“First place they’d look.”
“What about moving in with Dad and me?”
“Second place they’d look,” Em said gloomily. “Your dad was my dad’s best friend.”
“All the more reason. When we tell him what’s been going on, he’d never give you up to Social Services.”
“He might not want to, but he’d have to,” Em said. “He’s not a blood relative, so he’d have no legal standing. I suppose he might apply to become my guardian; but that could take months, maybe years, and meantime I’m in a boys’ home somewhere and Mum’s in a psychiatric clinic pumped with drugs.”
“He could hide you. Pretend you weren’t with him.”
Em shook his head. “That would never work. Besides, if he was found out, it could get him into big trouble—for obstructing Social Services or something. I wouldn’t want that to happen.”
Charlotte hesitated. After a moment she said carefully, “What about moving in with me then?”
Em stared at her. “Moving in with you?”
“I could hide you in my room. Dad need never know.”
Em almost laughed aloud. “You couldn’t hide me in your room! I mean, who’s going to believe we weren’t . . . ?” He let it trail off in embarrassment.
“Weren’t what?”
He felt the flush crawling up from his neck, but fortunately the low blue lighting would have hidden it. He moved his hands about vaguely, wishing he’d never brought it up.
She let him stew for a moment, then said soberly, “All right, what do you plan to do?”
And Em, who didn’t know what he planned to do, had no idea what he planned to do, heard his voice answer her: “Sleep on a park bench somewhere.”
Chapter 16
Em’s luck. It began to rain. He felt the first drops as he left Ropo’s, and it had turned into a steady downpour by the time he reached Nelson’s Square. He was dressed in a T-shirt, jacket, and jeans; but the jacket was far from waterproof, and he had nothing to wear on his head. He was soaked through in minutes.
He passed the statue and turned right, headed for an unfamiliar, rougher part of town down by the canal. Where there was a canal there were bridges, and bridges gave you some shelter, somewhere to sleep when you were homeless; and thank God it was still summer, so he wouldn’t die of exposure. At least that was his thinking before the rain started. Now he wasn’t so sure how much shelter a bridge would give, especially if the wind picked up.
There was a Salvation Army shelter near the canal, on somewhere called Holt Street—he’d looked it up in Ropo’s phone book before he left. But he wasn’t exactly sure where Holt Street was, and he didn’t know what happened at Salvation Army hostels. Did you just turn up and ask for a room? Did you have to pay; and, if so, how much? Did you have your own room, or did you share a dormitory with a bunch of smelly old men? Did they feed you? Were the lavatories clean?
He had money—quite a lot, actually. He had thirty euros in notes, left over from his holiday, which he supposed he could change into sterling when the banks opened tomorrow. He also had seventeen pounds sterling, the entire contents of Charlotte’s purse, which she’d insisted on giving him after she paid for the coffee. In all, it probably added up to more than forty pounds, which was a lot of money for him. But the problem was, he didn’t know how long it would have to last. Even if the Salvation Army fed him for nothing—which they might since they were a religious organization—he couldn’t keep going back to the same place. That would be far too dangerous. Besides, they might be obliged to report underage boys to Social Services. He couldn’t risk that either.
He found himself outside the Salvation Army shelter by sheer chance. The facade, illuminated by a towering streetlamp, looked as ordinary as it could get: a large house in a street of large houses, many of which had now been changed into offices. The only thing that marked this house as a shelter was the Salvation Army logo and the motto Blood and Fire on a discreet brass plaque. Above three shallow steps, the front door was open. There were lights on inside.
Although Em’s coat collar was turned up, rain was trickling down the back of his neck. He felt cold and miserable. It occurred to him that maybe he should find out more about the Salvation Army just in case he decided to stay there some other time.
Em pushed through the door. He was in a large hallway with open doors leading off it. To his left was a desk, in charge of which was a gray-haired man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Apart from the Salvation Army logo on the man’s sweatshirt, there was no religious symbolism on display anywhere.
