No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

As it turned out, most of the guests shepherded out of the Refuge by Orla and the other volunteers were in reasonable spirits. Everyone could see that it was bright and dry outside, so very few provided any resistance to being coaxed gently out of the doors.

  Another volunteer closed the door behind the last guest. ‘Hey Orla, that wasn’t too bad this morning, was it?’

  ‘No, it seems to be getting a bit easier.’ Orla knew that Kasia found it easier to be firm with the Refuge’s residents and was a fan of the system. ‘But maybe it’s just the weather.’

  Kasia stopped to look through the door panes at the people dispersing. ‘I think it helps that we know everyone that stays now, and that the council approves all of our overnighters. There’s rarely any trouble anymore, at least not compared to what it used to be like.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Orla said, although she was reluctant to concede the point. ‘But don’t you think that more people are now staying here who should be housed elsewhere?’

  It was hard for the volunteers and staff, who wanted to help the most vulnerable in society, as the vetting process seemed to leave more people on the streets. Orla knew that it made the Refuge a safer place, by reducing the amount of violence, drugs and other abuses in the shelter, so it helped protect people like Maria. But it didn’t work for everyone.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Kasia said. ‘But don’t forget Refuge-Eat. Anyone can eat here, even those who aren’t allowed to stay overnight.’

  Orla nodded. Funded solely through charitable donations, the shelter’s management had named the food service ‘Refuge-Eat’ because they didn’t like it being called a soup kitchen. But why pretend? That’s what it was, a Dickensian facility of last resort, within a stone’s throw of one of the richest places imaginable, the City of London. It fed people like Jacob, who had fallen into homelessness through no apparent fault of his own, but who wasn’t able to stay in the shelter overnight because someone had decided that he’d chosen to make himself homeless. But as Orla frequently told people, including other volunteers like Kasia, choice was purely a question of personal perspective.

  Orla remembered that she hadn’t seen Jacob this morning. She had a soft spot for him and his dignified, intelligent and considerate ways, as did most of the volunteers at the Refuge. Perhaps he had been here but she’d just missed him.

  ‘Kasia, talking of food, did you see Jacob at breakfast this morning? I haven’t seen him for a few days.’

  ‘No, sorry, but then he doesn’t come every day.’

  ‘That’s true, but it just seems to have been a while.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about him, he’s used to handling himself.’ Kasia stopped and saw the look of concern in Orla’s face. ‘We’d probably be the first to hear if he was in trouble.’

  ‘Yes, I guess you’re right. I was just thinking about him.’

  ‘Ha, don’t tell Michael. Isn’t he the jealous type?’ she said, laughing at her joke.

  Orla grinned back and they turned together to the locker room, both relieved to have finished their shifts.

  But after she’d said her brief goodbyes to the other volunteers, and stepped through the doors of the Refuge onto the Shoreditch streets, Orla’s thoughts returned to Jacob. All of the volunteers had tried to help him over the years, as they did with each of their guests, but even though he faced dangers every day, had been attacked numerous times and had been in plenty of scrapes, he always went back to the streets. Orla knew that Kasia was right, he could look after himself. But she also knew that Jacob was haunted by his past and that he wasn’t just homeless, he was restless too, as if running away from something. She thought he’d keep it that way, even if he had somewhere else to stay.

  Orla worried that Jacob would eventually die on the cold, harsh, City streets.

  ***

  Brandon was buzzing. He had spent a further hour at Stratford station, pushing Proximity to its limits, and it had passed each examination with top marks. He had infiltrated countless devices, from mobiles to tablets, and had increased his range to way beyond the length of one carriage. By sending the program’s signal as a train was pulling into the platform, a couple of seconds before it came to a halt, Sleeper had infected the mobile phones of people leaving the train, not only those who remained on it. On one occasion, he even saw the screen of a woman’s phone turn bright purple right in front of him, the unmistakable sign that his pop-up message had arrived. Within a few steps, she had glanced at her screen and closed the message, and then carried on studying her phone as she walked down the platform, apparently oblivious to what she had just done.

