Tramp Life

by Tony Telford

  I looked at the nearest screen. A muscley woman-cyborg with a chrome skull and a fashion model’s face was waiting behind the wall of a smouldering playground. A warrior-robot with mirror eyes appeared and sprang up onto a burnt-out tank. Now you could see him through the cyborg’s eyes—a video screen shaped like goggles. With a thought she moved the cursor to one of the icons on the screen and a blinding white beam shot from her eyes and hit the robot, vaporizing it in an orange haze. All this took two seconds at most. The next moment a whole platoon of robots was marching towards the woman-cyborg…

  I turned away and tried to focus on the place itself rather than what was on the screens. As my eyes got used to the dark I realized there were people in front of the screens, hundreds of people, like orphans looking in at bright store windows. Along one side of the room, dozens of gamers were lying back in big plush chairs. They were all wearing identical black goggles and seemed to be having about as much fun as a bunch of corpses.

  The musicians had fallen silent. The dancers stood around not knowing what to do.

  Then I heard Draemon’s voice above the noise of the screens: ‘LET’S GET OUTTA HERE!’

  As soon as we hit the cold night air everything was okay again. The band started up with some wild R&B, and everyone was yelling and bopping around even crazier than before.

  Gradually we made our way up a wide shopping mall. The town was packed with people doing their Christmas shopping.

  ‘Oh my God,’ yelled Miri. ‘I’d forgotten about Christmas!’

  ‘Me too!’

  We caught up with Draemon, Jean and Matty. Draemon’s hair was all tangled and his clothing was torn to ribbons.

  ‘What happened to you, Drae?’ I asked.

  ‘The rigours of merrymaking, my dear.’

  A tramp was playing guitar by the church tower. Draemon pointed at the guitar. ‘You ain’t got any strings, man.’ The tramp just grinned and kept hammering away at the guitar, so Draemon went over to him and started doing this intense, get-down-funky dance, as if he was really into the music too. And maybe he was.

  Further down the mall, a group of Hare Krishnas came and joined us. Their tinkling bells made the R&B sound really weird. A girl next to me was spinning round and round, her long hair and scarf rising out like the ribbons on a maypole. At the edge of the crowd, a rubbish collector in a hi-vis jacket started doing the jitterbug, swinging a plump green rubbish bag like it was his partner.

  ‘That ain’t dancin’,’ said Draemon. ‘This is dancin’.’ And he grabbed both my hands and spun me round like a top, crooning, ‘Ooo-oooh, you’re a pearl of a girl.’ He could be really sweet sometimes.

  Later, much later, when we’d all danced ourselves to a standstill, we lay scattered like a flock of exhausted birds on a grassy bank overlooking the wide black river. Three women in hijabs were moving from group to group, handing out paper plates with spicy yellow rice and vegetables. Our lot were all together again now. Hook and Matty were talking about football. Draemon was playing sad cowboy tunes on my harmonica. Jean was lying with her head on Miri’s shoulder, watching the lights on the water.

  ‘What happened to that guy in the blue coat, Jean?’ I asked.

  She just shrugged.

  We all watched as a barge slowly glided past.

  ‘I can’t believe how many people are still here,’ said Miri.

  ‘Where did they all come from, that’s what I want to know,’ said Hook.

  Jean sat up. ‘Okay, name your three favourite foods.’

  ‘Olives, of course.’

  ‘No way—fish and chips!’

  ‘Nothing beats bobotie.’

  ‘Custard creams.’

  ‘Gelati!’

  ‘What’s bobotie?’

  ‘—Look, a flying saucer.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a drone.’

  ‘Ooooh, they’re watching us.’

  ‘Baked beans on toast?’

  ‘Baked beans always remind me of me nan.’

  ‘Why do they call you “Hook”, Hooky?’

  ‘Ever tried halva?’

  ‘Yeah, Greek halva’s the best.’

  ‘Salted liquorice.’

  ‘Yuck! I hate that stuff. I literally actually vomited when someone gave me that once.’

  ‘It’s not a food, anyway.’

  ‘But what the hell’s bobotie?’

  ‘When did you say you gave up smoking, Matty?’

