by Peters, Joe
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded, seeming quite angry despite his soft way of talking. To me he sounded quite well spoken, as if he was more educated than me, but maybe it was just a regional accent I was unfamiliar with. ‘You look all right to me.’
‘Just telling you,’ I said.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘I’ve just arrived and I don’t know no one.’
He looked exasperated, as if he knew I was one more stupid kid expecting pavements of gold and not knowing what to do next now that I had actually arrived.
‘Sit down then,’ he said, gesturing to another grubby sheet of cardboard beside him while he continued to hold his sign up at the passers-by, most of whom ignored him. ‘Spare some change?’
In between begging, he told me his name was Jake, and once he’d got used to the idea he seemed to like teaching a newcomer the rules of the street. He told me that I should avoid the police because they would have me down at the police station in a van if they could get hold of me, and then I would be shipped straight back to where I had come from.
‘You need to stick with the same bunch of people all the time,’ he explained, ‘because that way you’ll be protected from the rest.’
I had heard from other runaways about how homeless kids got together into little social pods for self-protection. I liked the idea of being a member of a gang instead of always being on my own.
‘So where do I meet these people?’ I wanted to know.
‘You have to be careful,’ he warned. ‘They get quite funny with new people coming in. They’ll see you as an outsider and they won’t want to take responsibility for new people.’
I must have looked a bit crestfallen.
‘You’d better stay with me for now,’ he said, ‘and we’ll go from there.’
All the time we were talking he was shaking his pot at people and asking for change. I was surprised how many of them actually gave him something and every so often he would empty most of the contents of the pot into his pocket and then go back to shaking and asking. One or two people would annoy him by refusing to give him anything and he would get quite cheeky with them, which made me nervous. I didn’t like the idea of attracting the outside world’s attention if I could avoid it–not till I knew my way around a bit better. He told me about the outreach centre, which was a project for the homeless run by volunteers, where I could get something to eat and some warmer clothes and a blanket for the night.
‘They’ll give you a list of hostels if you want and if they aren’t full. You can have a shower there, too, and clean yourself up a bit. I’ll take you there now.’
But when we got there we found it was closed for the night. Jake didn’t seem bothered and just started introducing me to a group of homeless people who were sitting around outside the centre, killing time. If you have no home and no job and no family, killing time is pretty much all you ever do.
Now that the city workers were beginning to disappear off the streets and into the stations, it became easier to see the homeless community that they left behind. A lot of the people Jake knew appeared to be paired off in boy–girl relationships, which seemed a bit strange to me. They were a bit like a normal group of young people meeting up of an evening and having a few drinks together, except they were doing it in the street rather than in a bar or a pub. It wasn’t what I had been expecting, but the pairing off was encouraging because that was what I wanted: a nice girlfriend who I could love and be loved by, someone who would understand me and always be there for me and who I could look after.
Everyone seemed to recognize Jake, which made me think he must have been living on the streets for a while and knew his way around, but I got the feeling they didn’t particularly respect him. The first people were a bit wary of me, but then he found a group who were more relaxed. There was a lad they called Jock, although I think that was just a nickname given to him because he was Scottish, not his given name. He was older than Jake and me, probably eighteen or nineteen years old, and seemed to be really wised up to everything, as if he was a sort of leader amongst the rest of them. He looked even older than his years because his teeth had already started to rot–not that mine were too clever at that stage, since I’d never been near a dentist and had suffered from malnourishment for most of my life. After Dad died I wasn’t allowed to see daylight most days, let alone be taught how to use a toothbrush. Jock and his friends seemed happy for me to hang around with him and so his other friends automatically accepted me. I had found a gang I could be part of and I started to relax and enjoy the adventure.
As we all strolled from one place to another, as normal teenagers might wander from one person’s house to another or from one pub to the next, we talked all the time. They all asked me questions about my past and initially I was a bit cagey, always finding it hard to talk about how I had been treated by Mum and my brothers and all the men who she had sold or given me to. It seemed like a shameful and humiliating thing to have had happen to me, and anyway I didn’t like to think about it.
‘My dad used to rape me all the time,’ one girl told me, shocking me with the ease with which she found she could talk about it but at the same time making me feel good that I wasn’t the only one such things had happened to. It was almost as if it was something normal for her. As the hours passed and I listened to more and more of their stories, I realized that many of them had had similar experiences. As the evening wore on and the drink eased my tongue, I opened up more and more. I started by telling them about Dad burning to death in front of me and about how much he had meant to me, being my champion and my hero and my protector, and how his death had left me dumb and unable to speak for years. That story got a shocked reaction, but when I went on to tell them how Mum had locked me in the cellar for years they were truly amazed.
‘What?’
‘You’re joking, man.’
‘I couldn’t have handled any of that.’
‘That’s so unreal,’ a girl called Charlotte said. ‘I always thought my mum was a bitch but she never did anything like that.’
