Daily Routine Orders 9
Three is a significant number. It crops up in all sorts of places. Three cheers. The Three Musketeers. If I had three wishes. Three blind mice. The Blessed Trinity. The three armed services. The three little pigs. A significant number.
I have three recruits now. When I had one I was a murderer, two, a double murderer, and now that I’ve got three I suppose I’m a mass murderer – what the Yanks call a serial killer. If they caught me now, which they won’t, they’d probably make a film about me.
Naturally, I’ve arranged them the Army way – tallest on the left, shortest on the right and they look quite smart – especially now that I’ve cut their hair. I’ll have to try to get them some boots, or at least proper shoes – something which will take a shine. At the moment they’re all wearing those manky trainer things.
Last night’s bit of business – signing up recruit number three – gave me particular pleasure. You’ll know why presently, but let me start at the beginning. It was about 20.00 hours and I’d just begun my nightly patrol. It was an unpleasant evening – wind and sleet – exactly the sort of evening one needs in my line of work. I’d walked into Gloucester Avenue and down the steps on to the towpath of the Regent’s Canal, intending to stroll along by Camden Lock to see what I could see when I spotted him. He was a miserable-looking creature – thin and round-shouldered with rat-tails of greasy hair halfway down his back. He had some pieces of cardboard which he was arranging on the ground under the stairs I’d just descended. It was fairly dry there and it was obvious he was setting up a billet for the night. I had on my do-gooder’s rig and I approached him, looking concerned. ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you don’t intend spending a night like this in a place like that?’
He was suspicious. Oh, yes. He looked at me and I knew straightaway he wasn’t new to the game. ‘You got a better idea?’ he growled.
I shrugged, putting on my best apologetic grin. ‘No offence,’ I said. ‘It’s just that it’s so cold, and I wondered whether you’d tried your luck at the Plender Street hostel.’
‘There’s no hostel on Plender Street,’ he said. ‘And besides, hostels are always full up by this time.’ He gazed at me. ‘What’s it to you, anyway? What’s your game, Grandad?’
‘No game.’ I smiled my woolly-headed smile. ‘There is a hostel on Plender Street. It’s new, so not many people know about it yet. That’s why it’s not full.’
‘How do you know so much?’
‘I’m the Warden,’ I lied. ‘I run the place.’
‘Why you not there, then?’
Oh, he was canny, this one. I’d need all my talent. ‘I have to call home,’ I said. ‘Feed Sappho. We don’t live in, you see.’
‘Sappho?’
‘My cat.’
He snorted. ‘Fugging cat sleeps warmer than me. Eats better too.’ He studied me. ‘So you run this hostel?’
‘Right.’
‘And it’s not full?’
‘Not when I left.’
‘Gotta be a catch.’ He looked at me sidelong. ‘How much?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing. No catch. It’s a free hostel. Breakfast too.’
‘So if I go along –?’
I grinned. ‘If you go along you’ll probably be fine. If you arrive with me it’s a cert.’
‘Where d’you live, then?’
‘Not far. Mornington Place. Know it?’
He nodded. ‘I know it. Okay – I’m in, only you better be on the level, Grandad, ’cause if you ain’t I’ll kick your tripes out.’
So he abandoned his cardboard and shouldered his pack and we walked, and as we walked we talked.
‘Whereabouts you from?’ I enquired. I didn’t give a damn where he was from – I knew exactly where he was going.
‘Leicester.’
‘Leicester? No work there, eh?’
He shook his head. ‘Six months I was, writing letters, going for interviews. No chance.’
‘So you thought you’d try London?’
‘Not straightaway. I tried the Army first.’
Well, you can be sure my ears pricked up at that. I was genuinely interested now. ‘The Army?’ I said. ‘And what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t stand it. Thick sods bawling at you all day long. Telling you what to do. And the grub – Jesus! So I bought myself out.’
‘Hmm – well. Not everybody’s cup of tea, the Army. Full of Fascists, I shouldn’t wonder.’ I was absolutely seething of course, but I didn’t give myself away. I was magnificent. Thick sods, indeed!
‘Dunno about Fascists,’ he said. ‘I’m not into politics, but you must have to be desperate to stay in that mob.’ He spat in the gutter. ‘Better off on the streets.’