  Brandon left the station when his laptop ran out of power, deciding against recharging it and staying longer. That would have taken him into the daylight hours, risking unnecessary enquiry from station staff or prying eyes of interfering commuters. In any case, he had proved that Proximity worked, and he was confident that he had devised an instrument capable of inflicting cyber carnage on an unsuspecting public. Next time he would use a much more virulent bug than Sleeper, and Brandon shivered at the thought of what that would do.

  He jumped onto a City-bound Central Line train, like one of the thousands of commuters who pass through Stratford each morning on their way to work. Lonely and anonymous like many others maybe, but when the train plunged underground and the famous landmarks of the former Olympic Park disappeared from view, Brandon looked around the carriage at the glum faces surrounding him and basked in the triumph of his work, satisfied that he had already completed his day’s primary objective.

  At Liverpool Street, Brandon bounced along the Underground platform, in stark contrast to the lethargic shuffles and dragging footsteps of others around him. During his short train ride, he had considered rewarding himself by taking the rest of the day off, but the closer he came to the City, the keener he was to get home before the stock market opened. He knew he was addicted to trading, or more accurately, he was hooked on making money from it. What better reward could there be for baptising Proximity, than indulging his addiction?

  He didn’t really need to be at home to trade. He could access everything from his laptop or tablet, but he preferred to do it from his flat where he could display charts, market data and news feeds across several monitors. It still gave him a thrill to sit down in front of his screens each morning, surveying the markets from Sydney to Hong Kong ahead of the open in London and Frankfurt, working out where the best opportunities lay.

  Brandon jogged up the steps two at a time. He emerged onto the main station concourse a few yards from where a stall had been set up to announce the opening of a new gym, Blue Fits. He didn’t take a second look at the girls in blue tops and black leggings, but headed down the passage that skirted the side of the station towards Exchange Square. From there it was a short walk to his apartment in a converted warehouse north of the station.

  But first he needed breakfast, and there was only one place for that: Il Miglior Caffè, his favourite coffee shop.

  ‘Buongiorno, Brandon, my friend,’ Gianluca called from behind the counter with a broad grin. ‘Good to see you, and of course you are still taking your coffee black? And don’t tell me, your usual cookie to take away?’

  ‘Hi Gianluca,’ Brandon said. ‘Yes, the usual, thanks. But watch out, one of these days I will spoil myself with one of your apple crumbles.’

  ‘That will be the day. When you win the lottery, eh?’

  Gianluca had been running the shop ever since Brandon had lived in the area, and probably for a long time before that. But, although they had spoken almost every morning for the past few years and were virtually neighbours, their brief conversations rarely went any further than the weather or the contents of Brandon’s orders. Brandon wondered if Gianluca was actually a little shy beneath his typically Italian animation, or perhaps he felt intimidated by Brandon, possibly finding him unusual, even in this modern and enlightened age.

  As a reserved person himself, that suited Brandon just fine.
The last thing he needed was intrusion into his personal affairs, especially now that he was so close to perfecting Proximity. He picked up the paper bag containing his coffee and cookie and stepped back out onto Worship Street.

  Brandon had identified the potential of this district a few years ago, at a time when the City seemed to end abruptly in the streets just behind Liverpool Street station. It had always struck him as odd that wealth or value were defined by an artificial line on a map, and he had agreed a bargain price for the leasehold of the whole top floor of what was at the time a ramshackle building, yet just a short walk from the modern, sparkling towers of the City.

  Following his shrewd investment, he spent the majority of his spare cash renovating and improving what he now called his ‘loft’. He’d believed it was just a matter of time before prices would rocket and he’d make a killing. However, even Brandon wouldn’t claim to have forecast the speed at which the area would become a magnet for technology start-ups, venture capitalists and wannabe entrepreneurs, who swarmed into Shoreditch with the aim of making it a leading centre for financial services technology, or ‘fintech’ as they liked to call it.

