No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Low on energy after his scuffles with Bill and Nathan, Jacob traipsed along the pavement. Shoppers and workers on their lunchtime breaks gave him a wide berth, like shoals of wary fish parting for a shark. Their noses wrinkled and their eyes either rolled or widened, their disgust and fear mixed in equal parts. Jacob was used to this reaction and, although it pained him to experience the derision of so many people who thought him worthless and contemptible, he continued his journey as if oblivious to their mutterings.

  At the corner of Paul Street, he stopped and paused for breath, then took a sip of water from the memorial fountain on the corner. He looked down the street at the jagged tip of the Shard in the distance, just visible above the much older buildings of this neighbourhood. Different worlds, different times.

  ‘Hey, it’s Jacob isn’t it? Haven’t I seen you at the Refuge?’

  He started at the chime of the words, then found himself looking down into the engaging, smiling face of a slim, dark-haired woman in her early twenties. There was a flicker of recognition, little more, but the memory was just out of reach and he couldn’t place her. Nowadays he often struggled to distinguish his dreams from the reality of his distant memories, although she did seem more familiar than the wraiths of his nightmares.

  ‘Sorry, you probably don’t remember me.’ Her voice was quiet, but friendly, almost musical, as she continued her introduction. ‘I’m Maria, and I live at the Refuge. For the moment anyway. I am right, your name is Jacob isn’t it?’

  Jacob nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me. Sorry, I was miles away and didn’t recognise you. As it happens, I am on my way to the Refuge now. You know, for a little food.’

  He looked away. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt bitter and embarrassed at admitting he needed the Refuge’s help. Surely if anyone understood, it would be one of the shelter’s residents.

  Maria saw the momentary look that crossed Jacob’s face and she followed his gaze down Paul Street. ‘Don’t worry, I can go with you if you like. Or maybe I can buy you something to keep you going?’

  This time it was Jacob who detected uncertainty in Maria’s voice. He turned his head back to her, but she looked down at her shoes, like a child caught out. He knew she couldn’t afford to buy him anything, not if she wanted to eat herself. She looked up again and, although she smiled, her deep brown eyes betrayed the sorrow she felt at their situation.

  ‘No, thanks Maria, it’s OK, I can manage. It’s very kind of you to offer. Most people don’t, but then I guess you know that.’ He nodded in the direction of the other passers-by, as if indicating the world in general. ‘Too many better things to spend their money on.’

  A middle-aged woman was walking towards them, studying her phone, and only just looked up in time to avoid colliding with Maria.

  ‘Like mobile phones,’ Jacob said, louder than needed. The woman scowled, but said nothing and turned away to continue her walk. Maria laughed, relieved at the change in atmosphere, and looked up at Jacob’s grinning face.

  Jacob studied Maria and decided that he liked her. She had a light, easy manner, with an expression conveying an almost child-like innocence, and when she smiled her eyes lit up with warmth and kindness. She had olive skin, a slight frame and dark, almost black hair that reminded him of his wife, and a little of his daughter.

  Maria saw him watching her and blushed. ‘What, do you recognise me now?’

  ‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. You just remind me of someone I used to know.’

  ‘Someone close?’ she asked, perceptively.

  ‘My wife. She died a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Me and my big mouth.’ Maria averted her gaze, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Don’t worry. You couldn’t have known and it was a while ago now.’ Jacob saw the relief in Maria’s eyes when she turned back and he smiled at her. ‘So, where were you off to then, just now, before we met?’

  ‘I’m looking for work. I’ve asked in shops and offices along here, although there doesn’t seem to be much going. I’ll head up to the High Street next, but if that doesn’t work, I think I’ll call it a day.’

  ‘OK, I’ll let you get on then. Good luck, I hope you find something.’

  ‘Thanks, me too. See you around, Jacob.’

  Maria turned away, then looked back over her shoulder and lifted her hand in a shy wave. Jacob smiled and watched her for a few seconds, before continuing his journey.

  When he reached the Refuge, Jacob entered through the glass doors on the townhouse side of the shelter, the customary entrance to the soup kitchen. The owners had named it Refuge-Eat, but there was no denying its function and all of the regular guests called it what it was, and he wasn’t sure why others were reluctant to use the term. Previous generations hadn’t had any issue with it.

  Jacob knew that the townhouse wasn’t the site of the original Refuge, although no one who came to the shelter now, nor anyone who worked here, remembered the church hall where it had all started. But leaflets in the lobby gave visitors a brief history, and black-and-white photos that lined the wall allowed people a glimpse back in time, to when the Refuge started, and Jacob often stopped to look. It almost seemed ungrateful not to.

  The first picture was a portrait of the local vicar who had started it all, immediately following the Second World War. It hung next to a sepia photo taken inside the church hall, where suited and pinafored parishioners ladled soup into bowls and handed out hunks of bread to scruffy, bearded men. The narrative below the frame described the beneficiaries as former military men living rough who needed a little help to survive. Sounds familiar.

