Help Our Heroes: A Military Charity Anthology

by T. L. Wainwright

  Muttbags licks me and I hope my morning-breath isn’t as bad as his. I give him a cuddle and can’t help wondering if he has got fleas that those do-gooders could get rid of. Poor boy must be really uncomfortable if he has, especially on top of that paw.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s go see if they’ve opened up the bogs yet.”

  He limps by my side as we wander down the next couple of streets to where the public toilet block is. I know they’ve got some of those automatic loos just over the way, but I somehow feel the need of a bit more luxury this morning. The block has proper sinks, not those weird metal machines, and it’s a lot warmer with proper tiles instead of stainless steel sheeting everywhere. The only drawback is the cost. For the privilege of a decent loo and wash facilities I have to pay a whole fifty pence, as opposed to twenty for the other type. I’ll bet the generous people who throw their coppers my way never imagine their hard-earned cash is paying me to use the bog. The thought makes me snigger. Of course, if I just need a pee I save my money and go against a wall or something – making sure there’s no cops around first, of course.

  It’s the fat bloke on duty today, I’m pleased to see. He doesn’t mind me coming in, but the other one tries to hurry me up and tells me I’m a bad advert for the place. It’s a bog, for God’s sake!

  “Morning.” He smiles at me.

  “Hi, mate.”

  Some days he’s the only person I get to talk to. Muttbags gets more attention than me when passers-by bother to stop. I leave him outside, guarding my stuff and lapping up water from a gutter, and go inside. I’m on my own, just how I like it. Not only do I make full use of the toilet facilities — including grabbing some bog roll for later — I strip off my layers and give myself a good wash. The soap in this place is actually quite nice and I use as much of it as I can to try to get rid of the stench of sweat. I don’t know why, but I really feel in need of a good clean today. I know it won’t do any good once I put my smelly clothes back on, though, and wish I could afford to go to one of those charity shops and get myself a new shirt or something.

  I always keep my toothbrush and paste in a zip-up pocket in my jacket, and I pull them out and scrub my teeth over and over. Looking in the mirror I can see I desperately need a good shave and a haircut. It’s odd, but I hadn’t thought much about it before now.

  The idea of a proper bed and a shower cross my mind and I close my eyes to savour the notion. One day I’ll get there, I keep promising myself. A sound makes me quickly open my eyes again, as a bloke comes in to use the toilet. He gives me an odd look but says nothing. I glance back in the mirror and see what he sees. A dropout. A dirty scumbag.

  The black mist begins to cloud my vision again as I pull on my clothes. I’ve got an old comb which still has half its teeth, and I put it under the tap before yanking it through my mop of dark hair. I remember when I was proud of my barnet; the girls used to love running their hands through it when I was out on the pull. Those were the days, I recall, grimly. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  The mist in front of my eyes seems to get darker as I think how much that damn British Army stole from me. Not just my mates; my future, my pride, me. My hand grips the comb even tighter and I’m raking the teeth through my knots and into my scalp. The plastic tears at my skin as I yank it through relentlessly. The pain feels good. It starts to clear the mist. When I look back in the mirror I look different. My whole body seems more relaxed, my eyes not quite so sunken. My whole head stings and when I wash the comb the water turns pink with blood.

  More men filter in and I can hear Muttbags whining outside. I suppose it’s time I left the relative warmth of this place and got back to him. If we go now, we might be able to catch some of the commuters down by the subway — they’re always good for a quid or two.

  I take one last look in the mirror. I have to say I don’t look as bad as a lot of them out there. My hair’s slicked back now, but the waves are still curling around my ears. It’s a far cry from the short-back-and sides I used to have, though I’m glad the British Army doesn’t insist on buzz-cuts like the Americans. It’d be even colder out here with practically no hair. I’m even glad my moustache and beard have grown now, too, as it’s amazing how much warmth they offer, though I never would have entertained any facial hair in my youth. I have to admit it rather suits me, too, although I’ll admit it could all do with a good trim.

  I pass a couple more men on my way out the door, and realise I must have been in there longer than I thought. I feel better for it, though, and even manage a smile for the attendant on my way past.

  “Come on, boy, let’s go.”

  Muttbags is pleased to see me, and licks my hand as I grab the cardboard ‘bed’. I give him a stroke before we make out way down the street. He’s still limping and my thoughts immediately go back to that Kathy girl. She said they’d be in the area again for the next few nights, and I’m sorely tempted to find her and see if she really can help the poor mutt. I have to admit it’s not the first time I’ve thought about it — maybe that’s part of the reason I felt like getting properly cleaned up today — but I can’t stand the thought of that guy that was with her, Joe, giving me an ‘I told you so’ look. I’ve had enough of that expression to last a lifetime!

  I can see Muttbags is relieved when we reach the subway and he wastes no time in lying down by the wall. We receive some filthy looks from a gang over by the other end of the passageway and I stay standing until I’m satisfied they’re not about to start any shit. The homeless get very territorial, but at this time in the morning even those fuckers can see they’re better off wheedling loose change from passers-by than scrapping with the likes of me.