  Brandon marvelled at how the area had changed. Whole streets had been redeveloped, and he couldn’t think of a single building that hadn’t been either renovated, remodelled or, in some cases, flattened. What was previously derelict was now inhabited and in demand, and property prices had raced higher, putting them out of reach for all but the richest in society. But, more importantly to Brandon, he now had access to some of the latest and most advanced telecommunications, installed and maintained by people who shared his passion, of making money through technology.

  The thought made Brandon smile. It was a world away from his former life and he was determined to make the most of his change in fortunes. Proximity was the means.

  ***

  ‘Hey, wait up Orla.’

  Surprised, Orla turned and saw Maria hurrying along the pavement after her.

  ‘Thanks for waiting. I hope I didn’t startle you again, but I had to shout. I thought I’d never catch you, you walk so fast,’ Maria said, stopping to catch her breath. ‘I didn’t know you lived up this way.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve lived in Shoreditch for years. It’s really handy for working at the Refuge, as it only takes about ten minutes to walk.’ Orla didn’t add that she couldn’t afford to travel far to a job that didn’t pay anything. ‘It also helps to be close to the crèche during these horrid Underground strikes.’

  Orla shook her head, remembering that the next strike would start this afternoon, this time lasting two days. Several of her colleagues would struggle to get in or out, so she might be a little busier than normal, but at least she could walk to work herself. Everything considered, this district suited her well and she felt a strong affinity with it.

  At least she used to think that way, but she wasn’t so sure anymore. Things had changed.

  They crossed Great Eastern Street and Maria looked into a coffee shop. ‘Maybe this place will have some vacancies, as it’s only been open a few days hasn’t it? Mind you, I’m not sure if I’ll fit in here, it’s not at all like the café that was here before. I used to pop in sometimes and they’d give me a free cup of tea, but I’m not sure this place would do that.’

  She looked at Orla, who gave her an encouraging smile. Maria took a deep breath. ‘But I’ll see if they need any help, you never know. No need to wait for me, Orla, I know you have to get to work.’

  ‘OK, thanks, if you’re sure. Good luck with the job hunting. See you tomorrow.’

  Orla watched Maria join the queue of customers, who gazed up at a handwritten chalkboard behind the counter, choosing from a myriad of different teas and coffees at inflated prices. Other customers sat at wooden benches staring at their tablets or laptops. In their uniform of pristine jeans and T-shirts, Maria was right, this was a very different crowd.

  Orla walked along what had been poorer, neglected streets barely a few years ago, but which had now been redeveloped after the previous occupants had moved further away from the centre of town. The district had become trendier, almost like an offshoot of the City, and along the way it had lost its original identity. She glanced up at the buildings. In some ways little had changed, as many of them looked the same, other than being cleaned and repaired. But during her daily walks along the same streets, she’d witnessed interiors being completely gutted and rebuilt, kitted out with the conveniences of modern life. Better wiring, plumbing, kitchens and technology, so that behind the facades, everything had changed.

  There’s nothing wrong with that is there? Isn’t it just progress? But Orla wasn’t convinced. She couldn’t dispel the odd sensations of superficiality that had crept into her walks, and she missed the hubbub and life of the streets that she had known when she first arrived. Where were the people from all those years ago, the genuine, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth types, and the ones like her and Maria, just looking to make ends meet? They were nowhere to be seen.

  However, as Orla approached home, the streets became more like the old ones she knew and she relaxed in her familiar neighbourhood. She didn’t need to be at the crèche until eleven o’clock and she was looking forward to a long, hot shower. Hopefully Michael had already left for work, because it always took so much longer to do things when he was around.

  Orla reached into her bag for her door key, but then through the frosted glass she saw someone else approach from the other side. Her neighbour from across the landing stepped out onto the street.

