by Ross Raisin
Most the shops are closed. He keeps walking, the autopilot on; cold, still cold. The feet throbbing in his shoes. He finds himself headed for the coach station, as if the body is handling things on its own by now, no trusting enough of him to discuss such matters any more. Fine but. Fine. It’s warmer in here, and he sits down in one of the bays. Quieter than yesterday, but it’s early yet, and he looks over at the board – 06.53 – the whole day in front of him, unending. He pushes back into his seat with his bag on his lap and falls asleep.
He wakes from an uncomfortable and confusing dream with an immediate sense of alarm that goes twisting right into the stomach. He scans about him. There, again, is the cunt opposite, looking at him over his paper, tapping away with the foot. And there’s others too, a whole line of them, watching him, just fucking sat there watching him. He stands up. He can’t stay there, all these eyes, and no to mention either the ones in the roof – the cameras – sure they will have clocked him as well, sat two days in a row without getting onto a coach. He goes out of the station and stands by the entrance in a state of near-total unclearness. A man coming up to him jabbing a newspaper in his face and he tries to shake his head but the guy keeps sticking it to him.
‘Fuck off.’
The man shrugs his shoulders and goes away, pointing it at a woman coming past.
He walks for a long time. Aimless. Trying just to shake the crawling panic that tenses inside him whenever he gets eyeballed, quickening past them, just keeping going, tired and sore but keeping on the move because he is too feart to stop. He is hungry, so when he comes to a minimarket he goes inside, picks up an egg sandwich and a four-pack and ignores the look on the auld bint’s face as she passes it over the scanner.
He is walking and looking for somewhere quiet to sit and eat, when he comes upon the river. And right there on the opposite bank, the genuine shocking sight of a massive red brick power station, long since closed down by the looks of it. There is a bench free and he sits down. No many people about here. A few joggers. A man and a woman both in suits further up the way on another bench eating out of plastic punnets with wee plastic forks. He starts to feel more relaxed. A kind of peacefulness about things here, watching the river and the different boats coming past; the great bulk of the power station and its four giant white chimneys across the water. He snaps open a can. The better keeping out the way of things. Minding his own business and no having to worry about digging up any bastard reading their newspaper or poking it in his face. And if there’s nobody about to look at him, then he doesn’t have to get considering himself either – and what a fucking affront he is to them, the newspaper-reading types of this world, the young women wanting to foist their sandwiches on him. His bladder is filled up, so he waits until nobody is about and goes a short way down the pavement to pish through the fence.
Later, when the alcohol has took the edge off the cold and the panic, he takes a walk down the water. A good stretch of it, he keeps going for a long time, craps in a Burger King and ends up on a bridge with a beauty of a view over Big Ben, watching lights catch on the water ripples, staring at the strange image of people dancing in silent frenzy inside a boat that comes past.
The pub is closed when he gets back so he won’t be paying them any rent the night. The cardboard boxes are where he left them, and he opens a couple out to put around himself like a tube. It is better, but no by much. He’s still fucking freezing. He closes his eyes and he can’t sleep, instead thinking about his big coat hung up in the lobby, how much warmer he’d be with it on than this jacket. The image of the house briefly staying with him, but fortunately the brain is too dumb with cold to imagine any further.
It is still dark when he leaves over the palings. His only thought: to get the body warm. He lounders along the pavements until the cafes are open, then goes into one for a cup of tea. The man is clear annoyed when he pays up, because he’s been sat there that long with just the single mug, but so what, it’s no like the place is mobbed with customers, so get to fuck, pal. A walk. The minimarket. Enough on his tail for an egg sandwich, but he gives the drink a bye, because that’s the last of his money.
It isn’t a bad sandwich in truth, for the price, anyway. No a bad spot by the water either, although as he approaches it now, he can see that somebody else has took it. A fat man in a suit, an empty sandwich case on his lap, just sat there. He walks past and keeps going along the pavement. Just a bench. It doesn’t matter. There’ll be plenty more down the water. But he can’t help looking back, the fat cunt lounging there with his arm stretched over the top of the bench like he thinks he’s got the invisible woman nestled in with him. Stupit, being angry about it. Pure ridiculous. But there you go. This guy has messed up his routine. And see as well he’s probably got some warm office nearby that he’s supposed to be in, with heaters and secretaries and the bloody whisky bottle stashed away in the drawer.
