistol, he opened the door and stepped into the quietened room. The broken-nosed doorman was sitting behind the desk and refused to look up as Matthew trained the gun on him. Only when he was standing before the desk did the doorman acknowledge his presence. With Matthew’s finger poised on the trigger, the doorman leaned across the table, parted his lips and took the gun barrel in his mouth as if about to perform fellatio.
Shuddering at the remembered dream, Matthew clambered out of bed and parted the curtains. A sharp burst of daylight momentarily blinded him. Turning away, he moved to the mini-bar and produced a fresh bottle of water. While sipping the cold water, he noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor: the intended letter to his parents that would have explained his actions. As a feeling of desolation washed over him, he sat on the bed and bowed his head. He remained that way for several minutes, pitiful and self-loathing, until at last he summoned the strength to do what he knew he should have done a couple of days before: picked up the telephone and dialled home.
After three rings the other end, his mother’s voice sounded:
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, mum. It’s me.’
‘Matthew? Matthew? What the ... Where the hell are you? We’ve been worried sick.’
‘It’s all right, mum, I’m fine.’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘Didn’t you find my note?’
‘Yes, we found your note. We called Warren’s parents right away and they assured us you weren’t with them. They told us Warren had gone away with his girlfriend ... So, do you want to tell me where you are?’
‘I’m in a hotel in the capital.’
‘The capital? What are you doing there?’
‘I’m not sure. I just needed to get away, to sort my head out a little.’
‘What kind of excuse is that? I tell you, son, if you hadn’t got in touch today, we were going to call the police for sure.’ She paused, and when she recommenced, the angry edge was lost from her voice. ‘I assume that the reason you ran off was because of your exam results. They really aren’t important in the grand scheme of things.’
‘Mum, they were pretty bad.’
‘I know, son. I found the letter from school in your bedside cabinet.’
‘You mean you’ve been going through my things?’
‘You left me no choice. I was simply trying to find out where you had disappeared to. Anyway, that’s beside the point. We’ve seen your results and we’re not angry, not angry at all. So, you failed a couple of exams; it’s hardly the end of the world. All we want is to see you back safely. You’re coming home soon, I take it.’
‘Tomorrow, probably. I’ve booked the hotel room for one more night.’
‘None of this ‘probably’ nonsense. You get your backside home. In fact, I’d feel happier picking you up today.’
‘Mum, there’s no need. It’s only one more night. I promise I’ll be home tomorrow.’
She was silent a moment. ‘Tomorrow, you say. I have your word?’
‘I’ll catch a train as soon as they throw me out of my room. I’ve done all that I need to do here, anyway.’
‘OK, Matt, I’m relying on you not to let me down. I expect to see you tomorrow, and then we can start sorting out your future.’ Her tone softened again. ‘So, apart from the exam results, how are you? You sound a little hoarse.’
Matthew coughed again, as if emphasising the fact. ‘I was a bit ill last night. I think I had food poisoning or something. I was sick a couple of times. But whatever it was, I must have got it out of my system, because I’m feeling better now.’
‘Had you been drinking?’
‘A little, but it wasn’t the alcohol.’
‘Really? You know what happens when you drink too much. You always live to regret it.’
‘I’m a bit delicate, mum, but still breathing. How’s dad?’
‘He’s fine, apart from worrying about you.’
‘And the holiday?’
‘Fine. We can talk about that when you get back. Right, now we’ve got the nasty stuff out the way, let me and your dad wish you a very happy birthday. We’ve got your present waiting, and a cake, although I’m really annoyed that you’re not here to celebrate with us. So, how are you planning to spend your big day?’
‘I’ve got nothing in mind. I just want to relax. Maybe go and sit in a park, feed some ducks.’
‘That doesn’t sound very exciting. So long as you steer clear of booze, that’s all I ask.’
‘Believe me, I won’t be drinking for a long time.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Before ringing off, his mother insisted he leave the details of his hotel and a contact number. After wishing him ‘happy birthday’ again, she used the final words of the conversation to admonish him for his thoughtless disappearance.