Right, my lad, I thought. You don’t know it, but you’re about to join another army. It’s a very small army, but it doesn’t rely on volunteers and you can’t buy yourself out. By golly you can’t.
I told myself, watch this one. He’s not green, but it turned out easier than I expected. Soft sod squatted down on my kitchen floor to fondle the ruddy animal and I let him have it with the Kit-E-Kat tin. Well – trained to kill, see. Know the exact spot to go for.
And d’you know something? That lad looks a hundred per cent better with a short back and sides. His mum would be proud of him.
So I fetched a coffee from the pizza bar and we shared it and Ginger told me about Captain Hook.
‘Seems this guy, Probyn’s his real name, buys six beat-up old narrowboats a few years back for a song, intending to do ’em up and hire ’em out for canal holidays, but when he finds out how much it’ll cost to do ’em up he decides not to bother. He has a better idea. He’s seen all the kids sleeping rough and he thinks, I know. Floating dosshouses, right? Dry kips, out of the wind, safe from crazies, no hassle from the fuzz – three quid a night. So he rips out all the fittings to maximize floor space or deck space or whatever, and works out he can cram sixty kids on each boat – all under cover. Six boats. That’s three hundred and sixty kids at three quid. One thousand and eight quid a night. Of course it doesn’t work that way in practice. He’s hardly ever full, even in winter, because it’s not easy to score three quid and anyway some kids can’t stand being closed in, but he’s doing okay out of it just the same.’
Ginger broke off for a gulp of coffee and I said, ‘But surely there’s regulations? Fire and that? Is it legal, what he’s doing?’
Ginger shrugged. ‘Fire, health and hygiene – he must be well out of line, but nobody’s bothered. I mean, he’s getting kids off the streets, see? Packing ’em away where the tourists can’t see ’em, so the powers that be turn a blind eye.’
‘And where is this? Where’s he got these boats?’
‘By Camden Lock. D’you fancy it? Out of the weather for once?’
I shrugged. ‘Sounds okay, yeah, but I’m low on dosh. Three quid for a kip’ll clean me out.’
‘No worries.’ He grinned. ‘I met this guy today, owed me a tenner. He didn’t have it but he gave me seven. We’re laughing.’
‘He must be working.’
‘Sort of, yeah. Sells the paper. The Big Issue. Sells it at fifty p, gets to keep thirty. Lucky sod.’ He looked at me. ‘Are we on, then?’
I nodded and we set off into the wind with our heads down, sharing Ginger’s bin bag. Two lost boys, off to the Never Never Land.
Have you ever seen that famous diagram of a slave ship – slaves crammed like sardines into every square centimetre of space? Well, that’s what it was like on the boat me and Ginger ended up on.
We’d parted with our six quid on the towpath, where Probyn had his office in one of those yellow plastic watchman shelters. He didn’t look like Captain Hook. He was sitting on a folding canvas chair wearing wellies, a waxed jacket, a muffler, a knitted cap and gloves with the fingers cut out. He had a smooth, pink complexion and pale eyes and looked about thirty-five. When he smiled, as he did when he grabbed our dosh, he showed very small, very even white teeth. He stuffed the coins into a bulging wallet which he returned to an inside pocket. I was wondering why some guy hadn’t mugged him for this when I heard a low growl and saw a Rottweiler the size of a horse gazing out from between his feet. Probyn showed his teeth again. ‘Don’t even think about it, kid,’ he purred. He must’ve been a mind reader or something. Then he pointed to the nearest of his boats, moored fore and aft to bollards on the bank. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Mind the gap.’
I’ve told you it looked like a slave ship. What I haven’t said is that it stank like one too. You went through a narrow door and it hit you – the stench of too many damp, unwashed bodies, too much lingering flatulence. There were three steps down and then you were falling over sleepers, looking for a space in the poor light from a paraffin lamp which dangled unlawfully from the deckhead. We found a sliver of unoccupied floorspace and bedded down, drawing grunts and curses from those we kicked and elbowed in doing so.