He is stood now, a way off, watching the man, who is fine well aware he’s being looked at. He’s kidding on he can’t see him but. Sat defiant and unmoving, the arm stretched out. Go on, ye cunt, look at me. Think I give a fuck, eh? And now he is getting up, clearly displeased about the whole situation, the poor chap, giving him the ball bearings as he departs, but so what, serious, so what? He’s glad. The wee battles you have to win. Good fucking to win one at last. He gets sat down and watches the man away down the pavement, the two great saddlebags shifting above his belt with each step.
A tugboat pulling into a wharf on the other side of the river. WASTE MANAGEMENT, one of the containers says on it. Twelve of them, he counts, full of what – binbags? Chemicals? Household tollies? Where does it all go, that’s what you’ve got to wonder, where does it go to?
A man and a woman are stood in front of him. He has been asleep. The sky is gone darker, car headlights beading over a bridge, and he is hungry. They are talking. Smiling at him. He tries to get sat up, no the strength to move away, warn them off, and they are staying there, giving it this constant gentle patter to him – blankets . . . our Lord . . . sandwich table. He pulls his bag onto his lap. Food. They are talking about food. Cruel, cruel bastards. They know. It’s all wired together somehow: the bank and the council and the electricity board and the auld bint in the minimarket. Now these pair. We have been informed as to your penniless situation and so are come the now to stick the boot on. The man is pointing down the road – see the big building there? It’s the car park behind it. More smiles from both, and they are away. Nobody else about for miles. Where do they spring from? One minute you’re asleep, and the next they’ve suddenly appeared from out the river and they’re offering you sandwiches.
It is colder, and his left leg has got the shakes, a wee trembling that doesn’t stop even when he presses down on it. Across the water, the power station is lit up. Something unearthly about it, holding him there, as if in a trance, unable to move, or think, or feel, until the stomach cramps and he is pulled back out of it.
There is a shooting pain in the trembly leg as he walks. He focuses on it, anticipating the short sharp jab each time he steps forward.
A passageway after the building, and through it, a car park. There is a minibus in the centre of it, with a trestle table pushed up against the open back doors. Bodies milling about. He stays in the passageway and watches. There is a group of four or five battered figures huddled on one side of the table. A short way off, a few others, all holding polystyrene cups. His blood is thumping; he steps back, against the wall of the passageway. An urge to bark out laughing moves through him, but it dies in his throat and he presses his palms hard against the wall, forcing them into the firm rough stone. He cannot do this. Better to starve than this, and he turns his face from the car park, starting out of the passageway and onto the street, back toward the river.
He keeps going, following the flow of the water. Now what? A pure aching need for a drink, but obviously that’s out the question. The only option is to keep walking, or go back to the pub yard. He is actually that h
ungry the thought comes to him he could go through the bins. He stops. A car slowing down as it goes past him, coming to a halt at a traffic lights. He needs to eat. He needs to eat – it’s that simple.
There are more of them arrived, stood in two groups further into the car park, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the table, steering toward it. He hurries on. A few people stood behind the table in big coats, one of them leaning forwards, smiling. He keeps his head down, doesn’t look him in the face. There are cheese sandwiches on a plate, biscuits, crisps, fruit, a bowl of pasta. He clears his throat. ‘A sandwich please.’ The man puts one on a paper plate, then shakes a few crisps on the side, like a picnic. ‘Would you like some soup?’ Mick nods. He is handed a cup. ‘Thanks,’ he says, and moves round the other side of the minibus.
He wolfs the sandwich and crisps, although the soup is too hot to swallow down quickly. Why is he stood there anyway but? He could go. No like he’s bloody beholden or anything, but still he stays put, staring into the side of the minibus, trying to get the soup finished and already it’s too late, a woman coming round the side, approaching him. He watches her over the top of his cup, his shoulders tensing.