The man swung his feet down from the desk as Em entered but kept the phone glued to his ear. He waved at Em with his free hand, a sort of cheery, semimilitary salute. “You got your troubles, I got mine; but they’re nothing to these boys. Listen, Paul, I’ll ring you back. Somebody just walked in.” He cradled the phone without saying good-bye. “Hi,” he said to Em.
It was warm inside the hallway, so warm that Em’s clothes were already beginning to steam. He wasn’t going to stay here, not if it cost money, not if the man had to report him to Social Services; but the thought of going back out into the rain was becoming less appealing by the minute. He should have thought through what he wanted to ask before he came in. He hesitated, staring dumbly at the man.
“Name’s Jeff,” the man said. “Fancy a cup of tea and a look around?”
He fancied something to eat a lot more, but anything warm inside him would be welcome. Em nodded.
“Common room through there,” Jeff told him, gesturing toward the open door. “Say hello to the lads. They’re a friendly lot on the whole, although some of them don’t look it. Wouldn’t recommend the coffee, but you might find yourself a sandwich, and there were a couple of bananas left when I last looked, if old Victor hasn’t snaffled them. Want to check out the sleeping accommodation, it’s through the common room and on your left. Come back to me when you’re finished.”
Em noticed Jeff hadn’t asked his name or where he was from or what he wanted. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again like a fish. Jeff waved toward the open door again. “Through there,” he repeated, then lifted his phone and pressed the redial button.
It was warmer still in the common room, and noisy. The place looked as much like a canteen as anything else, with men huddled around small plastic tables, drinking from mugs and talking loudly. They were a rough-looking lot on the whole. Em edged nervously toward a countertop with an enormous tea urn, a coffee machine, and a scattering of sandwiches on paper plates. There was an enamel bowl that might once have contained fruit, but it was empty now. Old Victor had apparently snaffled the last of the bananas.
Em found a mug and reached for the tea urn.
“Careful with that bloody thing,” a voice said in his ear. “Scald you as soon as look at you.”
Em turned to find an old man with bulbous eyes and an enormous, straggling gray beard standing behind him. He had a peculiar accent. “You hold the mug tight under the spout and press the red button. Go on—tight under the spout, and don’t jump when it steams.”
Em pushed his mug carefully under the spout.
“You get to appreciate strong tea,” the old man remarked. “Milk’s over there in the big blue jug. And there’s sugar in the packet. Makes the tea almost drinkable if you put in enough sugar. Not like the coffee. Nothing makes the coffee drinkable. I’d keep away from the coffee, I were you. Have a sandwich. Cheese and Branston—very tasty.”
“Thank you,” Em said. He added milk and sugar to his tea, sipped it experimentally. The taste wasn’t too bad. He reached for a sandwich. “You wouldn’t be Victor, would you?”
The old man’s face started a suspicious smile. “How did you happen to know that, young man?”
“Lucky guess,” Em told him. He finished the sandwich, grabbed another, and took it with his mug of tea to inspect the sleeping accommodation. With food in his stomach he was beginning to feel a little more cheerfu
l and a lot more confident. Maybe he could stay here for just one night. He could sleep under a bridge tomorrow when the rain had stopped. When hopefully the rain had stopped.
But the sleeping accommodation wasn’t the series of rooms he had pictured. It was one large room, much the same size as the canteen, with cots squeezed in everywhere. There must have been forty of them at least, maybe even fifty. Although it was still relatively early, almost half of them were occupied by fully dressed men curled up, apparently asleep.
“It’s not the Ritz,” Victor’s voice came from behind him, “but it’s warm and dry, and they change the sheets before they allocate you a bed. Usually. You staying the night?”
“Thinking of it,” Em admitted. He had to sleep in a dormitory at school, and this wasn’t really so very much different.
“Better talk to Jeff then. Before it fills up. You’ll find it fills up fast when it’s raining.”
Em hesitated. There was still the business about Social Services. One phone call and he could have bartered a warm dry bed for his freedom. At the moment, nobody knew who he was; and while anybody could guess he was underage, he still hadn’t admitted it officially. He could walk away now and no one would be any wiser.