One thing, though – it was certainly warm, and you weren’t straining your ears all the time listening for potential assailants. The boat rocked very gently on the water, and once you stopped noticing the smell the whole thing was quite pleasant. It’s amazing how resilient wooden planks feel after lying night after night on stone. I dropped off almost at once; and dreamed I was sailing my yacht through blue, tropic waters of breathtaking clarity under a cloudless sky, while Vince hurried back and forth with long, cool drinks for me, and my rat-faced former landlord cooled me with a peacock fan. It was terrific while it lasted, but waking up was a drag.
Has it ever struck you how much money people waste buying crap? I never really noticed till that Saturday after our night on the boat, when me and Ginger walked round the market.
Camden Lock market’s famous, apparently, but I’d never heard of it till that morning. It’s right beside the canal – a big site crammed with shops and stalls flogging all sorts of fancy stuff. Hats. Jewellery. T-shirts. Mirrors. Candles. Candles, for Chrissake. You name it, they’ve got it. A lot of the stuff’s ethnic – Indian and so on – and they burn joss sticks all the time so the whole place smells of incense. It’s only there weekends, and it attracts thousands of people.
Anyway, me and Ginger walk round and he says, ‘No shortage of dosh here, Link old son. Money to burn. Breaks my heart how they chuck it away. Look.’ I look where he’s pointing and see fat, rainbow-coloured candles at four pounds twenty apiece. ‘Four pounds twenty,’ he laments. ‘They’ll refuse you ten pence towards a cup of tea, then spend four twenty on a bleedin’ candle. Makes you weep.’
I chuckle, ‘Why’d we come here, then, if it upsets you so much?’
He winks. ‘Facilities, old son. Come on.’
I followed him up some steps and along a walkway and there were some immaculate toilets. We used the lavatories and had a proper wash. Ginger even washed out a pair of Y-fronts he produced from his pack. People were in and out all the time but nobody paid us any attention. I must have used about sixteen paper towels drying myself but I felt a whole lot better afterwards.
We’re sipping scalding tea in one of the market cafés when three kids come in. Ginger knows them and calls out and they come and sit with us. Two guys and a girl, all with packs and that grey, zombie look you get from living on the street. Ginger doesn’t introduce me and they ignore me, talking thirteen to the dozen with their chapped hands wrapped round steaming mugs. Where you been? How’s it going? D’you ever see old what’s-his-face nowadays? I sit gazing into my tea, feeling – what? Jealousy? Maybe. Apprehension, certainly. These are Ginger’s friends. They’ve shared experiences. Have acquaintances in common. They know what he knows. What if he ditches me – goes off with them? If I was alone again, could I stand it? Do I know enough to get by?
A name comes up. A jokey name. Doggy Bag. ‘D’you ever see Doggy Bag now?’ asks Ginger, and the girl shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘He vanished. One day he’s in his usual doorway, next day gone.’
‘Found work, maybe,’ one of the guys suggests.
‘Or moved on,’ says the other. This closes the subject and the chat moves on, leaving me wondering how a guy gets a name like that.
They get up eventually, shrugging on their packs. We do the same. None of us wants to leave. It’s warm in the café, but the proprietor’s giving us dirty looks and we have no more dosh for tea, so we go before he can chuck us out. Outside, they say so long to Ginger and one of them nods to me and they’re gone, melting into the crowd. Ginger’s still here, and because I’m glad I smile and say, ‘The guy you asked about – why’d they call him Doggy Bag?’
Ginger grins. ‘He used to hang around cafés, and when somebody left he’d slip over to their table quick and drop their scraps in a plastic bag before the waitress came to clear. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for change so that’s how he lived, and that’s why we christened him Doggy Bag.’
We left the market and trudged along the towpath and I started thinking about Doggy Bag, and after a bit I had to keep my face turned away from Ginger because I was afraid he’d see I was struggling to keep from crying. I know it sounds daft. I mean, I never knew the guy. Never even met him, but what I started thinking was this. I started thinking about how once, years ago, there was this baby, and his mum and dad loved him like mums and dads do, and they gave him a name and dreamed about what he’d be when he grew up and what his life would be like and all that, and how they never dreamed he’d be called Doggy Bag and live on scraps and be so unimportant that he’d vanish and no one would care.