No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Jacob entered the stairwell and crept down the stairs. He slowed as he approached the first floor, not solely from his breathlessness at the descent, but also because he knew that the building’s odd design of having two external entrances, one on each of the first and ground floors, increased the footfall on these few flights. He paused at the door to listen out for approaching footsteps, heard none, and then continued down to the ground floor, his senses highly tuned. This was dangerous territory, where anyone could enter from above or below while he stole between the two busiest levels.

  At the ground floor Jacob again paused to listen. Just as he was about to proceed, he heard footsteps hurrying across the tiles towards him. Had he been discovered? Did they know about the mission? Jacob instinctively jumped across to the hinged side of the door, knowing that as it opened into the stairwell it would shield him for a second or two. His grip tightened on his gun and he braced himself. The door flew open.

  Jacob caught hold of the handle, preventing the door from springing back immediately, concealing himself from view for a vital few moments, but not before he had seen the tell-tale fatigues of an enemy fighter, bounding up the staircase, two stairs at a time, clearly in a rush. Seconds later, the door to the first floor banged open and the sound of footsteps receded. Jacob closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. That had been close. He released the door and let it close naturally, before resuming his descent.

  Jacob slipped unnoticed out of the building’s lower level door and into the chill of the early morning air. He hastened away before he was discovered and, more importantly, to avoid the blast that would rock the building to its core within minutes.

  Mission accomplished.

  At basement level, Jacob considered his choice of exits. The quietest route would be through the restricted area, home to storage rooms, generators and other building infrastructure. Even though he thought of the Barbican as an architectural carbuncle, Jacob liked its warren-like structure below ground, a maze of passages and tunnels that at times resembled a gothic horror movie with sinister shadows, forbidding corners and cold, austere brickwork. What it lacked in gargoyles and vampires, it made up for with its ugly countenance and its collection of homeless people that sheltered from London’s harsh streets, especially during cold winter nights. Jacob knew all too well about those.

  His other option was to leave via the resident exit that provided access to underground car parks, terraces and gardens. Jacob knew that it would be quicker and was probably the safer choice, and following his earlier close shave with discovery he didn’t want to take any more chances. The car park it would be.

  He peered around the corner and was relieved to see that the parking attendant this morning was Whoopi, so-called because of her striking resemblance to the American actress, and he knew that he’d have no trouble from her. As he turned the corner, she looked up and greeted him in her usual effusive manner, which Jacob assumed she put on to imitate her nickname.

  ‘Oh, my good sweet Jesus. How many times have I told you not to come through here?’ She lifted her hands to her wide-open mouth in mock fear. ‘You gave me quite a fright!’

  Her vibrant smile revealed her true feelings, and Jacob couldn’t help but grin back.

  ‘Morning Whoopi. Good to see you too, beautiful.’

  He put his grimy fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss, and Whoopi’s laugh echoed around the walls and low ceiling.

  ‘Oh, get on with you, Jacob. Next time I’m calling security, see if I don’t!’

  Once out into the tunnel-like structure of Beech Street, Jacob pondered what to do. Should he seek food at the Refuge or try his luck elsewhere? He was in good spirits after his trip to the top of the tower and Whoopi’s infectious gaiety. He didn’t feel like dampening his mood just yet by joining his fellow destitutes at the Refuge. The weather was fine and he felt his luck was in, so he turned east, towards the light, to see what he could find.

  ***

  Now that Paddy had arrived, it was time to wake Michael. Short as it was, he could hardly keep his eyes open as he concentrated on his message, and Paddy had to re-read it three times through the fog of his exhaustion before he was happy to hit the send button. But it had to be done now, before he fell asleep standing up.

  And so began the road to slaughter, with one simple message:

  In London now. Meet this pm. Goods arrive tomorrow.

  Paddy took a long, last drag from his cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, caught in his throat, and he coughed hard. He doubled up, wheezing between each rasping hack, and pain shot through his chest. He ground the cigarette into the ashtray, put his hand to his heart and waited for the episode to pass. Bloody things. He should have packed them up years ago, although it was too damned late for that now.

  He slumped back against his pillow. Why had he volunteered for this mission, when there were far younger and fitter men ready to risk everything for the Brethren? But he knew the answer to that question and, despite his discomfort and the hideous, murderous thoughts in his mind, he was asleep in moments, shattered by his overnight journey.

  It was not the sleep of the righteous.

  ***

  Jacob often wandered in the direction of Liverpool Street station at this time of day, searching for some of the free food and drink that was regularly handed out to early morning commuters. Promotional chocolate bars, soft drinks or new types of snack were irresistible to anyone living on the streets. Yet they were surprisingly difficult to get hold of. For the homeless.

  Jacob’s stomach growled at the prospect and he hurried past the gates of the Honourable Artillery Company, a grand building fronted by a large parade ground. Despite his own career in the British Army, Jacob never lingered by the gates or admired the view; it brought back too many painful memories of his darkest times. In any case, as far as Jacob was aware, nowadays it was used for corporate entertainment in the City rather than for any real military purpose, so why would he bother? He had other things on his mind, and right now he needed to keep moving to get to Liverpool Street in time.