  ‘Oh, hi Orla, excuse me, sorry, I’m running a bit late,’ Jenny said. She was out of breath and sounded a little flustered. ‘You’re back a little early today, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we managed to turf out the inmates quite quickly,’ Orla answered, frowning at her own use of the word ‘inmates’ to describe the Refuge’s residents, knowing that’s what Jenny usually called them.

  Jenny smiled over her shoulder and then hurried away with a cursory wave.

  Orla climbed the stairs to the first floor where she shared a flat with Michael. The light was on when she opened the door. Michael must still be home. She pushed the bedroom door open and saw him sitting up bare-chested in bed, hurriedly stubbing out a cigarette, and he looked guiltily in Orla’s direction when she stopped in the doorway.

  ‘Michael, what are you doing? You know how much I hate it when you smoke in bed.’ She let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work by now?’

  ‘No, I thought I’d told you. The job today doesn’t start until eleven, so I won’t be leaving for another hour or so.’

  Michael was relieved that Orla had asked a second question, as it meant he didn’t have to explain his smoking. Encouraged, he changed tack.

  ‘But since you’re home early, perhaps you could come back to bed for a little while.’ He pulled the duvet down over his bare midriff, then patted the creased sheet next to him.

  ‘Oh Michael, you know I don’t have time. I need to take a shower, wash my hair and get ready for work. As I’m early I was going to stop by Edna downstairs to see if she needed me to bring anything home for her tonight. She’s still not getting out much after her operation. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, come on Orla, just a few minutes,’ Michael pleaded. ‘You know you want to really. I can’t believe you’d turn me down for Edna—'

  ‘No Michael, I’ve told you, I don’t have time!’ Orla turned away, missing the look of surprise on Michael’s face, and strode to the bathroom.

  She undressed swiftly, threw her clothes into the linen bin and turned on the shower. As it warmed up, she gripped the sides of the basin and studied herself in the mirror. Why was she so angry with Michael? Was it the smoking, his insistence that she should have gone back to bed, or something else? But none of these things were new, and it wasn’t like her to get so upset by them.

  She did wonder about his work, as she didn’t understand what he did, other than it was something to do with computers, a
pparently some sort of freelance help-desk that he ran with a couple of his friends. She’d never met them, as Michael insisted on keeping his working and personal lives separate. He always had enough money to pay the bills, and Orla knew that she wouldn’t have managed as easily on her own, but recently it didn’t seem like he was working regular hours. She’d have to ask him about it. But not now. He was probably in a bad mood as she’d turned him down, and no doubt she’d have to be the one to apologise.

  Orla stepped into the hot shower. She let the water soak her hair and then stood with her eyes closed, face turned up towards the shower head. Despite the power of the water drumming into her face, she instantly felt more relaxed and stood motionless as she savoured the intimate pleasure of the moment, lost in her thoughts.

  ‘That’s so good.’ She purred at the caress of the warm water running over her shoulders and down her back.

  Suddenly she gasped, then shrieked as a hand slapped her naked stomach. Another cupped her right breast.

  ‘I knew you wanted to really, and this way you won’t lose any time,’ a familiar voice whispered into her ear, and he pressed himself against her back. ‘And you may still have time to see Edna before you leave.’

  Orla’s eyes were wide with shock and she shivered, despite the heat of the water. How dare he? She wanted to turn around and push Michael out of the shower, kick him and scream in his face that she’d already said ‘no’ and that she meant it. She was overwhelmed with anger, at Michael’s smoking, his lazing in bed and his forcing himself upon her. But that wasn’t all. She was suddenly angry with everything else too, with the Refuge, the techies of Shoreditch, Maria, Jacob, everyone, with her life. She didn’t know why, she just wanted to yell at them all, starting with Michael.

  But Orla was scared. She had heard the scorn in that voice, and had sensed something menacing in his taunt; she wasn’t sure what, but it was there, deep down, dark and sinister. She shivered again. Orla didn’t know how it would end if she refused Michael, and she wasn’t ready to find out.