  ‘On my fourteenth birthday.’

  ‘Oysters.’

  ‘S-s-salt and vinegar crisps.’

  ‘Gelati! Gelati! Gelati!’

  Draemon was playing something familiar.

  ‘“The Old Folks At ’ome”,’ said Jean. ‘What a joke.’

  ‘Where’s home, anyway?’ mumbled Hook Morton.

  Draemon broke off playing. ‘Look around you, man, you’re already there.’

  I could have hugged him then.

  ‘Cheese and mushrooms on toast’

  ‘Oh yeah! Done under the grill so it’s all nice and golden.’

  ‘Look how clear the Milky Way is.’

  ‘Who was that guy in the yellow coat, ’ooky?’

  ‘I don’t mind a good paella.’

  ‘Pah-ell-YAH!’

  ‘Do you think this river’s very deep?’

  ‘Roast potatoes. Done with olive oil and herbs.’

  ‘Okay, who am I? Rock guitarist, born ninth of January, 1944. Initials, J.P.’

  ‘Jack Bobotie—Jumpin’ Jack Bobotie.’

  ‘I said J.P., you idiot.’

  ‘Is that Orion over there?’

  ‘Scorpio.’

  ‘Fish fingers are great with tartare sauce.’

  ‘ ’Oo’s Jack Bobotie?’

  ‘Pancakes.’

  ‘Ramen.’

  ‘B-b-bread and butter pudding?’

  ‘Gelati!’

  10

  I’m paddling a canoe across a lake. The water is steaming hot and brimming with garbage. My skin feels tight and itchy, and the smell of rotting food makes me want to vomit. High above, I see the dark shapes of birds circling aimlessly. Looking down again, I find a kingfisher perched on the prow of the canoe. It’s facing directly towards me, watching me with both eyes the way a human being does. I don’t like the way it’s staring at me. Staring and staring. Then I hear laughter. Someone’s standing on the shore, a tall figure in a top hat, long black coat and lavender scarf. What’s he laughing about, I wonder. I turn back to the kingfisher. Its big golden eyes are very beautiful, but there’s something wrong with them. They’re dead, that’s what it is. Dead, and yet it’s still watching me. ‘No!’ I shout. ‘No, no, no!’ And the next moment I was awake and it was early morning in my room at Blackbird House.

  Everything was quiet. I guessed the others were still asleep. Then I noticed the smell. It was like rotting food, but worse. Much worse. I lifted my head and looked down at myself. On the front of my tracksuit there was a small sticky brown patch. It looked a bit like peanut butter. I touched it and sniffed my finger—and immediately wanted to throw up.

  I think I must have cried out, because Boo came running over to me. Then Draemon appeared at the door in shorts and a t-shirt. He had some of the sticky stuff on the front of his shirt. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ he roared.

  A moment later, Miri and Jean rushed in. They had the stuff all over their nighties. Then in came poor Hooky with a smear on his forehead, like some kind of religious marking. He was white as a sheet. ‘W-w-what’s happened? What’s happened?’

  ‘Argh, the smell,’ groaned Jean. ‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’

  ‘Don’t touch it with your hands.’

  Matty was standing in the doorway in his shorts. The sticky brown stuff was streaked all across his chest and down one arm. ‘We’ve got to wash it off as quickly as possible, okay?’ He was cool as ice. ‘Go back to your rooms, get out of your gear, then give yourself a really good scrub. Get it all off your skin, every last bit. Put y
our dirty clothing in that big tub in the laundry. The bed clothes, too.’ His calmness seemed to calm the rest of us. ‘Come on, let’s move. We’ll talk afterwards.’

  As soon as the others had gone back to their rooms I peeled off all my clothes, gave myself the scrubbing of my life at the basin in the corner and got dressed in clean gear. Then I stripped the bed sheets and carried everything to the laundry. The smell from that stuff was unbelievable, like fermented vomit or rotting flesh. Every time I caught a whiff I started retching. After I’d got rid of the clothes and bed linen, I went to wait for the others in the Octagon Room. That’s what we called the room with the huge fireplace. I was feeling pretty lousy, and not just because of that awful smell.