After hanging up, although a pang of sadness returned, Matthew felt as though a weight had been lifted. Nevertheless, when he stood to go to the bathroom, his body reminded him of the arduous nature of the previous night.
He showered and, ignoring the sweat- and vomit-stained clothes of yesterday, he dressed in the last clean clothes that remained. The chambermaid had tried to enter his room once already, and so he tied a jumper round his waist and proceeded into the hallway, happy to escape the stuffy, stale-smelling atmosphere of that room.
When the lift arrived, he found the young porter alone inside.
‘Good morning,’ the porter said cheerily as Matthew stepped in.
‘Hi.’
The doors slid shut.
‘How’re you enjoying your stay, my friend?’
‘Good, thanks,’ Matthew replied. With the smile dropping from his face, he turned towards him. ‘Actually, things would be better if I hadn’t spent all night throwing up after eating in your crappy restaurant.’
‘The hotel restaurant? But it has three Michelin stars.’
‘That didn’t help me last night when I had my head stuck down the toilet.’
‘Have you complained to reception? I’m sure they would sort something out.’
‘No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to make a fuss.’
‘You really should. They’d give you a refund, if nothing else. This sort of thing can ruin a hotel’s reputation.’
‘I said it doesn’t matter,’ Matthew responded sharply, straining his throat. ‘I’d rather just let the matter drop.’
The lift doors parted and, without addressing him further, Matthew walked brusquely across the foyer and onto the street. His pace slackened once outside, easing the toil of his delicate limbs, as he set off in the direction of the burger bar.
Before long the beggar’s pitch honed into view and Matthew was undecided whether he should approach or cross over the stre
et to avoid a confrontation. He became intrigued and apprehensive, however, when he realised that the beggar’s spot had been taken by someone else. In the man’s place sat a slender girl who wore black shin-length boots. As he tentatively approached, he saw the long dark hair that protruded from the newcomer’s woollen hat. Her torso was clad in a cardigan over a green T-shirt, while below the waist she wore baggy shorts that revealed waif-like legs.
Slowing as he approached, Matthew eyed the polystyrene collection-cup she held in her hand.
‘Can you spare some change?’ she asked, eyeing him casually.
‘Sorry, I haven’t got any cash.’ He instinctively padded his pocket. He paused in front of her. ‘So, where’s the other chap today: the one with the cowboy hat?’
‘Why? Who wants to know?’
‘Erm, I do.’
‘And you are?’
‘A friend of his, I guess. Is he all right?’
‘He’s fine, I think; just changed his pitch for a couple of days. It’s not good to be in the same place too long. You see the same old faces and they become less generous. What did you want him for?’
‘Nothing. Just to make sure he’s all right. Maybe buy him some lunch.’ He looked one way along the street and then the other. ‘So, there’s no reason he’s gone.’
‘Like I said, you need to move round from time to time, to stop the roots from taking hold.’ A sudden glint came to her eye. ‘You could always buy me lunch, if you wanted. I haven’t had anything all day.’
Matthew’s eyes widened at her forthrightness and he nodded towards the burger bar in resignation. ‘OK, what do you want?’
‘I’m not eating here, no way. Have you any idea of the rubbish they put in their food?’
‘What? I’ve been eating here all week and it hasn’t done me any harm ... which is more than can be said for other places.’
‘I’m afraid that if you’re going to buy me lunch, it has to be something from the vegetarian sandwich shop across the street.’
This time, the girl’s brazenness brought a smile to his face. ‘A fussy little beggar, aren’t you? I’d have thought that, in your situation, you’d be happy with whatever you’re given.’
‘I haven’t been reduced to cannibalism just yet.’
Suppressing the smile, Matthew shook his head. ‘Where is this vegetarian shop?’
‘I’ll show you. It’s only a couple of minutes away.’
‘Won’t you lose this pitch? I thought it was a good spot for begging.’