  Jacob looked at the next display, a collage of newspaper clippings that showed the strength of feeling and resistance at the time to the vicar’s efforts. A few locals had complained that it was bringing vagrancy and undesirables into the neighbourhood, with accusations of increased crime and disorder. But other cuttings and copies of letters demonstrated that, through perseverance, willpower and a refusal to be bullied into closing the facility, the volunteers had stuck to their work, and ever since had provided charity safely to some of the poorest and most deserving in society.

  The final few pictures were more familiar to Jacob, who recognised the buildings and some of the people. The Refuge outgrew the church hall and relocated to a converted townhouse, where Jacob now stood, and then expanded into the adjoining property. About ten years ago, a disused building behind the Refuge was bequeathed to the charity, and it now formed an annex containing offices and accommodation. As a result, the Refuge was now a rather odd, rambling collection of buildings that offered shelter, food, support and education to the area’s homeless population.

  He turned away from the photos. Despite feeling that coming here meant accepting both charity and defeat, Jacob always experienced a sense of relief when he passed through these doors. No one here judged him, he was made to feel welcome and, most of all, there was no pressure to accept any help and support he didn’t want.

  ‘Hi Jacob, how are you today?’ came the customary greeting from Vicky on the front desk. She had worked at the Refuge for years and knew every regular visitor by name.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re looking a little worse for wear today,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘Even more than usual.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m sure, and you look a pretty picture yourself,’ Jacob replied, although his grin gave away his improving good humour at the thought of hot food. ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Oh, I see, no small talk and straight to business.’

  Vicky paused, raised her eyebrows, and then added, ‘Reminds me of my ex,’ and exploded with laughter. Jacob joined in.

  ‘Go on through, it’s fairly quiet today, so you won’t need to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.’ Vicky winked at Jacob.

  The dining area was a spacious, airy room with high ceilings and a large bay window at the far end, opposite the door. It contained half a dozen wooden tables surrounded by
chairs, and in the window stood two serving tables covered by white cloths. On top of the first were two large urns, a basket of bread and a tray of sandwiches, and on the second were tureens of mashed potato, rice and stews. From experience Jacob knew that one urn would contain vegetable soup and the other was most likely chicken or fish broth, which seemed to satisfy most religious and vegetarian tastes, and likewise with the casseroles. Jacob always chose one of the carnivorous options.

  There were only five other guests in the room when he entered, as well as a young man Jacob didn’t recall seeing before, who sat behind a serving table. He put down the book he was reading as Jacob approached and stood to serve him.

  ‘Non-veggie soup please,’ Jacob said and he grabbed a piece of bread and a spoon.

  ‘Of course. It’s chicken, if that’s OK?’

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘There you go. Are you here frequently?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Jacob said with a wry smile, ‘but thanks anyway.’

  Jacob took his bowl and shambled over to the table nearest the door. He recognised the man eating his soup there as Joel, a man in his twenties he had spoken to on a couple of occasions. They nodded at each other and Jacob took his seat, but said nothing. They both knew the unwritten rule: eat first, talk second.

  He devoured his soup in seconds and then mopped up the dregs with his crust of bread. It tasted good and he returned to the serving table for a second helping. This one he ate more slowly and he savoured its warmth as his hunger abated. It always surprised Jacob that he could feel satisfied by so little soup, when he had previously had such a voracious appetite, especially during his time in the Army.

  Joel was studying him across the table. ‘Man, you look rougher than I feel. You been having those dreams again?’

  ‘What is it with everyone today, saying I look so bad? I feel the same as usual, I just needed some food,’ he replied.

  ‘Hmm, OK, not convinced.’

  When Jacob didn’t respond, he changed tack. ‘I haven’t seen you here for a few days, so where have you been, your usual hiding places around the Barbican?’

  ‘Here and there, you know, staying out of trouble. You?’

  ‘Same, nowhere new. I was thinking of moving on, but you kind of get used to the same old places, don’t you? Better the devil you know I suppose. Anyway, I’d miss this place. At least the food is reliable.’

  Jacob’s brief chats with other people on the streets were often the same. Most of them were on the look-out for new places to sleep or eat, but rarely gave anything away. If someone found a new, warm cubbyhole at night or a source of food, out of self-preservation they didn’t want everyone else to find out about it. Camaraderie had its limits, so life was lonely for good reason.

  ‘OK, I’ll be off now,’ Joel said after a few moments of silence. He rose from his seat and winced. ‘See you again.’

  ‘Yeah, see you.’

  Jacob watched him go and noticed that he had gained a slight limp. Maybe he had aggravated a strain from sleeping rough, or else he had got into a scrape recently. He hadn’t mentioned it, but then why would he? Whatever had happened, it was unlikely to get any better while Joel remained on the streets.

  Jacob stayed where he was for a couple of minutes and looked around the room. He thought about going over to the man seated at the neighbouring table. He seemed about sixty, with grey hair and an almost white beard, creased face and bloodshot eyes, although Jacob knew that he might be younger if he’d lived on the streets for a few years. His clothes appeared loose and were torn and frayed in places, and no doubt the Refuge staff would offer him some replacements before he left. He might refuse them in any event, unless he wanted to trade in some fresh boots or a coat on the streets, maybe for alcohol or drugs. But that wasn’t any of Jacob’s business, and he’d let him be.