  One by one, Miri, Jean, Draemon and Matty came in and flopped down by the fire. No one said a word. We just sat there staring into the flames. But then Hook Morton appeared with a tray bearing a tea pot, mugs and a massive pile of hot, golden pancakes. There were even little pots of jam and clotted cream.

  ‘I thought we might all need a p-p-pick-me-up.’

  ‘I love you, ’ook Morton,’ said Jean, quite matter-of-factly.

  We demolished the pancakes in five minutes flat. Then, as we sipped our tea, we got down to business.

  ‘I wanna know who’s done this,’ said Draemon, his face hard with anger. ‘I wanna meet the person who’s done this.’

  ‘I ’ad to throw my nightie away,’ said Jean. ‘I wouldn’t want to wear it again, no matter ’ow many times I washed it.’

  ‘But what is that stuff?’ asked Miri. ‘Do you think it’s dangerous?’

  ‘Does anyone feel itchy or dizzy or anything?’ Matty looked at each of us.

  There was a shaking of heads.

  ‘Could be after-effects, though,’ said Jean. ‘Sometimes these chemicals don’t affect you till years after.’

  ‘M-maybe we should go to the hospital,’ suggested Hooky.

  Miri agreed. ‘Then we might find out what it is.’

  ‘I don’t need a hospital,’ snarled Draemon. ‘I just wanna know who the fuckin’ hell did this!’

  ‘I know who did it,’ I said.

  Everyone stopped drinking their tea and stared at me.

  And that’s when I told them all about Bernard O’Hare: how he’d plagued me to death at school, and virtually forced me to leave home, and then reappeared that night in the church, and how I then followed him all the way to the City. I felt embarrassed about that bit. It made me sound almost as weird as O’Hare. But I wanted them to know the whole story. After all, it was their story now, as well as mine.

  They listened in silence till the very end. ‘I lost track of him at that old bridge near the war memorial. That was the day you found me, Matty. I haven’t seen him since then. In fact, I’ve hardly even thought about him while I’ve been here.’ I started crying. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was all over. And now it’s happened to you, too!’ I was really blubbering now. ‘I shouldn’t have come here! I should never have come!’

  Jean came and gave me a hug. ‘It’s not your fault, my darlin’,’ she said. ‘The only one to blame is that jerk—what’s his name, O’Hare?’

  ‘I thought I could forget about it all now. Why can’t he just leave me alone?’

  Matty seemed very thoughtful. ‘Do you think he might’ve known you were following him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Maybe ’e saw ’er in town last night,’ suggested Jean. ‘Tons of people must’ve seen us, the way we were carryin’ on.’

  ‘Or maybe he’d been following her for a while,’ said Miri.

  Matty just nodded and sipped his tea. I wondered what he was thinking.

  Jean sniffed the back of her hand. ‘Peugh! I can still smell that stuff.’

  ‘This fellow sounds like a n-n-nasty piece of work, Pearly,’ remarked Hook Morton.

  ‘He sure is. And this is just his style, believe me.’

  ‘Whoever did it, they’d have no trouble getting in,’ said Matty. ‘The front door doesn’t even lock.’

  ‘And that window in the laundry’s still jammed open,’ added Draemon.

  Jean wrapped herself more tightly in her fluffy cardigan. ‘So ’e comes in ’ere in the middle of the night, and ’e creeps around putting some sort of ’orrible stuff on us while we’re sleeping?’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t even wanna think about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone hear him?’ wondered Miri.

  ‘And wouldn’t Boo bark?’ asked Hook Morton.

  ‘Whippets don’t bark very much,’ I said. ‘Boo doesn’t, anyhow. And maybe she just thought it was one of us.’

  ‘We’ve gotta contact the police, Matty,’ said Jean.

  ‘Great,’ said Matty. ‘So we go to the cops and we tell them how we’ve all run away from home—’

  ‘This is serious, Matty,’ protested Jean. ‘Someone’s broken in—’

  Matty gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, can you imagine—“Oh, Mr Police Officer, someone’s broken into the house where we’re squatting illegally”’

  Jean started getting cross. ‘This stuff could be poisonous, Matty. This is a crime.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Matty very calmly. ‘So we report the crime. What happens then, Jean? Do you think they’d be bothered about some guy who’s smeared gunk on a bunch of squatters? What could they do about it anyway?’