But walking away now meant walking into a wet night.
Em stared into the dormitory room. He’d never seen cots look more appealing. “Victor . . . ?” It would be okay to ask Victor. He’d never make the phone call. But would he know the answers?
“Yeah?”
“What happens if you’re under eighteen? Do they have to tell anybody?”
“You mean like your parents?”
Victor thought he was a runaway. “Yes,” Em said quickly. Then hesitated and added, “Or anybody?”
Victor shrugged. “They would if you were younger, like seven or something. But you could pass for older.”
“Won’t he ask my name and where I live?”
“Anybody asked your name yet?”
“No, but . . .”
“And where you live is the streets, Sunshine. You don’t have a home; you don’t have some permanent address”—he spat the words as if they were distasteful—“otherwise you wouldn’t be in need of shelter, would you? Say anything you like. Don’t you understand? Nobody checks up on you.”
Em finished the last of his sandwich and brushed a crumb off his jacket lapel. “I think I’ll go talk to Jeff.”
Chapter 17
Like Victor said, it wasn’t the Ritz. Em’s clothes had dried out in the heat of the shelter, and he was now curled under a blanket in one of the cots. Victor, by accident or design, was stretched out on another bed beside him, already asleep. It was far from dark. Light bled in through the windows from the street outside, through the open door, from the now-quiet common room. A surprising number of the men seemed to be reading by the dim glow of battery-operated night-lights.
The dormitory wasn’t quiet either. All around Em, like the sounds of the sea, was a gentle dissonance of snoring, grunting, heavy breathing, punctuated by an occasional belch, fart, sigh, or moan. It should have been hugely irritating, but strangely, Em found it comforting. In the gloom, wrapped in heat and sounds, he began to drift. Fragments of dreams intruded on his waking consciousness. At one point he thought he saw the prophet Nostradamus, with his black beard and funny hat. At another he was back in the shelter dormitory watching a ratty little man drag a tattered canvas bag across the floor.
He awoke to a riot.
Victor was standing, minus his trousers, hurling abuse at a bullet-headed character with bulging muscles. The brute wore a T-shirt sporting one word: WINSTON. Several beds had been pushed aside, and the two antagonists were surrounded by a circle of excited men. “Fight!” shouted one of the men; and the word was taken up and transformed into a chant. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Em pushed himself hurriedly out of bed. “Bloody know you did!” Victor shouted. “You knew where I kept it!”
“Everybody knew where you kept it,” Winston said. “Now leave me alone before I break your face.”
“What’s going on here?” Jeff was pushing through the crowd now.
“Bastard took my stash,” Victor said without turning his head.
To Em, “stash” meant “drugs”—he’d heard users at his school talk about their stashes—but by the look of Jeff’s expression, it had a different meaning here.
“Never touched it,” Winston growled. “You probably gone and lost it.”
“It’ll be under his bed,” Victor growled.
“All right!” Winston said. “You look and then apologize.” He turned around and, without so much as a grunt, lifted his entire bed and held it clear of the floor. There was nothing underneath it.
“Was it green?” Em asked. Faces turned toward him, and his heart started to pound again. “Was it a small, green, canvas bag?”
Victor stared at him. “Yes, it was,” he said uneasily. “You saying you saw it?”
Em looked at the ratty little man who was standing on the edge of the circle of onlookers a little to Winston’s right. “Here,” the man said at once, “what do you think you’re accusing me of?” He began to back away nervously.
Em grabbed him. The man jerked free, ricocheted spectacularly off one of the onlookers, plunged over an empty bed, and scrambled gracelessly across the floor like an insect until another onlooker pressed down on him with a heavy boot.
“Just hold him there a minute,” Jeff said. He dropped down to look under one of the beds, then drew out a green bag. “This it?” he asked Victor.
“That’s it,” Victor told him grimly. He glanced at Winston and added sheepishly, “Sorry, big fellow.”