‘If I do, I do. It’s not every day someone offers to buy you lunch; besides, the sandwich bar has air-conditioning and lovely clean toilets.’
Reaching behind a stack of cardboard boxes, the girl retrieved a rucksack and emptied the contents of the polystyrene cup into its front pocket. Placing the cup in the bag, she stood, hooked the rucksack over her shoulder and led Matthew back in the direction he had come.
Halting at a letterbox along the way, the girl produced an envelope from her bag and popped it into its mouth.
‘A postcard home?’ Matthew asked nonchalantly.
‘Something like that.’
Fifty yards along, they crossed the street and passed beneath an archway into a covered arcade, where occasional tables and chairs were arranged before several cafes and bistros. Even though there were unoccupied tables on the concourse, the girl insisted they enter the vegetarian sandwich bar proper. While Matthew was told to find a vacant table, she proceeded to the lavatories at the rear.
She emerged ten minutes later with a fresh glow to her pale complexion and took the seat across the table from him.
‘That’s better, I feel almost human again,’ she said, picking up the menu. ‘Have you decided what you’re having?’
‘Me? Nothing. I’ll buy you whatever you want and then I’ll leave you to it.’
‘But you must stay. They won’t throw me out while I’ve got company.’ She smiled and, eyes returning to the menu, she said: ‘You should try the wild mushrooms on toast. It’s to die for.’
As Matthew considered both the menu and a possible means of escape, a waitress arrived at the table. The girl ordered a goat’s cheese salad and a peppermint tea, and he chose a pot of breakfast tea, unsure that he could stomach anything more substantial.
‘So, what’s your name?’ the girl asked, once the waitress had departed.
‘Matt.’
‘I’m Pippa. It’s short for Philippa.’
‘Philippa. And is that your real name, or one invented for my benefit?’
‘Why should anyone lie about their name?’
‘I have no idea. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Well, I can assure you that I have no reason to lie. My name is Philippa and always has been – in this life, at least.’
‘A very nice name it is.’ He enunciated his words in imitation of her clear diction. ‘It’s a bit fancy, though. To be honest, with your fancy name and your nice accent, you’re not the sort of girl I’d expect to find begging outside a burger bar.’
‘Bad luck can happen to anyone, I guess.’
Matthew smiled wearily. ‘Come on, then, what’s your story: how did you end up on the street?’
The girl arched her back and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Now, Matt, if we are going to be friends, then one thing must be made clear from the start. You don’t ask a homeless person where they’re from, and you certainly don’t ask how they came to be living rough. It’s simply not done, OK?’
‘OK.’ He folded his arms defensively. ‘What can we talk about? Or do you want to sit here and say nothing?’
‘We can talk about lots of things. For instance, you can tell me about yourself.’
‘And what if I don’t want to? What if it’s not done?’
‘Then, you can tell me to mind my own business and I will do so. We can chat about something more interesting, perhaps: like philosophy ... or sodomy.’
Matthew gazed intently at her and then looked away.
Thankfully, it was not long before the waitress arrived with their order, and the girl began eating while the infusions were left to stew.
‘Would you like to try some?’ She motioned to her plate.
‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
‘Suit yourself.’
As she stirred her tea, the odour of mint reached Matthew’s nostrils, making his stomach churn uncomfortably.
‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ she said, tapping the spoon on the side of the teapot and closing the lid.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You just don’t look like you belong in a big city.’
‘Why?’
‘You look too … clean. You know, untainted.’
‘I shower most days, if that’s what you mean,’ Matthew said.
‘That’s not what I mean. I’m just saying you have an innocent look about you. Don’t get me wrong, innocence is a good thing. It’s just a little out of place among the grime of this town.’
‘If you must know, I’m from Orchid Hill,’ Matthew said softly.
‘I’ve never heard of it. A nice name, though. Have you been here long?’
‘A few days, that’s all. I’m going back tomorrow.’