  It was still well before rush hour, but workers were already arriving at their offices. Up ahead, a suited man held a phone in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and didn’t look up once as he wandered towards Jacob. An everyday sight, almost everyone seemed to do it. One of the homeless men at the Refuge had nicknamed them ‘zombeciles’, which Jacob thought an apt description of the imbecilic, almost trance-like vegetative state of their addiction to their screens. These people are asking to be shoulder-charged. But, avoiding the confrontation, Jacob dodged the man with a frosty stare as he lurched towards him.

  Wilson Street had a tatty, run-down feel that was now largely absent from the rest of the City, and he walked past a shivering girl in the recess of a fire exit. Homeless people regularly camped in doorways along here, wrapped up in their cardboard and newspapers away from the main thoroughfare, or they rummaged through the bins behind the Broadgate complex looking for scraps from the locality’s plentiful restaurants and bars. He looked at the girl’s frayed gloves and hat, scant protection from the elements, and felt like stopping to help. But he didn’t. The chances were that she would shrink away from him or lash out, suspecting he was attacking her for what little she had in her pockets. Anyway, what did he have to offer her? Maybe he would drop her a snack on the way back.

  Jacob knew that the young people handing out promotional freebies might see him coming and not give him anything, even though he was clearly in greater need than the well-fed commuters passing through the station, some of whom would grab handfuls of free snacks. He could tell from their apologies that they genuinely felt sorry, and Jacob couldn’t blame them for not risking their jobs if they had been told not to serve the homeless, although he didn’t understand their justification for refusing him.

  But his greater concern was the security guards. They were definitely not apologetic; ill-tempered or hostile would be more accurate descriptions. However
, Jacob had learnt that, if he timed it right, he could dash in whilst the promotional stalls were being set up, then walk away with a couple of items in his pockets. That was the plan. A quick in-and-out.

  He turned into Eldon Street and was spurred on by the sight of a group of young women, dressed in bright blue tops and black leggings, unloading a van at the station. This was exactly the time when they would be distracted and not paying attention to people walking past their boxes. His mouth watered.

  He moved towards them, the covered walkway helping to conceal him from the security guards, while also avoiding the oncoming zombeciles drifting out of the station. He was just yards away when the driver pulled down the shutter at the back of the van and walked round to the cab to drive away, leaving the women to carry the boxes into the station itself. Jacob knew that a few would be left unguarded. This was going to be his lucky day.

  However, when he reached the boxes and saw what they contained, his lips cracked dry. There were two sizes, the larger boxes full of bright blue rubber stress balls emblazoned with the words ‘Blue Fits Gym’, which Jacob found oddly distasteful, if not disturbing. The smaller ones contained flyers printed with details of a new fitness and leisure centre opening around the corner, including an early-bird discount voucher or, as the flyer put it alongside a cartoon of a blue bird, ‘Blue Fits Blue Tits’. Jacob imagined what other tawdry comments the rest of the promotional material might contain, and he pitied the young women who were being paid next-to-nothing to hand out this rubbish, probably having to put up with lewd comments and leering stares from some of the commuters arriving at Liverpool Street.

  As he shook his head in disgust, Jacob heard loud, coarse laughter close behind him, and he turned to find himself looking down at the hateful smirk of Bill Conran, the most spiteful of the security guards at Broadgate.

  ‘Ha, ha, you old beggar, you should see the look on your face.’ Bill edged closer to Jacob, the joy of seeing him squirm clear in his wild eyes. ‘You can’t eat those balls, although no doubt you’ve tasted worse!’

  Jacob had given up trying to work out Bill’s comments or rising to his provocation, so he stepped to one side to walk away without a word.

  ‘Not so fast you low-life, I haven’t finished with you yet,’ Bill said with a sneer, and moved to block Jacob’s escape.

  ‘You think you’re so clever coming down here, stealing food intended for hardworking City folk, not layabouts like you. But I saw you coming a mile off. What, did you think I wouldn’t spot you? And I smelled you way before that, as you stink today, even more than usual.’ He held his nose and glanced at his two cronies lurking a few yards away with a snigger.

  Jacob stood several inches taller than Bill and, despite living on the streets, was still a strong man. It would be so easy to push him away. But for all the satisfaction it would give him, Jacob knew that it wasn’t worth ending up in a fight he couldn’t win, not with Bill’s fellow security guards for company. They would take great pleasure in roughing him up with some well-placed kicks and punches, while manhandling him to the estate office. Eventually they’d let him go, but only after further verbal and physical abuse. It just wasn’t worth it. Jacob decided to take Bill’s insults, right here and now, as the lesser of two evils.

  ‘I’m getting sick and tired of seeing your ugly face around here, and if I see you again there really will be trouble. Do you hear me?’ he asked, jabbing Jacob in the chest with a finger. ‘Why don’t you crawl back under that stone you came from, eh?’

  Bill’s attention was then drawn to the lycra-clad women from Blue Fits Gym, who had returned to take the remaining boxes to the station concourse. He watched them bending down to pick up the boxes and a lecherous grin crossed his face, but his expression changed to anger when Jacob followed his gaze to see what had distracted him.