‘Hello.’ She stands there just, no saying anything, smiling. Obvious it’s some kind of a ploy to make him talk. He stays quiet though, the cup held up to his mouth.
‘Good soup?’
He nods his head.
‘We always try to have a soup on. Especially nights like this.’
The roof of his mouth is scalding. Some noise on the other side of the minibus.
‘Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?’
‘No,’ he says, mainly because he can’t be bothered acting it.
She starts going in her coat pockets. ‘Here.’ Handing him a piece of paper. ‘This has the address of one of our winter shelters which is open tonight. It’s just off this main road, actually. Not far.’ She smiles, and he takes a big gulp of soup, watching as she slips the hand into her pocket again.
‘Do you have a faith?’
‘No.’
She is unperturbed. ‘Well, take one of these anyway. Something to read through, if nothing else.’ And she holds out leaflets of what look like Bible scriptures. He doesn’t take them, but she has turned round anyway, distracted by whatever’s going on past the minibus. Some kind of scuffle is broke out. She starts toward it, and he moves forward as well, by instinct, looking what’s going on. Some kind of argle-bargle between the two groups; facing off to each other, lots of shouting and birling about. One of the figures steps forward and there is a surge of excitement in the group behind him – ‘Do the soup, do it, do the soup . . . go on, fuck off back to Warsaw’ – and a soup cup is thrown, the liquid arching through the air. A melee starting, the Christians softfooting up to it, and he takes his opportunity to go; he puts his plate and cup on the ground and is away.
The cardboard was took out during the day and possibly he is going to die here, sat up against the iceberg generator. Both legs are shaking now, and his face is that frozen the teeth have gave up chattering. Instead, a random spasm of his jaw each few minutes, the two sets of teeth crashing together, so that by this point he’s got toothache as well; no part of him wanting to miss out. He is past caring though. Nothing is real any more, even the pain. All that exists is the cold.
The street is dark and empty and he turns back a moment to check the name of it. It’s the right one. Why shouldn’t it be? What’s he expecting: drunken, toothless scaffers spilling about over the road? A giant arrow – down and outs, this way? Further on there is a smaller street off the side, and down it, a church. He goes toward it in a kind of daze, without considering what he is doing; all he knows is that he’s definitely way too fucking sober to be doing it. It is the cold that pushes him on, chibbing like a gun between the shoulder blades.
The great wooden door of the church is closed, no sign of anybody about, so he carries on round the side to a single-storey, modern kind of a building. A light through the ribbed glass above the door. He presses on the button, but nobody comes out, so he tries the handle and goes in. A small, dark foyer. Old books on a shelf; a poster on a noticeboard – Sunday service crèche club. Fucksake. What is he doing? Nay turning back now but, because a door is opening; the Hallelujahs are coming.
A tall man with close-shaved hair and glasses is looking at him from round the door.
‘Hello. Can we help you?’
‘I was told there’s a bed.’
‘Come in.’
He follows him through into a large hall, the lights turned out, but he can see well enough the humped shapes in bags across the floor. They go into some kind of office, and the man sits down at a table, motioning him to a chair opposite.
‘Now, we require very little here by way of paperwork. We provide a place to sleep for the night, a hot evening meal and breakfast. All we ask is that you treat the church and the other guests with respect. That, really’ – he smiles, holding up both hands in mock surrender – ‘is as complicated as it gets.’
Guests. He serious?
‘What is your name?’
He tries to think up something, but he isn’t quick enough. ‘Mick.’
‘Hello, Mick. My name is Yann.’ He is smiling again and Mick wonders if maybe this is the hallelujah bit coming. ‘Whatever has brought you to us tonight, Mick, nobody here is going to judge you, and anything you tell us will be treated in confidence, as is the case with every one of our guests.’
‘I’m no a homeless, just I’m in-between things, is all.’
Yann smiles. He isn’t buying that one. ‘That’s alright.’ He starts to get up. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea. I’m afraid it’s too late now for the evening meal. We don’t generally allow admissions after eight, but we do have a space and I know how cold it is tonight.’