  I sit down on the cardboard and stroke the dog. He’s going to sleep now. Good. Neither of us had a good night, and at least while he’s dreaming he’s not feeling the pain in that damn paw. I glance down at his leg, not wanting to disturb him. My heart lurches. His skin’s red and swollen. No wonder he was limping. If we can get a bit nearer to the Tube station there’s a good chance I can find some water bottles that the commuters discard before they catch their connection. They never want to carry them around, so they usually chuck them in the bin half-full. I can use some clean water to wipe up the wound. Trouble is, it means making the poor guy walk a bit further and right now that’s the last thing he needs.

  We get a few quid more than I expected this morning, and I suppose it’s because of his paw. No-one actually asks about it, but I can see them frown when they look at him. I know they’re probably thinking I’m being cruel keeping him out here with me when he could be in a good home with people who can afford to pay vet’s bills, but I can’t say anything.

  Muttbags and I met out here on the streets, so I can only assume he didn’t have a home. He’s expert at sniffing out the paper bags with good food in, so he must have been out here for a while before I came across him. That’s why I gave him that name.

  I wonder just how long he’s been homeless. For me it’s been a couple of years now. Two sodding Christmases I’ve spent out here. Occasionally I can get a bed in one of the shelters, but most don’t allow pets so I stay on the street.

  “For the dog.” An old lady hands me a five pound note and I smile up at her, gratefully.

  “Thanks. I’m going to try and get that paw looked at later,” I promise her, tucking the money into my pocket.

  “Good.” She waddles off and as I watch her I notice the three thugs further down muttering and looking my way.

  Damn. They must have seen her give me the money. I stand up, getting ready for the backlash. Muttbags must’ve felt me move, as he suddenly opens his eyes and gets to his feet, staring at the trouble-makers.

  “Oi, you!” One of the guys shouts over to me and I clench my fists in readiness. “You’re on our patch.”

  I sneer at him. “Says who?”

  “Says us.” The other two are right behind him now and they’re striding menacingly towards me.

  Shit! I recognise o
ne of them as part of the gang that tried to steal my stuff before, when Muttbags scared them off. He’s not going to do much scaring off today with that paw — and don’t they know it?

  I know I could probably make a good job of one of them, maybe two, but three’s pushing it a bit — and Muttbags could get caught in the crossfire. I hate to back down, but the mutt has to come first. I put my hands up in the hope of placating them.

  “All right, I’m off.” I grab my carrier bag as swiftly as I can and turn to go.

  “Not until you’ve paid us that money you stole from us, you’re not!” The first guy’s almost within spitting distance now and I feel my stomach churn. Every instinct tells me to stand and fight but I can’t. Not today.

  I twitch and the dog gets my instruction straight away. Run. We hurtle down the road with the bastards hot on our heels. It’s raining, as usual, just to add to our misery. Muttbags barks but they take no notice. I know I can’t outrun them, not without leaving him behind — and I’m not about to do that — so there’s only one thing for it; I’ve got to outsmart them.

  I dive down an alleyway with Muttbags and hear them following.

  “You won’t get away tosser!” Their voices tell me they’re gaining on us.

  We turn a corner and head down another passage that runs round the back of some terraces. One of the gates is slightly ajar and I push the dog through before pulling the bolt across. I know these houses. They have a gate out the back as well as one around the front, for taking the bins out. We don’t hang around, we race up the garden and out the front gate and then down the main street, weaving in and out as shoppers swear and tut at us. There are a couple of blocks of flats just two streets away and we head for them like our lives depend on it — they just might!

  I’m not sure how far away the fuckers are, as I don’t waste time looking back. We head for the flats and get there just as a woman with a push-chair is coming out of one of them. I grab the main door.

  “Here you go.” I smile at her and she nods, gratefully as she struggles with the baby and a large bag.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs.

  I should be thanking her, but I just help her out and then get Muttbags and myself inside as quickly as we can, careful to close the door behind us. We slip under the stairwell, the smell of urine and God-knows-what surrounding us. We’re safe and dry, though. For now.

  Chapter 3

  We spend most of the day curled up under the stairs. Now and then someone from the flats goes in or out the main door, but they mainly ignore us, save the odd tut or rude remark. I don’t listen to their shit. I know what they think, but it is what it is.

  It’s starting to get dark when my stomach finally insists it’s time we made a move. We’ve eaten up the last of our stash and I’ve tucked the plastic bag in my pocket for later. If we’re quick I might be able to get to the pound shop before they close; you can often pick up some good bargains there in the food aisle.

  Luckily, no-one’s around when we climb out from the stairwell, and we sneak out like the couple of thieves everyone assumes we are. Muttbags is limping really badly again, and my stomach churns at the thought of him being in so much pain.

  It’s been on my mind all day, whirring around like a cyclone. Do I go and find those do-gooders and ask for help? It totally goes against the grain, but I don’t seem to have much choice. I know I’ll get some filthy looks because of what I said last night, but this isn’t about me — it’s about the dog, and right now he’s my priority. Besides, I lost my pride a long time ago.