‘That’s supposing tomorrow actually happens.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The girl smiled coyly. ‘Well, there won’t always be a tomorrow, will there? One day we’ll go to bed, close our eyes and never open them. It’s a basic fact of life ... or death, rather.’ With a wave of her hand, she suddenly became dismissive. ‘Ignore me, Matt, I was just trying to be clever. I should have known I could never pull it off. I have this friend, you see, a truly amazing man, and I’m always trying to imitate him. Pathetic, I know.’
‘Are you talking about the guy in the cowboy hat?’
‘God, no. Not him. He’s an idiot.’ A smile spread across her lips. ‘This is someone else entirely. He lives in Ash Tree Park and he’s ma
de a little shelter out of wooden crates and corrugated iron.’
‘What, you mean he actually lives in the park?’
‘Yes, beneath a bramble bush, next to a pretty fountain.’
‘At least he’s got somewhere to wash, I suppose. And what makes him so amazing?’
‘He just is. The way he thinks, the things he says. He’s got this incredible insight, a real understanding of the way things work. He sees the bigger picture, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ Matthew said.
‘It’s as though he understands how time progresses ... how history shapes the world. For instance, he knows about wars and governments. And not just facts and figures. He sinks deeper, looks for motives and reasons, causes behind the facts.’
‘Sounds like a bog-standard historian to me.’
‘No, he’s much more than that. His big idea is that by knowing where we’ve been, individually and collectively, we can get a clearer idea where we’re heading.’
‘Right, now you’re saying he’s a fortune-teller, as well.’
The girl shook her head. ‘I’m not doing him justice. To be honest, I don’t know how to describe him. I just know that he’s a bona fide visionary. On the streets they call him The Sage of Ash Tree, and I assure you he hasn’t earned that name for nothing.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Matthew said. ‘Here’s a man with ‘insight’, with a great understanding of the ways of the world, and still he washes his face every morning in a dirty fountain.’
‘Like I said, hard times can fall on the best of us. If you’re interested, why not come and see him? He always likes meeting new people. I was going to visit him after I’d finished here, anyway.’
‘I think I’ll pass, thank you. I’ve met people like him before: people who think they have some ‘deeper truth’, when really they’re full of bullshit.’ A sparkle came to his eye as he at last began pouring his tea.
‘I gather you’re a non-believer.’
‘You could say that. To be honest, not so long ago I kind of believed all that rubbish. It freaked me out that somebody might be able to know things about me, about who I am and where I’m going. For Christ’s sake, there was a time I was scared to read my horoscope in case it turned out to be true; that’s how messed up I was. But I quickly realised that it’s all a load of tosh. There is no ‘deeper truth’. Life happens because it happens, and anyone who thinks they can make sense of it is stupid.’ Recognising that he had opened himself too much, he suddenly became reticent. ‘Remind me, why am I telling you this?’
‘Because talking is good.’ The girl beamed back. ‘And honesty is the only way. You should definitely come and see him. I swear he’ll open your eyes.’
Matthew was unsure how he was eventually persuaded, but upon leaving the sandwich bar he found himself following the girl into the underground network, en route for an appointment with another transient soul.
Despite the anxiety that persisted, some colour had returned to his cheeks and his stomach felt easier for having something warm and sugary inside. As they approached the tunnels’ barriers, while he fumbled in his pocket for the multi-journey ticket that he had purchased several days before, the girl casually climbed over an adjacent barrier.
They rode the escalator down beneath the city and once again the sound of an acoustic guitar resonated up the escalator tube. When the guitarist came into view at the bottom of the run, Matthew recognised the same bearded man as on those other occasions.
Stepping off the moving staircase, he walked past the man without paying him heed. It was not until he had rounded a corner, however, that he realised the girl was not following. Returning for her, he found her at the bottom of the escalator tube watching the musician, rapt.
As Matthew waited, scores of people filed by, some of whom tossed coins into the musician’s guitar case. And yet the girl remained his sole attentive audience. Eventually he became frustrated.