  ‘They might try and find him,’ argued Jean. ‘I mean, this guy sounds dangerous. Someone should be keepin’ an eye on ’im.’

  ‘Fair enough. Say they do look for him. There’s no guarantee they’ll find him, is there? And meanwhile, what’ll happen to us? Do you think they’ll let us stay here?’

  Jean said nothing.

  ‘Of course they won’t,’ Matty continued. ‘They’ll be interviewing us and checking our records and all the rest of it. And then they’ll send us home, that’s what they’ll do. Or bang us up somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t want the police to know about me, Jean,’ said Miri solemnly.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Draemon. ‘No way am I goin’ in one of their institutions.’

  Hooky just stared down into his mug. I noticed his hands were trembling a bit.

  We talked about it all morning. Well, they talked about it. I just listened. After a while I stopped even listening and went and sat by the window. Sometimes words just make things more complicated. Besides, I’d had an idea, and I was trying to get it straight in my head. Outside, the treetops were rocking in the wind and shadows flew across the ground like smoke. The sound of conversation faded, time slowed almost to a stop. And then, in the blink of an eye, I’d got it.

  Someone touched my arm. It was Matty, with that knowing smile of his.

  ‘So what’s the plan, Princess?’

  11

  The corridor echoed with the sound of rushing footsteps and hurried conversation. On each side there were doors with plastic signs saying ‘Laboratory 5’, ‘Chem. Stores’, ‘Seminar Room 2.’ Sometimes doors were open and I caught glimpses of bulky white equipment and people looking at computer screens. No one took the least bit of notice of me. I guess they thought I was a student. Good thing I hadn’t brought Boo.

  I came to a corner. Another corridor, just as endless, led off to the right. I stopped, not really sure what I was looking for. A young woman approached in a white doctor’s coat and jeans. She gave me a friendly smile and walked on, but then came back.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’ She was American. She had dark, curly hair, a kind face and very blue eyes which looked enormous behind her gold-rimmed specs.

  ‘Well, I’m not looking for any particular person,’ I said. ‘I just want some advice, really.’

  ‘What kind of advice?’

  ‘Well, I’ve, er, I’ve got some–some stuff that I want to get analysed.’

  She laughed. ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Well, it’s a sort of brown paste. Someone put it on our clothing, and it got on our skin, too.’

&
nbsp; She seemed more interested. ‘Does it burn? Is it itchy?’

  ‘No, not really. It just smells awful. I’ve brought some of it with me—’

  ‘Who put it on you?’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of a long story—’

  ‘Okay, so was it a practical joke, or something more serious?’

  ‘More serious.’

  ‘I see. Do you wanna come into my office for a moment? It’ll be easier to talk there.’ She pointed to a door with a nameplate: ‘Dr S. Loewenstein.’

  I followed her into a small, very messy room. Books and papers were piled up everywhere. She cleared some ring-binders from a chair. ‘Here, take a seat.’ The wall above the desk was covered with postcards of famous people. I recognized Einstein, Harpo Marx, and Joni Mitchell. There was one of a fat guy playing the piano. His hat was tipped back and he had a laughing, roguish face.

  Dr Loewenstein saw me looking. ‘That’s the great Fats Waller.’

  ‘And that’s Helen Keller, isn’t it?’ I said, pointing to a woman in a mortarboard and gown.

  She seemed surprised. ‘I thought she was kinda forgotten these days.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I read her autobiography when I was sixteen.’ Even as I was speaking I knew it sounded boastful.

  She just smiled. ‘I’m Sarah, by the way.’

  ‘And I’m Pearly—Pearly James.’

  ‘You’re not a student here, are you?’

  ‘No…no.’ For some reason I was suddenly all tongue-tied.

  ‘Well, shall I make us some coffee while you tell me about this brown paste?’

  ‘Oh, really? Thank you. It’s—it’s quite a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’ She went to a little table in the corner, switched on a kettle and heaped coffee into a cafetière. ‘They’ve been working me pretty hard lately. I deserve a break.’