Daily Routine Orders 5
It’s begun, the recruiting, and it was easy as falling off a log. I didn’t even have to go far. My flat – mine and Sappho’s – is in Mornington Place, and I found my first recruit in a doorway near Camden Station. A mile, if that. Mind you, it was a filthy night. Cold, wet and windy. Cut straight through you, that wind. I was wearing a parka, stormproof overtrousers and strong boots and I was still perished. What he must have felt like in damp, tatty denim I shudder to think. It was 01.30 so he’d probably been there an hour or two, freezing his tabs off, and that’s why he came so easy.
What I did was, I squatted down in front of him and said, ‘What’s up, mate – down on your luck?’ I smiled as I said this – my best do-gooder smile. I was prepared for a possible rebuff. I mean, he might have been deeply suspicious – thought I was a woofta or something – but it didn’t seem to cross his mind. Half daft with cold, probably. Anyway, he opened his eyes and looked at me and frowned and mumbled, ‘Who are you?’
He was Scottish.
‘Me?’ I gave him a smile again. ‘Shelter’s my name. I help run the hostel on Plender Street.’
That got him. ‘Hostel?’ he says. ‘What sort of hostel?’
‘For young people,’ I said. ‘The Townhouse Project. You might have heard of us.’ He wouldn’t because we didn’t exist. I’d made the whole thing up – name and everything. Part of my preparation.
He fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. ‘Any chance of a bed?’ he says. ‘Bite to eat?’ I shook my head – the rueful gesture I’d practised in the mirror. ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. Full up. Might be something tomorrow if you get there early.’
‘Ah,’ he says, and the light goes out of his eyes. He’s thinking about the long cold hours ahead.
I let him ponder the prospect for a bit, then said, casual like, ‘There’s a comfy couch at my place if you don’t mind roughing it.’ Roughing it. Brilliant touch, that, and it worked.
‘You sure?’ he says. The light’s back, and I can see his little brain working. He’s thinking, this guy runs a hostel. Warm beds. Grub. It gets full, but if I’m with him I’m in, right? ‘You sure?’ he says. I gave him the smile again. ‘Sure. No prob. It’s just round the corner. Come on.’
And that’s all there was to it. I strode out and he trotted at my heels like a ruddy poodle. It was pissing it down and he was sodden by the time we reached the flat. I introduced Sappho, showed him the bathroom, told him to strip off, threw in some stuff I’d got for the purpose – thick sweaters, cord trousers – the sort of stuff do-gooders wear – and went off to heat some tomato soup, and while he was sitting on the sofa scoffing it I slipped up behind him and put him out of his misery.
Cruel? I don’t think so. He’s neither cold nor hungry now. Nobody wanted him, so nobody will miss him, and there’s one less dosser to clutter up the place.
Who loses?
I’d seen lots of movies where the character who’s on the road picks up casual work in towns he’s passing through. Washing dishes. Cutting firewood. Sweeping. I couldn’t believe that in a city the size of London it might be impossible for a guy to find that sort of work. I mean, the place is packed with restaurants, caffs and kebab houses, not counting all the pubs. During my two weeks in Wharfedale Road I must’ve tried two hundred of them, starting with those in the King’s Cross area. I got nowhere. Nowhere at all. As the days passed I widened the area of my search, and by halfway through the second week I’d been as far north as St John’s Wood and south into Lambeth. I’d tramped the narrow little streets of Soho and the boulevards of South Kensington from early morning (I thought potential employers might be impressed by my willingness to be out and about early) till late at night. I’d offered my services in sleazy greasy caffs and posh hotels and everything in between till my feet felt bruised and I could hardly drag myself out of bed in a morning. I walked everywhere to save money. I lived on cheese rolls and tea, but I was down to nine quid and some change when rat-face came for his rent.
It was Friday night. Eight o’clock. I’d just got in. The room was freezing cold and I was treating myself to a quick burst of the cash-gobbling electric fire before bed when there was this knock on the door. I opened up and it was him. He said two words, ‘Evening,’ and ‘Rent.’
I looked at him. ‘It’s only Friday,’ I said. ‘I’m paid on till Monday.’
He shook his head. ‘Friday’s rent day, sunshine.’
‘But I moved in on a Monday,’ I protested. ‘And paid two weeks. That makes the room mine till Sunday night.’
He moved so quickly I hadn’t time to step back. One second there was a yard of space between us, and the next he had a bunch of my shirt in his fist and his face was an inch from mine. ‘Listen, sunshine,’ he hissed. ‘The room’s mine. I make the rules around here and the rent’s due. If you’ve got it, pay up. If you haven’t I’ll give you five minutes to pack your stuff and get out.’ He shoved me and followed me in, leaving the door open.
I tried to reason with him – told him I was waiting a decision by the DSS. He laughed. ‘You’re waiting, son,’ he snarled. ‘I’m not.’ I said I was looking for work and pointed out that I’d been quiet and kept the room tidy. I didn’t know what I was saying, really, I was that desperate, but it was no good. He told me to pack my bag and stood there with his arms folded while I did it.
When I’d finished I brushed past him on my way to the door and said, ‘I’ll have you for this. Sooner or later, one way or another I’ll have you.’ His laughter rang in my ears as I went down the stairs.
And that’s how I came to join them – the homeless kids I’d seen everywhere on my travels. The kids I’d given change to a week ago when I’d thought things were bound to work out. I was one of them now – poised at the top of that downward spiral.