No Fixed Abode

by Charlie Carroll

  I sat on the ballast holding down a temporary fence around Leicester Square's park, and I contemplated. Perhaps I should walk to Manchester. There were always homeless there. My feet squealed a resounding 'yes!'. Keep walking.

  Maybe I will, I thought. But, first, I wanted to spend some more time with my friends.

  4

  The boys took me to a Dalston pub that night, and I grew drunk on three pints. Largely teetotal since the start of my journey, excluding my time with Stan, the sudden surge of beer and conviviality left me reeling. Bryn arrived and I enveloped him in a pissed embrace, though I had only met him a few times before.

  'Where were you last night?' I hollered in his ear. He also lived in the Dalston house, but I had not seen him the evening of my arrival.

  Bryn smiled shyly, took a long draught from the pint Marcus had ready for him, and sat down. 'Last night? You scared the shit out of me last night! It's late, it's dark, there's a knock at the door, Marcus goes to answer it, I stand at the top of the stairs, and all I can see is this bloody tramp in the doorway! I know now that you asked Marcus if he had a spare couch for the night, but that's not what I heard.'

  Bryn's girlfriend, Jo, laughed into her drink. 'Tell Charlie what you thought he said.'

  'I swear I heard you say "You got any spare cash?". And then Marcus goes "Yeah, sure" and bloody lets you in! I thought, what's going on? Some tramp going door to door in the middle of the night asking for change and we've just invited him in! I'll be honest. I ran into the bathroom. And I locked the door.'

  Tim, another of the housemates, arrived an hour later. I accompanied him to the bar for the next pint and explained my journey thus far.

  'I did something similar when I finished my A levels,' he said. 'Caught a bus down from Cumbria to London and spent a week living in Cardboard City taking photographs. You ever heard of it?'

  I had. Cardboard City was one of the largest concentrations of homeless people London had seen since World War Two. In 1983, a makeshift shanty town slowly emerged and then exponentially built up along the underpasses of the Bullring roundabout near Waterloo Station. For the next fifteen years, the flimsy walls of Cardboard City grew to house, at its peak, around two hundred rough sleepers. Portrayed by the media as a tangible indictment of the Thatcher years, the thriving ecosystem may not have been caused by the Tory government, but certainly correlated with it.

  'Yeah, well, it's all gone now,' Tim said. 'Burned down not long after I left. Some fuckers poured petrol over the whole place one night and set a match to it.'

  This was untrue. In 1998, Lambeth Council finally won the eviction order it had sought for so long. At that time, only thirty rough sleepers remained in Cardboard City. All of them were offered free housing by the council, though it remains to this day unclear how many took it.

  'I've heard there's a new one, though,' Tim continued. 'Under Hammersmith Flyover. You should check it out. If it's anything like the old one, it'll be an eye-opener.'

  It was close to midnight when we walked back through Dalston's streets towards the house. I scanned the pavements and alleyway-tributaries for rough sleepers, but there were none, only the legions of hipsters with their imaginative footwear and ludicrous hairstyles. There seemed no space on these Hackney streets for the homeless, filled as they were with young and fashionable night-walkers who took it upon themselves to piss against the walls and vomit into the wheelie-bins.

  5

  I slept later than usual and rose feeling lethargic, unsure whether to remain in London or tramp north. Opting for indecision and, with it, the morning off, I went to visit the British Library, only to discover once I arrived that to gain access to the book rooms one had to register, and that to register one had to produce proof of address. I had none. Another reason I could never be truly homeless, I thought. No library cards.

  With no other idea what to do or where to spend the rest of my morning, I returned to Trafalgar Square. Summer was by now far behind, but the autumn still fought the Baltic onslaught of winter, and the morning had grown warm and pleasant. I fancied I might sit on a bench in the square and summarise my future plans – more likely, I would read for an hour or two, or perhaps people-watch. I was, I realised, putting things off. But that did not matter so much. In all likelihood, most tramps had the same mentality.

  On my way to Trafalgar Square, I pictured it as I knew it: the perpetual flow and surge of holidaymakers and school-groups, locked in their tight but merry bands, rubbing shoulders with others but never making eye contact, except when an amorous teenager found the gaze of another beyond the fountain, or an ignorant stroller passed the lens of a poised camera and Latinate invectives bounced without acknowledgement off the back of his head – all this gave the loner, me, a womb of anonymity which I could gratefully and quietly float inside.

  I liked London for this. Travelling alone, which I almost always do, I find I become the immediate oddity not because of the language I speak or the colour of my skin or the style of my dress or the quirks of my expressions (all of which, in many of the places I have travelled, are alien), but because I am the loner in a gregarious world. But if London is defined by any culture, it is the culture of indifference. Watch London street performers. See how hard they try. They have to, it is the only way they can raise even the eyebrow of a passer-by in this city of eight million passers-by. In London, self is key; in London, solipsism is the universal philosophy.