‘I’ve already ate, thanks.’
‘Good.’ He goes to the door. ‘Now, I need just to tell you, we don’t allow any drugs, alcohol or weapons in here.’ He smiles. ‘We’re pretty relaxed, otherwise.’ He goes out the room. Drugs? Weapons? What does he look like to this guy?
A few moments later the Hallelujah comes back in. A small cup tinkling with a spoon and sugar lump on a saucer. He gives it to him and leans down to pick something up outside the doorway. A sleeping bag, and a rolled-up mat. He puts them on the table. ‘Finish your tea, then I’ll show you through.’
There is a couple dozen bodies. The room honks with feet and drink and urine. Cabbages. He is being shown to a space against the wall in between two humps, and all he can think is – no, he cannot do this. Leave, well. Remove yourself from the place and slam the door firmly shut behind – thank you, oh dear Lord, for no judging me and for the tea but that’s me offski the night, goodbloodybye.
‘Breakfast is at six thirty,’ the voice is whispering, the mat getting laid out for him, ‘and all guests are asked to vacate by seven.’ Mick sits and takes off his shoes, a pure blessed relief, and even if the brain doesn’t want him to be doing it, there’s no chance the body is going to listen now as he slides into the warm bag. He will be up and out immediately as he’s swallowed down some breakfast. Guests are asked to vacate by seven. What a fucking place. Hotel Hallelujah.
He is facing toward the wall. The bag pulled right over his head. Still but he can’t shut out the sounds. Farts and wheezings all around him. Cabbages. He sleeps in fits. His chest cramping each time he wakes and then strains the bag tight about him, but the smell, that smell, it’s inside the bag, inside him, right into the windpipe and the lungs, until he is pure desperate for some other smell that he knows, something familiar. But he can’t mind any. Impossible to imagine that any other smell exists. It’s just this.
A noise wakes him. A shout, somewhere in the room, followed by a long wail. For a moment there is silence but then it comes again, a loud scurling sound. Like a fox; no something human. He closes his eyes, wanting to shut it out, but he can’t, even in the quiet in-betweens, because he is braced, th
e heart tromboning, waiting for it to come again. He inches the bag down from his face and props up onto his elbow to try and see over the hill of whatever he’s next to. There is no movement anywhere. Only the dim shapes of all these others, who don’t seem to notice this desperate wailing noise, merging it instead into their own nightmares.
A hand on his shoulder. There is activity in the room, voices, light streaming in through the large, high windows. Somebody stood above him; walking away. He lies there rigid and watches as the cocoon next to him squeezes itself out. No a butterfly, that’s for certain. He is old and scarred, the hair clotted, deep trenches in his face. Mick doesn’t move, watching from inside his bag – all these hopeless creatures stooping and coughing, gathering up their beds. There is one pair that look young enough they could be schoolweans. Blacks too, Asians, the whole circus. Yann is there, chatting with a few of the other Hallelujahs, who bring out long tables and unfold them at one side of the hall. Women start appearing. Broken-looking women, worse gone even than the men. He sits there in a stupor taking it in. He’s seen plenty enough scaffers before, in bookies, the park, on the street, but this is something different, seeing them all together in a room. Yann is coming over.
‘How did you sleep, Mick? We have breakfast now, so if you want to queue up, they’ll have it out in a moment.’ A line is already forming by a table at the other side of the hall. ‘Here.’ He hunkers down beside him and hands him a leaflet. ‘Each of these churches opens for a different night of the week. You can self-refer to any, but you’ll need to book your place first.’
He half listens to the rest of Yann’s spiel before joining the back of the queue, behind a woman with no socks on, her baries scarlet and bloated. None of it is registering properly. He sits down where there is nobody next to him. Staff food all over again. Except this is a better meal at least: scrambled egg, bacon, beans. Head down, he eats fast, ravenous and wanting to get out. Somebody is pulling in opposite him but. Mick keeks up, then back to his food. A man in a red woolly hat. His giant bawface blistered and shot, a drinker. If he can just get eaten up, leave this place, no talk to any of them. But this guy is staring at him.