They kept pumping me for more stories and once I realized they weren’t going to judge me it was a sort of relief to actually put into words the things I had been storing up in my head for so long, suffering so much pain as a result. It was as if it was no big deal to any of them, even though it was shocking, and we were all there together to talk and support one another.
‘Have you got any money on you?’ someone asked. ‘Because we need to buy some booze.’
My guard immediately went back up again. There was no knowing how long I was going to have to survive on the wad of notes Mohamed had given me. I could see that if I owned up to having it now it could all be spent within a few hours and I would be left with nothing. I was keeping a hold on my bag as if my life depended on it and when someone started trying to rummage around in it I snatched it away.
‘We share everything here,’ someone said.
‘That’s my property,’ I insisted. ‘It’s private.’
On my search through Mum’s house before leaving I had managed to find my birth certificate, which I had never seen before and somehow knew was going to be important to me, and also my dad’s watch, which I knew he would have wanted me to have and which was all I had left of him. I don’t know why Mum had even kept it, considering how much she hated him for leaving her–perhaps she thought she would sell it one day. Sometimes, when I felt unsure of myself, I would just hold it for comfort, as if I was holding my dad’s hand. Sometimes I would talk out loud to him, just as I had done in my head when I had been on my own in the cellar in the dark, which made other people think I was talking to myself. I guess they thought I was a bit touched in the head, and maybe I was.
Realizing that I was willing to fight to protect my possessions, the others backed off, but then I felt mean and guilty for lying because they all started rummaging around in their own bags and pockets, finding bits and pieces of food which they shared with me.
As it grew darker, we continued to move around in a group, trying to keep warm, talking and laughing all the time, sometimes shouting out to people as the drink made us bold and foul mouthed. I was surprised by how many people were still coming and going from the stations on their way to theatres, hotels and restaurants in the Strand, or maybe some of them were on their way home after working shifts. I hadn’t realized that big city life went on so late, and I liked the buzz and the constant distractions. It made me feel safe to have people around, even though they were strangers and could for all I knew have been predators. I knew from experience that some of the most perverted and heartless men looked completely normal and respectable on the surface, often well dressed and sporting wedding rings. Any one of the men walking past could have been the sort of man who visited the places where I had been kept as a child and continuously raped and abused.
We went on asking for change from everyone we passed, but no one handed any over, probably because they could see we were drinking and guessed that was what we wanted the money for. The others were becoming quite loud and intimidating, which was making me uneasy, but I didn’t want to leave the group and end up on my own. I felt that at least Jock and the others offered me a little protection against the rest of the world. I wanted to belong.
Everyone living on the streets in that area seemed to know Jock, not just the kids but the old winos as well, and they would call out to him as he passed, or come over to pay their respects, offering to share their cans of cider or whatever they had.
‘Jake!’ a voice called from across the Strand. ‘Come over here.’
I looked across and saw a man in an old Mercedes, which had pulled up at the kerb. Even in the dark he looked sinister and swarthy, much older than anyone in our group. There were two other guys in the back of the car, but I couldn’t see them clearly.
‘It’s Max,’ Jake said, and I thought he looked nervous suddenly.
‘Don’t fucking go to him, you fucking idiot,’ Jock snarled, holding him back.
‘No, Jock, I’ve got to go,’ Jake said, wriggling free.
‘Oh, fuck off then.’ Jock pushed him away angrily. ‘Go be Max’s bum-chum.’
I watched as the man they called Max got out of the car to talk to Jake. He was tall and rangy and looked strong. I could see tattoos creeping up his scrawny neck from his collar. He looked dangerous and I felt a shiver of apprehension. Max opened the back door of the car and Jake jumped in with the other guys without glancing back at us. It was as if the car swallowed him up, the doors snapping shut like jaws.
‘Fucking idiot.’ Jock spat and took a swallow from his can as the Mercedes drew away and disappeared towards Trafalgar Square.
‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he said, leading the way to what I assumed would be a café or takeaway.
‘I’ve got no money, Jock,’ I reminded him, not able to admit to my secret store of notes now I had denied having them.
‘You don’t need money here, mate,’ Jock said, laughing at my naiveté. ‘It’s all free. It’s a soup kitchen.’
The homeless centre was open again, and the volunteers provided us with stew and bread and hot tea in plastic mugs. I ate as if I hadn’t seen food in a year, hardly able to believe that I could have as much as I wanted and all for free. The meal raised my spirits again as it warmed my insides. I was having an adventure in London with a group of new friends and no one to tell me what to do, and now I had a full stomach as well. Charing Cross really was turning out to be the homeless paradise I had been told about. The volunteers were offering blankets to anyone who wanted them, but I felt quite warm again now I’d eaten and I didn’t want to have to carry anything else around with me as well as my bag.