“So, what was in it?” Em asked curiously the next morning. “Has to be something special for you to face a bloke as big as Winston.”
Victor shrugged slightly. “I could have taken him. I’m tougher than I look.”
They were sitting together at a table in the corner of the common room, sipping mugs of strong, sweet, milky tea. Nobody had had breakfast yet. According to Victor, volunteer ladies would turn up with bacon and eggs, but not before eight. The squabble with Winston and the ratty man’s subsequent eviction as the real culprit had woken everybody early. Now the common room was packed with anxiously hungry residents trying to fill up on liquids. Even the coffee machine was in use.
“Yes, I know,” Em said diplomatically. “But what were you so worried about him stealing?” The bag was too small to hold much of anything; and given the circumstances, it was unlikely to contain wads of cash or pouches of diamonds. Em was betting on something of sentimental value, and he was curious. Whatever it was would tell him something about Victor, the old man who wouldn’t back down from a fight with somebody half his age.
The bag in question was resting beside Victor’s foot. He hooked the strap with one finger and lifted it onto the table. “Want to see what’s in it? Are you sure? You may very well be disappointed.” He turned the bag upside down and tipped the contents onto the table.
“That it?” Em asked after a moment.
“That’s it,” Victor said.
Em stared at the small, battered book, the tattered school jotter, the stub of a pencil, and the bundle of thin twigs held together by two rubber bands. “What is it?”
“That’s the oldest book in the world, kid,” Victor exclaimed portentously.
Em frowned. “It’s a paperback.”
“I don’t mean this actual book, stupid. That’s obviously a copy. I mean the book itself. Oldest book in the world. First written in ancient China around 3500 BC. It’s called the I Ching.” He pronounced it yee jing.
“What are the twigs for?” Em asked.
Victor’s tone became even more scathing. “Those aren’t twigs, my boy. Those are dried yarrow stalks. You need them for the oracle.”
“So the book’s an oracle? Some sort of fortune-telling? It can tell you the future?” Em was suppressing a grin. If a tattered paperback cou
ld tell the future, what was Victor doing in a homeless shelter? All he had to do was bet his boots on the three thirty at Newmarket and walk away with a million.
“It’s not fortune-telling, and it’s obviously not going to tell you who’ll win the three thirty at Newmarket; otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?” Victor said as if reading Em’s mind. “But it can guide you on what you should do in a situation to make sure of the best possible outcome.”
“May I look?” Em asked, intrigued despite himself. The book and his funny bunch of sticks were obviously precious to Victor, judging by the fuss he’d made when they disappeared.
Victor shrugged and pushed the book across. “Knock yourself out, kid,” he said in a spoof of an American accent.
Em flipped the first few pages and glanced at a dense, academic introduction—Dad would have loved it!—before opening it at random somewhere toward the middle. Confusingly, the page heading read “61. Chung Fu/Inner Truth” beneath two Chinese characters Em couldn’t understand and above a little diagram made up of broken and unbroken lines. Near the bottom of the page, under a subheading “The Judgment” was what looked like a four-line poem about pigs and fishes. It must have lost something in translation, because it didn’t even come close to rhyming. Or making sense, come to that. “How’s it work?” Em asked curiously as he pushed the book back across the table.
“You use the yarrow stalks,” Victor told him. “You count them in a special way, and that gives you your hexagram. Then you look it up in the book and that gives you your oracle.”
Em wished he hadn’t asked. What was a hexagram anyway? “Why don’t you show me?” he suggested.
“What? Cast you an oracle?” Victor stared at him soberly for a long time, then apparently made up his mind. “Very well.” He started to peel the rubber bands off the yarrow stalks. “What’s your question?”
Em looked at him blankly.
“Your question,” Victor repeated. “The oracle answers your questions. No question, no answer.” He absorbed Em’s expression and sighed. “Imagine you’re talking to the spirit of a very wise, very old Chinese sage. Somebody who’s been around, somebody who knows the ropes. Somebody maybe a bit psychic. Now what question do you want him to answer for you?”
The Secret Prophecy Page 8