  This was why I liked London: every spiral of the human condition was on display there, and you could watch and listen to them all without fear of reciprocal scrutiny. I was just another tramp, another wasted existence, and who would notice me on a Trafalgar Square bench? Homeless flock to Central London because the streets are clean and the tourists have money to chuck, but they also come because, in London, everyone is ignored.

  However, when I reached Trafalgar Square, I found it transformed. Sitting on a bench was out of the question. The entire square had been converted into a multimedia extravaganza to celebrate 2012's Paralympic Games. A racetrack, a tennis court and a miniature football pitch had been laid across the flagstones; tourists with upheld smartphones jostled for position with television crews and a giant screen presided over it all, showing footage of the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, conversing earnestly with the Chair of the London Organising Committee for the Olympic Games, Sebastian Coe. Something jarred as I looked at the screen, a kind of jamais vu, as I realised that the little hooded tramp's head peering out above a small crowd of Chinese tourists in the corner of the screen was mine. I turned around. The mayor was just a few yards away. How wonderful it would be, I thought, to get a quote from him.

  Standing amongst the crowd, I vacillated nervously and debated how feasible it would be to approach him, what I might say or ask. A hand cupped my elbow. I turned to face its owner and found the eyes of a helmeted police officer.

  'Hello, mate,' he said, ushering me away from the crowd and to a corner where two free-standing billboards met. His colleague flanked my other side. 'Mind stepping over here a minute for a quick chat?'

  'Love to,' I grinned. 'I enjoy a good conversation. Don't get the chance for many these days.'

  'No offence or anything, mate,' he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket, 'but I saw you here with your hood up and your bag, and just wanted to ask a few questions.'

  'No problem at all,' I replied, taking my journal from my pocket. 'I'd like to ask you some questions, too, if that's all right.'

  'Course you can, mate. In fact, give me that book and I'll write down my details.' He scrawled his full name and officer number on to the paper. I looked up at his colleague, and she smiled warmly at me. 'Now, how about your details?'

  I gave him my real name and address – I saw no reason not to, he was polite and I liked him – and he jotted them down.

  'Just arrived in London?'

  'Pretty much.'

  'What's in the bag? Anything I should know about?'

  'Here,' I sa
id, dropping it from my shoulders and holding it out to him. 'Have a look yourself, if you like.'

  'No, no, I don't need to do that. Nothing in there that could blow up, is there?'

  'I've got an aerosol can.'

  'Ah, mate.' He shook his head wisely. 'You can't tag around here.'

  'It's deodorant.'

  His colleague laughed.

  'Any illegal or subversive…' he paused, '… literature?'

  'Depends on your opinion of Dickens.'

  'Never read him.'

  'You should.'

  'So what you up to in London? What's the plan?'

  'Just walking.'

  'What, you walked here from Cornwall, did you?' he laughed.

  'Precisely.'

  He seemed taken aback by that, and I saw the opportunity to ask some of my own questions.

  'Hypothetically,' I said, 'if I were to tell you I had just arrived in London with no money and nowhere to stay, what advice would you give me?'

  He looked at me. 'You need a place for the night?' There was genuine concern in his eyes and voice.

  'Actually, no. I'm staying with some friends in Dalston. I'm not homeless. I walked here from Cornwall because I'm writing a book about tramping, and part of what I'm trying to discover is what it's like to be homeless in today's world. So. Say if I was homeless. What would you tell me?'

  'Officially, I'm supposed to tell you to go to the youth hostel, but that's twenty quid a night and most homeless can't afford it. Or I should direct you to one of the refuges, but you'd be very lucky to get in there. If you'd already tried all those, I'd say go to Charing Cross Police Station. There's a soup kitchen there and a Homeless Team who might be able to help you.'

  'And unofficially?'

  'Unofficially…' He thought for a moment. 'Unofficially, I'd say go down to Fleet Street and The Strand. A lot of people sleep there after dark. It's fairly safe.'

  'And if I went down there and spent the night, I wouldn't get arrested or moved on?'

  He shook his head. 'Technically, you wouldn't be breaking any laws. Those are public by-ways. Everyone has the legal right to sleep there if they want. We would only move you on if you were in, say, a shop doorway, because then you'd be on private property. Or if you were causing an obstruction. But we're not monsters, you know? Homelessness is rife in London, and my heart goes out to those poor buggers. If we moved them on, they'd only end up somewhere else. It's hassle for them and it's hassle for us.'

  We shook hands as I shouldered my bag, ready to join the crowd again. He had not once attempted intimidation or invasion during our conversation, and I was grateful for his candour.

  'You know what you should do?' he said as I was about to leave. 'Try asking those two some questions. There's a few I'd like to ask them myself.' He pointed down to the makeshift tennis court. Four men in wheelchairs had been playing a doubles game when I last looked. Now, two had left and, joining the remaining two, one for each team, were Boris Johnson and the Prime Minister, David Cameron.

  'You read my mind,' I said.

  'Doubt you'll get to Cameron, but I hear Boris is very approachable. And if you can't get to him here, just follow him. He walks everywhere.'

  I laughed at this policeman's advice – if you can't get to him here, just follow him – and moved off towards the tennis court.