Chapter Seven
A Confused Boy
Back out on the streets we started hunting behind the buildings, riffling through the big metal bins that were being put out by the shops, hotels and restaurants, and searching for anything that might be useful or that we might want to eat if we got peckish later that night. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, so I just followed everyone else’s lead. The stores were the best places: they threw out food that was a day past its sell-by date but still perfectly good. As it got colder I pulled out of my bag all my spare clothes, which were only a couple of jumpers and another pair of trousers, and put them on over what I was already wearing. I must have looked a right sight, but I didn’t care, because at least I was warm and I knew none of the people I was with were making any judgements about my appearance–they were well past the stage of even noticing.
The others were also collecting up any flattened cardboard they could find, opening it back up to rebuild the boxes, which must have been used to deliver goods to the shops earlier in the day. Everyone was calling out to one another, competing to see who could find the best box. I wasn’t as quick as the others and didn’t really know what I was looking for, so by the time I realized that what I needed was something I could sleep in for the night, I only had something tiny.
Once everyone had what they needed, we wended our way back down to the park, which was now finally empty of other people and filling up with an eerie, makeshift city of cardboard as everyone set about constructing themselves some sort of shelter for the night, covering them with plastic to protect them from the damp that was bound to descend before morning.
Everyone was huddled in the small groups that they had been in all evening, avoiding encroaching on the territory of anyone else who might be angrier, more violent and more drunk than they were, and staking a claim to a patch of land that was going to be theirs for the night. As everyone got settled, the odd fistfights would break out when one group felt that another had crossed over their boundary, and there were a few squabbles for the best, most sheltered sites.
Gradually, as exhaustion and alcohol took their toll, people began to fall asleep, pulling blankets and sleeping bags up over their heads and disappearing from the world for a few hours. As we all crawled into our shelters, the sounds of shouting and fighting become more intermittent as more people surrendered to sleep. Every so often a policeman or two would wander past the park, but they didn’t seem to be too bothered about anything that was going on. I guess it was easier for them to have all the homeless people corralled behind railings in one area than to have them curled up in shop doorways and back alleys all over the place, causing complaints from local residents and shopkeepers when they came to open up in the morning.
I managed to get my box together and put some plastic over it as the others showed me, but when I came to lie down it was impossible to curl all six foot of me into it, so I had to leave my legs sticking out, using my bag as a pillow with the handles looped round my wrist to make sure no one nicked it in the night.
Jake arrived back from wherever he had been with the man in the Mercedes and didn’t have any trouble finding us. He had picked up some cardboard for himself on the way.
‘What you doing with that box?’ he said, laughing, when he saw my legs sticking out. ‘You don’t fit in it.’
‘The others got the best ones.’
‘You’ve got to be faster than that, mate.’
‘Where have you fucking been, Jake?’ Jock growled from near by in the dark.
‘I had to do something for Max,’ Jake said, obviously not wanting to talk about it.
‘That fucking bastard! Why do you do whatever he tells you?’
I didn’t understand why Jock felt so strongly about this Max guy, but I was too tired to ask any more questions. Now that I was no longer moving about to keep warm, I was regretting not picking up one of the blankets at the centre. The others had put up another plastic sheet and tied our boxes together so that when it started to rain most of the water could be kept off us, but I was still feeling cold and damp. I would organize things better the next day, I told myself as I dozed off, now that I knew what was needed. Things would get steadily better from here on–I was confident of it. I could still hear the
odd raised voice in the distance but it didn’t bother me any more; I felt safe enough to sleep. Here and there muffled giggles came from other boxes, and the sounds of couples having sex.
It must have been just after midnight when I was woken by the sound of voices.
‘Hello? Hello? Come on. We’re here. Hello? Does anyone want blankets?’
That was exactly what I needed, so I wriggled out of my box to see what was going on. A middle-aged woman was standing outside with her arms full of old-looking blankets, passing them out to anyone who asked.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asked as I went over to her. ‘The van’s just over there.’
I looked over to where she was pointing and saw a van parked outside the Tube station, with a table set up beside it doling out soup and rolls to warm us up.
‘Come on,’ she said, putting a blanket round my shoulders. ‘It’s a cold night. Wrap up well. We need to look after you. You’re a new face. My name’s Sarah. What’s yours?’
‘Joe.’
‘Come on then, Joe.’
She took me over to the van with the blanket round my shoulders and gave me some soup. Jock came ambling over and she obviously knew him well.
‘You’ve been drinking again, Nigel,’ she said, wagging her finger at him. ‘Haven’t you?’
I looked up in surprise, startled to find out this hard man’s real name. Jock did not look like a ‘Nigel’ to me.
‘I wouldn’t do that, Sarah,’ he said, grinning like a little boy being told off by a popular teacher.
‘Don’t you tell me any of your fibs, Nigel. How old are you then, Joe?’ she asked.
‘I’m sixteen,’ I said, more aggressively than I probably should have done, but I was fed up with people thinking I was younger.
‘Are you sure?’
‘’Course I am, you mad woman.’
‘Oh, now,’ she clucked. ‘I don’t want to upset you, lovey. How long have you been here?’