‘I thought we were going to see your friend.’
‘Shush,’ she said.
The final bars of the song rang out and she clapped her hands in ovation. The guitar player nodded his appreciation and the girl leaned and planted a kiss on the side of his face. Then, without saying a word, she turned and headed for the platform of the metro station, leaving Matthew and the guitarist to observe each other’s disquiet.
Catching up with her on the platform, Matthew asked: ‘Do you go round kissing all the street musicians?’
‘Only if they’re good or if I particularly like the song. His song deserved a peck on the cheek at the very least.’
When they boarded the train, the carriage was so crowded that Matthew stood pressed against the girl, albeit at an angle that maintained dignity for both. They were a couple of stops into the journey when he felt her hand brush his thigh. He tried to ignore the pleasurable sensation, certain that it had been accidental. When he felt her touch again, however, he was struck by the idea that she was trying to reach into his pocket. With his right hand supporting himself on the rail, he could not easily check to see if anything was missing. Nevertheless, from that moment, at every station he readied himself in case, when the carriage doors opened, the girl would flee through the maze of passages.
He was relieved that she was still by his side when they arrived at their scheduled stop. Having disembarked, Matthew stood behind her on the escalator ascent and discreetly felt his jeans pocket, finding his wallet where it ought to be. When the girl turned and smiled at him, he experienced a pang of guilt for having imagined the worst.
As they made their way towards the station exit, the girl stopped at a newsagent’s kiosk and scanned the shelves of magazines.
‘What are you looking for?’ Matthew asked.
‘A present for Mr Cox.’
‘I take it that’s your friend, The Sage of Ash Tree.’
‘That’s right. But we can’t go empty-handed. We have to get him something, and this will do fine.’ She selected a book of children’s exercises, of the kind where ascending numbers are spread across a page and need to be joined to complete a picture. ‘You couldn’t give me some money, could you? This morning wasn’t the most profitable.’
Shrugging nonchalantly, Matthew took out his wallet and gave her some loose change.
Once she had made the purchase, they headed into the sunshine.
They emerged opposite Ash Tree Park and proceeded through a gateway and into the enclosed, lightly-wooded area. A squirrel bounded before them and scampered up a tree.
‘Tell me, Matt, do you believe in reincarnation?’ the girl asked, gazing up at the branches.
‘I’ve never given it much thought.’
‘I do. I believe it totally. And when I come back, I want to be one of those. Squirrels are such beautiful creatures; and the best part is they spend all day running round in a park. Seems like a wonderful life to me. What about you? If you could come back as any animal, which would you choose?’
‘No idea. A sheep. They have it easy, eating and sleeping all day. It doesn’t require much brain power.’
‘You said it. And before long, you’ll find yourself skewered on some kebab. Let’s face it, eventually someone is going to want to eat you ... that is, until the vegetarian revolution begins. By contrast, nobody wants to harm a squirrel.’
They moved onwards until the trees gave way to well-tended lawns bordered by flowerbeds. In the centre of one of the lawns was a raised, stone-walled pond with a statue of a mermaid in the middle. Water poured from a jug she held under her arm. It was only as they approached that Matthew noticed someone lying on a bench beside the fountain: a man holding something square and plastic in front of his face. Not doubting for a second that this was who they had come to see, Matthew was pleased that the man did not look as unkempt as he had feared. Although his brown trousers and cream, fisherman’s jumper were tatty, they did not appear especially dirty. And while his chin was covered with a short if unruly beard
, it gave him more a professorial look than one of outright vagrancy.
Noticing them approach, the man looked up from what he was doing and sat upright.
‘Philippa,’ he said. ‘It has been a while. I thought you had given up on me.’
‘I could never give up on you. I’ve just been busy, that’s all.’ She leaned and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘This is Matt,’ she said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Matthew.’ The man raised a couple of fingers to his temple as if in a military salute. ‘Any friend of Philippa’s ...’