  I get some biscuits, chocolate and dog treats from the shop just before they close up for the night. Muttbags is happy to eat anything, and I know how he feels. It’s rush hour and I know the Tube station will be packed with commuters, but Muttbags isn’t up to the walk down there, so we sit in the doorway of one of the High Street shops and hope to get a few quid before the cops move us on.

  I wonder what time those do-gooders will be around. They probably told me, but I wasn’t taking much notice. I know they said they’d be around the Frimstone Road area though, which isn’t far from here. It’s raining again and I hope it doesn’t put them off coming.

  I’m surprised how much I’ve been thinking about that girl, Kathy today. She was really quite pretty, from what I could see in the dark. Brown hair and big, chocolatey eyes. Nothing like Fiona.

  “Thanks, mate.”

  I nod to a guy who just threw a two-pound coin onto the creased-up carrier bag I’d laid out in front of Muttbags. People would rather give money to a dog than the likes of me. The thought takes me back to the last row I had with Fiona, the one that landed me out here on the streets.

  She didn’t like the way I spoke to people — especially her. I’d only been back from my course a couple of weeks. It was part of the Army’s rehabilitation programme to send us off to learn a different trade once we’d been discharged from service. I’d opted for plumbing. I don’t know why, it just appealed more than electrics or decorating. Besides, I’d heard somewhere that there was a shortage of skilled plumbers and consequently they got paid a good whack.

  I’d advertised my services in the local paper and got a couple of cash-in-hand jobs, mainly unblocking toilets, but the pay was good. When I declared my earnings I’d lost all my benefits, so I was left with the pressure of having to find more work to pay my way.

  Fiona was very proud of the fact that the flat was hers. I’d only met her a few weeks after I’d been discharged, so had practically gone straight from the barracks to her place. I was grateful for the roof over my head and tried really hard to make some decent money. Problem was, most of the jobs I got meant travelling and I had to rely on public transport — not much use when someone rings saying it’s an emergency. (Even the mobile phone I used was borrowed from Fiona). I was late getting to a flat where a burst pipe had wrecked the whole place, and the guy had the nerve to blame me for it. He wanted to claim against me for half the damage caused, saying if I’d got there on time I could’ve stopped it. I saw red. We had a massive row. Then I went home to Fiona and had another one. She said I shouldn’t have lost my rag with the shithead; I should have just apologised and offered to do what I could to prevent any more damage. Fuck that! I told her I wasn’t going to be treated like a dog by anyone — much less the fucker I’d just crossed half of London to help. She said I was useless and threw me out.

  A horrid feeling in my stomach reminds me that that was exactly how I treated Kathy last night when she tried to help me. I was horrid to her. No wonder she looked so upset. I’ll make it up to her tonight. I’ve still got a bar of chocolate in my pocket. I’ll give it to her as a peace offering. Girls like chocolate.

  We get up and I carefully put the change we’ve accumulated into my pocket, then put the rest of the biscuits and Muttbags’ treats into the carrier bag before we make our way towards Frimstone Road. A clock in the distance chimes seven times and I hope we’re not too early. The more I think about it, the more desperate I am to get that paw looked at. Poor Muttbags has been whining on and off all afternoon.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  I turn around to see the guy from last night.

  “Joe, isn’t it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Yup. How’s the dog?” He’s looking disparagingly at Muttbags and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  “Do you definitely do this stuff for free?” I stare at his sweatshirt which has Street Vets emblazoned across the front.

  He nods. “Yeah. Like we said last night, we’re all volunteers. We come out here four nights every week to see if we can help any of the pets of homeless people, or even strays. We don’t charge a thing.”

  I’m mulling over his words. There has to be a catch.

  “Why?” I frown at him while Muttbags start to whine at my feet.

  Joe huffs. “We’re not all heartless, you know. Some of us are actual animal-lovers who hate to think of the poor creatures being out here on the
streets unable to get the help they need. We realise not everyone can afford to take their pets to the surgery when they’re sick or injured.” He looks pointedly at Muttbags’ leg. “We just want to help them.”

  “Okay. Will you take a look at that paw, then?”

  “Of course. We’d best get him to lie down over there.” He points to a shop doorway with a streetlamp just outside. He crouches down and examines the paw before delving into his bag.

  “He’s been limping all day,” I admit, as Joe takes a wipe to clean the wound. I crouch down, too, stroking the dog’s back.

  “Looks like it’s gone septic,” Joe says. “I can give him some painkillers and a course of antibiotics but you’ll need to come and find me for the next couple of nights.”

  I frown, wondering why I can’t give them to the dog myself. Then he takes out a small syringe, answering my unasked question.

  “Okay.” I look around as he injects the mutt. Not that I’m squeamish or anything, it’s just that given the choice I’d rather not watch. “You on your own tonight?”

  It seems pretty quiet in the street, as the drizzle continues to soak us.

  “Well, there’s another team up the way,” Joe says, nodding over the road. “We’re not allowed to be out here on our own for safety reasons.” He bites his lip and I sense something’s wrong.

  “So why isn’t Kathy with you tonight?” For a minute I think about making a snarky comment about her maybe not wanting to get her hair wet, but I know that wouldn’t be fair so I bite my tongue for once. Good job, too, when I see his angry expression.