  True enough, following the game Cameron was at all times surrounded by an impenetrable pack, and as he left the court and walked towards his waiting car, I could not reach him. I returned to the tennis court, where the mayor gave interviews to a score of cameras. A woman in her seventies leaned over the railings at the sidelines, and each time the mayor looked ready to move on, she called out in an increasingly demanding sing-song: 'Boris! Boris!' If any member of the public was going to get his attention, it would be her. I quietly moved into position beside her.

  The mayor's interviews finished. My neighbour began to swing her arms over the railings and holler his name in rapid couplets. He walked towards us. Before he could stop, she grasped his arm and pulled him towards the railings with an astonishingly powerful jerk.

  'Now, Boris,' she said maternally. 'When you come up for re-election, what do you intend to do for us pensioners?'

  He placed a hand over hers and gently moved it down from his forearm to his fingers, where he cupped it between both his palms and said: 'I will demand that you get the twenty-four-hour Freedom Pass that you deserve.'

  'Good,' she replied with satisfaction, removing her hand from his and placing it in her pocket. 'Good.'

  He made to move away and I lurched forward.

  'Mr Johnson!' I called. He stopped and faced me. 'May I ask you a very quick question?'

  'Of course,' he mumbled.

  'If I had just arrived in London with no money and no place to stay, what advice would you give me?'

  Before he could respond, a male voice from behind me called out: 'At least give him a tenner, Boris!' A peal of laughter followed, and I turned around to see sixty people clustered behind me. They fell silent and focused their attention on me and the mayor. I looked back at him. He had laughed along with the rest, but now looked nervous.

  'It's all right,' I said. 'I don't want a handout. I just want information.'

  My words seemed to cause him relief. 'I would tell you,' he said, 'to go to St Mungo's.' He spelled it for me, including the apostrophe. 'Or look into an organisation I work very closely with called "No Second Night Out".'

  It was a politician's stock response, but I appreciated it. Dare I say it, I found myself a little star-struck, and the notes I quickly made while he spoke to me betrayed a shaking hand. I thanked him and pushed my way out of the crowd. A hand patted me on the shoulder. 'Good luck to you, mate,' a voice said. A few moments later, I realised that I was grinning.

  Walking down into St James's Park, I found a quiet patch and sat down to boil noodles and note down my Trafalgar Square conversations. Rough sleepers, more than I had seen anywhere else in London so far, lay at sporadic intervals across the grass: coats for pillows; shoes and socks beside their heads. Squirrels and pigeons scurried about their bare feet. So this is where they come during the day, I thought. Good choice. The ground was soft and comfortable, the air dry and warm, and if I had been tired I could have happily stretched out there and slept myself.

  But I was energised by the notes I made, and soon set off again back towards the concrete. Along Pall Mall, the day's second unanticipated opportunity walked past me. It was Jeremy Paxman, and he was alone. I stopped and watched him as he walked away. Perhaps the Mayor of London did not have a vested interest in London's homeless, but he doubtless had opinions. But Jeremy Paxman? I knew him from the television and the few books of his I had read, and not once had I heard him pass comment on homelessness.

  Fuck it, I thought, why not?

  I ran after him.

  He came to a stop upon the Crimea Monument traffic island. With no pedestrian crossings and a sudden surge of traffic impeding his passage, it had trapped him perfectly. I darted between cars and sidled up next to him.

  'Excuse me, Mr Paxman,' I said meekly. 'May I ask you a very quick question?'

  'Yes?' He raised his eyebrows, and I felt suddenly terrified. His television persona resounded in my mind, and I feared the damning retort he would offer my impudent inquiry.

  'What's your opinion of the state of homelessness in London at the moment?'

  Jeremy Paxman folded his arms and leaned back against the pillar beneath the statue of Florence Nightingale. After a moment's contemplation, he said, 'I find it very troubling.'

  I quickly noted down his comment, aware that he was taking in my attire.

  'Are you homeless?' he asked.

  'No,' I admitted. 'I'm a writer. I'm researching a book about homelessness.'

  He raised his eyebrows again. 'Well, good for you!' he said. 'I'm involved with a few centres not far from here. You must visit them and spend some time there. One's called Anchor House. It
's in the East End.'

  'I'll tell them you sent me,' I said.

  'Do. And you should visit a few other places while you're at it. The Passage at Victoria. Or St Mungo's. There's another in the centre, though they're a Roman Catholic organisation…' His sentence trailed off, and I was unsure why. I hazarded a guess that he perhaps disagreed with the religious aspect.

  'Do you think they help the homeless for indoctrination rather than altruistic purposes?' I asked.

  He laughed and pointed a large hand at my chest. 'That's a very cynical question, and you should be ashamed of it.'

  I blushed with pride. Jeremy Paxman had just called me cynical.

  'No, they're not like that,' he continued. 'They're a good organisation doing good things. You're not doing an Orwell, are you?'

  'Kind of,' I admitted. 'I wanted to see what it was like to be a tramp in the twenty-first century, and find out why there are so few around these days.'