‘Likewise.’ He nodded in return.
‘You are clearly not one of us, I see,’ the man said to Matthew. ‘One of society’s outcasts. You are far too neat and tidy; an out-of-towner if ever I saw one.’
‘That’s what I told him,’ the girl said triumphantly, taking the rucksack from her back.
‘In fact, Matthew, you are looking a little yellow around the gills, if you don’t mind me saying. You should get out in the sun more, breathe some of the city air.’ He inhaled deeply before exhaling with a grimace. ‘On second thoughts, you would be wiser to breathe as little of this air as you can.’
‘We got you a little something,’ the girl said, handing over the booklet.
The man accepted the present with a nod. ‘A book of numbers. Very apt. If only I had some colouring pencils, I could become a regular Van Gogh. Now, are you going to sit down, because you are making me look like an emperor holding court.’
The girl did as instructed and assumed a place at his side.
Matthew, meanwhile, leaned against the stone rim of the pond. ‘Pippa tells me you’re into History,’ he said, looking incredulously towards the vagrant.
‘History? I am a huge fan. It is, after all, the foundation upon which everything is built. And I mean everything. Without History, none of us would be here, quite literally.’
‘And a fan of Maths, as well.’ Matthew nodded towards the plastic object, which he now realised was an electronic calculator.
‘How can I not be a fan of Maths? If History forms the foundations of life, then Mathematics provides the blueprint for its construction.’ Again, the man smiled, revealing a clean set of teeth. ‘You’ll have to excuse the building metaphors, only lately I have been reading about ancient Egyptians. A fascinating race. Intelligent, civilised and extraordinary builders. What they achieved in their architecture – the patterns and the symmetry – was quite staggering. And while they may have had their totem, ritualistic gods, it is clear that they also believed in the Great God Mathematics. Whether they prayed to Him is a different matter.’ He rested the calculator on the bench. ‘What about you, Matthew? Are you interested in Maths?’
‘I always thought it was pointless, to be honest.’
‘It appears your friend is an atheist,’ the man said, flashing a wink at the girl. ‘It is just as well that words and ideas go unpunished in the religion of Numbers.’ His eyes narrowed at Matthew. ‘I just hope you were not one of those horrible little children who sat at the back of the classroom, laughing like a hyena and taunting your Maths teacher just because he bore a resemblance to some long-dead foreign dictator. But, no, you seem far too placid and meek to be a rabble-rouser. More a sheep than hyena.’
Matthew shifted awkwardly and glanced at the girl, whose face lit up at the reference.
‘So, tell me, Matthew,’ the man continued, ‘how has the summer been treating you?’
‘OK, I guess.’
‘Are you still at school?’
‘Just finished.’
‘I see. Which means you are at a crossroads. One of the first major crossroads in your young life, no doubt.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I don’t envy you. You have reached that age when summer becomes the worst of all seasons. I mean, up till now, you have probably spent the summer months enjoying life. But you have arrived at that horrible summer when it is all about fingernail biting, listening for the postman, wondering if he might be the one who brings the envelope containing your exam results. And who could imagine that so much could depend on five or six letters of the alphabet? It seems absurd when you think about it. A=Advance, while F means you are stuck in a bowl of hot toffee fudge.’
The man scratched his bearded chin as he continued: ‘The sad fact is that many of those envelopes contain immense disappointment. One or two could even be death sentences. I kid you not. Because, for all those students who pass with flying colours, there will be plenty who are left despondent. It is hardly surprising, when you think about it, that more young people die at this time of year than any other; such is the power of those simple letters of the alphabet.’ The man gazed at him and the intensity disappeared from his face. ‘Forgive my ramblings, Matthew, I was only thinking aloud, putting words to idle thoughts. Believe me, I have lots of idle thoughts. It is just that sometimes he exasperates me, this Great God Mathematics. To think that even now, as we speak, some poor child with a sealed envelope is on the verge of making a cold-hearted statistician sharpen his pencil.’