  Jacob wondered if he appeared that way himself, given everyone’s comments to him today, but he decided he couldn’t look that bad or he’d have noticed more concern. However, he had no intention of checking his appearance in a mirror on his way out. Today had been tough enough already.

  Incubation

  In the beginning it is only a dream, a few unconnected ideas, a fantasy. But ideas take root, and left untamed and unrestrained, hidden from view in forgotten corners, they grow. Their tendrils touch and combine, drawing strength from each other, and fantasy becomes reality, an uncontrolled monster that rises up to devour everything in its path. Too late, the innocents see the teeth and smell the breath of the beast.

  Orla woke with a start. She hadn’t realised how tired she was, and during her lunch break she had fallen into a broken doze. Dazed and light-headed, she couldn’t recall the details of her daydream, she just knew that it had filled her with dread. What was playing on her mind, why was she so jumpy? Was it something to do with Michael, the Refuge or something else entirely?

  Orla looked at her watch. She had no time to think about it now; the children beckoned.

  Forget it. It was only a dream.

  8

  Michael could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely the plan wasn’t as simple as Paddy had just suggested, there must be more to it than that.

  ‘So, let me get this right. All we have to do is wheel the cart into the market, wait for lunchtime, then set it off?’ Michael was exhilarated by its audacity and simplicity, and he imagined hordes of office workers descending on their explosive-laden trap, tempted by the promise of a free snack, then Boom!

  ‘Yep, that’s about the size of it,’ Paddy said.

  Michael pictured the scene of carnage at the City market and he laughed at how easy it sounded, but he soon stopped when he saw Paddy’s serious expression.

  ‘It’s not meant to be funny, Michael. This is real, and it’s going to be the biggest hit we’ve ever made, by far.’ He looked around the lock-up and drew a long, rattling breath. ‘Which brings me to next bit. Why we’re here.’

  ‘Yeah, I was wondering what it had to do with this place,’ Michael said.

  ‘OK. The thing is, it’s important that we can bring in the crowds. We’re relying on their greed, their weakness for a free giveaway, even if it’s only a cheap one, and that’s where the snacks come in. The Brethren have decided to use pots of yoghurt, which have to be kept in clean, cool conditions.’

  Michael looked around the lock-up. It was cool, that was fine, but it certainly wasn’t clean, and he closed his eyes and shook his head as he realised what this meant. Even though they wouldn’t use all of the space, they would need to clean it up to ensure that years of accumulated dust and grime couldn’t reach the yoghurt while it was stored at the lock-up. His earlier good humour at visions of slaughter had disappeared and he didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Once again, he wondered why the Brethren had chosen this place, if not for its cleanliness.

  ‘Why does it have to be yoghurt, Paddy? Why can’t we give away cereal bars or something like that? People love those things.’

  ‘Think about it, Michael. If we gave out cereal bars, we wouldn’t have any reason to bring in any electrical stuff, you know, like the canisters and the barrow. We can disguise all of that as cooling equipment, like those ice cream carts you see on the seafront.’ He looked at Michael and appealed to his bloodlust. ‘Just imagine how much explosive we’ll fit into something that size. And who on earth is going to question the intentions of someone wheeling one of those things into the market?’

  ‘OK, I see your point, and yeah, it’s a good idea.’ He nodded despite himself. ‘But I still don’t get it. Why can’t we bring a fridge into the lock-up to keep the snacks clean and cool until we need them, or just keep them wrapped up until we leave?’

  ‘I thought that too at first,’ Paddy said. ‘But as part of the plan we’ve been told to put new labels on the yoghurts. That means removing the pots from their original packaging to make the changes, and we can’t work in a fridge.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, we need to have a little space to do t
hat, but why are we changing the labels? I’d have thought we’d get more people to come to the cart if they see a brand they recognise, like Müller or Cadburys.’

  ‘I agree, but it’s something the Brethren want us to do.’ He hesitated. ‘They told me that changing the labels has another purpose too, some sort of message from us to the people of London. They didn’t say what it was, but the order came from Donovan, so straight from the top. I didn’t push them about it. These aren’t people who take kindly to doubters. If you know what I mean.’

  Michael wasn’t convinced, but nodded his understanding and cast another dispirited look around the lock-up.

  ‘OK, as you say, it’s their call. I’d have been happier to keep it simple, but I suppose it isn’t a big deal. I’m assuming we only need to replace a few hundred labels, which I guess will take no more than a couple of hours. We have the time to kill … ha, if you know what I mean.’ Both men laughed.

  ‘But first we need to clean this place up, my friend,’ Paddy said. He didn’t look too pleased at the prospect.

  ***

  Maria wasn’t feeling very pleased either. She had trudged the streets for hours and had nothing to show for her time, not even a sniff of a job. She had known it would be hard, but hadn’t expected the endless rejection of so many shopkeepers and office receptionists, even those who had vacancies advertised in their windows. A few had shown initial interest, as Maria was cheerful and personable, but their attitude would change when they discovered that she was living in a shelter and had no references to give other than from the Refuge. How did they expect her to have work references, if she couldn’t get any work?