  ‘Hey, stop looking at those girls. They’re not interested in a filthy, old beggar like you.’ He spoke in a low, menacing growl, then suddenly spat on the floor between them.

  ‘You leave them to real men like us.’ He swept his hand towards his two colleagues. ‘Understood?’

  Then, raising his voice so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could hear, he said, ‘Now get out of here, and don’t let me see you around here again, pestering decent people.’ Bill shoved Jacob as hard as he could, and kicked out at him venomously when he stumbled, catching him squarely on the calf and sending him sprawling to the pavement.

  It took all of Jacob’s willpower not to jump up and punch the odious little man. Don’t do it, he’s not worth it. He seethed quietly on the ground and glared up at his adversary.

  Bill looked down at Jacob with smug satisfaction, daring him to retaliate. When Jacob didn’t move, he laughed and turned away.

  His humiliation complete, Jacob picked himself up, his head bowed in shame that he hadn’t fought back. He retreated from the battlefield, comforted only by the fact that he lived to fight another day, but not before overhearing Bill boasting to the young women that he had stopped a tramp from stealing their boxes, no doubt expecting to impress them with his courage in the face of such mortal peril.

  However, after a short pause, one of the women responded in a puzzled voice. ‘What on earth would he want with our stress balls? Surely that’s the last thing a tramp needs.’

  Bill had no answer to that.

  3

  Orla hummed to herself as she cleared up after breakfast, a cheerful melody while she worked, and she looked around the Refuge’s small dining area. A few of the usual suspects were still at their tables, dragging out their last spoonful of porridge or sip of tea, but the room was otherwise deserted. Most of the crockery and cutlery had been put on trays and left in the racks against the wall, there was little waste in the scrap bowl, and the people leaving had seemed in good spirits. All the tell-tale signs of a successful meal.

  Orla enjoyed working at the Refuge, despite the constant reminders of how miserable life was for some people, as she felt she was helping people in genuine need. She most liked the evening shift, welcoming the homeless as guests to a special place of safety, warmth and kindness, and she never doubted that her volunteering was truly worthwhile. It was etched on the faces of the people who crossed the Refuge’s threshold. When she worked the morning shift, she served the same hungry people hot, nourishing food, and who wouldn’t find that rewarding?

  Orla stopped humming and sighed. But now for the hard part, the inevitable chore that followed breakfast. Soon it would be time to move many of the men and women housed in the Refuge the previous night back onto the streets. She dreaded this part of her work, telling many of their guests that they had to leave the shelter and go back to the streets, whatever the weather. It felt wrong.

  Orla knew how the system worked, that it wasn’t as heartless as it appeared, and over time she had become used to it. She reminded herself that many of them would go to a safe place for the day or would find accommodation elsewhere. But this didn’t dispel all of her doubts. She knew that some of the people they ejected would wander the streets and then seek shelter again tonight, either back at the Refuge itself or another similar haven. But a few might end up in hospital or a street gutter. She shook her head. Surely there must be a better way.

  Orla wheeled the full trolley into the kitchen, then picked up a clean pile of trays to carry back into the dining room. Deep in thought, she turned—

  Her heart lurched and she reeled back from the figure blocking the doorway. She immediately recognised the woman standing there, but it still took Orla a second or two to catch her breath again.

  ‘My God Maria, what are you doing? You made me jump.’ Orla composed herself before continuing. ‘I almost dropped these trays.’

  Maria looked down at her feet and stepped aside to let Orla through the door with her load.

  ‘I was only coming to say thanks for breakfast,’ she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’

  ‘That’s OK, M
aria, you just surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t hear you coming.’

  Orla put down her trays and touched Maria on the arm. ‘I’m glad you had a good breakfast. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I think I’ll head down to the Job Centre this morning,’ she replied. ‘I know they haven’t had anything for the past few weeks, but I’ve got to keep trying. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get a job, or if I’ll ever have enough money to move out of here.’

  Maria fidgeted with a lock of hair as she searched for the right words. ‘I mean, it’s nice to stay at the Refuge while I find my feet again, but I don’t want to stay here forever. No offence, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’d think the same in your position. I also hope you’ll be able to leave here soon. No offence!’ Both women laughed.

  ‘If there’s nothing at the Job Centre, I’ll try the shops and offices along Commercial Street. They sometimes have signs in the windows for casual work, so I may get lucky.’ Maria’s smile brightened. ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea, Maria, but mind how you go. Some of those businesses are a bit dodgy and you don’t want to get in with the wrong people. Some of them won’t pay you much, or even pay you at all.’ When Maria’s smile faltered, Orla said, ‘Just be careful is all I mean.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be fine. See you again tomorrow.’

  Orla watched Maria leave and wondered if she’d been too negative with her. She knew that Maria had had a tough time and that her anxiety sometimes got the better of her, but at least she was being positive about looking for a job. She’ll be fine, stop worrying, she’s not a child.

  But Orla soon forgot about Maria. She finished wiping the tables and her mind returned to her final job before going home. Oh, joy of joys.