by Adele Parks
You know, she still bought the family-saver ticket. Dad teased her about that. “No point in wasting money,” she replied primly. In Topshop I just went wild. Dad said I could have anything I wanted in the entire shop. Anything at all. “We can afford anything and everything,” he laughed. I tried on about a thousand things. We told the shop assistant we’d won the lottery. Once we convinced her that we weren’t messing, she said I could take any number of garments into the changing room, even though the usual limit is eight. I can’t even remember what I bought in the end. Loads of the Ivy Park’s workout pieces, a little boxy bag that is so cute, earrings, a leopard print cap, some sundresses, shorts, quite a few tees. I lost count. Most likely over twenty pieces. Maybe thirty. I’m not actually certain where I’m going to wear it all, but I guess we’ll be going to more fancy places now and so I’ll have opportunities to dress up. Logan did the same in Topman. He bought the same T-shirt in four different colors because he couldn’t decide which he liked best.
I finish my cereal, wash out the bowl, then pick up my mug of tea and drag myself up the stairs. Back in my room I lay out all yesterday’s purchases on the floor and bed. I can’t believe I have to put on my boring school uniform.
There’s a tap at my door. I’m expecting it to be Mum, coming to tell me to get a move on, hop in the shower, dash for the bus, but it’s not Mum nagging, it’s Dad smiling. Logan is hanging around in the hallway, still wet from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s obviously not in a hurry, either.
“Hello, princess.”
I beam. “Hiya, Dad. Just looking at my stuff again. I still can’t believe it. Can you?”
“Not really.” He grins and rubs his hair with his hand, something he does when he’s really chuffed with life. Logan is punching the air, something he has done on a more or less continuous basis since they told us the news. “Look,” says Dad with a reluctant sigh, “your mum wants me to remind you to keep this to yourself, at least for the moment.”
“I know, I know. She’s said.”
“She’s just worried about people’s reactions.”
“Why so?” asks Logan.
“Oh, you know, people can be jealous or just weird.”
“Weird how?”
Dad doesn’t directly answer. “She’s worried about security.”
“Security?” Logan looks fit to burst with excitement. “Like, in case someone kidnaps us?”
“No one said anything about kidnapping,” replies Dad calmly.
“What then?” Logan looks crushed that his newfound wealth isn’t going to place him in immediate danger.
“The lady who is our winner’s advisor said she wanted to talk about how to deal with begging letters. You know, things like that. It’s possible once the news is out people might just turn up and ask for money, I guess.”
“Well, we’ve plenty of it so maybe we should just give these people some, if they need it,” suggests my brother, showing that he hasn’t got a clue.
Dad is kind enough not to say as much but just asks, “Yeah, but where would that stop? We will give to charity, of course we will. We just need to think it through.”
“I can’t wait for the moment when we can tell people, though,” I add, beaming, thinking of Ridley and Megan’s faces.
I. Just. Can’t. Wait.
CHAPTER 5
Toma
Wednesday, February 6
“Do you want a cup of tea? I’m about to put the kettle on.”
He didn’t respond. Not coherently. His bones ached. He was so wet and cold that often when waking up, it took a few moments for him to process where he was. Who he was. What he was.
Homeless. Widower. Immigrant.
He stared at her, the woman asking the question. She looked kind enough, concerned. He had learned the importance of making quick character judgments. Still, it was too easy to trust people. Sometimes they looked kind and then they stole your shoes. This woman wasn’t homeless, though. She was dressed in a trouser suit and had her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, suggesting she worked in an office, maybe the one he was sleeping outside. Still he remained aggravated, aggrieved, fearful. The homeless generally don’t like being woken. Who does? Sleep is an escape. But when they are woken, the best they can hope for is that they are being moved on. The worst? They are spit on, robbed, assaulted. So he stared at her like a wounded animal, savage but impotent. She waved a bunch of keys at him and nodded toward the door he was obstructing, so he shuffled to the side to allow her to open it. She did and then she stepped past him, over the threshold.
It was a simple act, but he felt a twinge. He envied the fact she had a job to go to, anywhere to go to. The sign said Citizens Advice Bureau. A place set up to help, but to help people like him? He didn’t know.
No doubt there was a protocol to follow, and naturally it was not a great idea for a woman alone to invite a homeless man into her office, so he was not surprised when she left him on the street. He might be dangerous. Desperation often leads to threat and menace. He didn’t think he was a danger, at least not to her, but he couldn’t be sure. He was no longer sure what he was capable of. He was surprised when she came back outside, carrying a mug of tea and a packet of biscuits, and sat down on the ground next to him. It had been raining—the wet would seep into her trousers and underwear. She was really trying. It was a nice gesture. Some would think it was patronizing, take offense. Not Toma. Toma hurt and he hated, but the man he had always been couldn’t be angry at this woman for trying to find his level. It was not her fault that his level just happened to be in the gutter. She handed him the tea and biscuits and confessed, “I stole the biscuits, but honestly I think you need the calories way more than anyone in our office does.”
He smelled bad—how could he not, living rough on the streets? The pertinent word in that sentence being rough. He saw her nose twitch involuntarily; she must be making a big effort not to pull away. He wondered whether she had enough dealings with street people to identify the length of time they had been homeless? He could grade them now. Those who had spent months or even years on the street smelled of damp and feces, alcohol and vomit, dirt that had penetrated past clothes and skin and into souls. It was almost unbearable. Not because it was the worst smell in the world—decaying rats in the walls smelled worse, death smelled worse—the sensory assault is accepting that the smell is made by another human being. A fellow human being.
People who had been on the streets for days or weeks, rather than months, smelled different. It was still overpowering, but it was just stale sweat, greasy hair, maybe urine. Other people’s urine, often. Guys on their way home from trendy wine bars sometimes pissed on the homeless for sport. Toma knew this. It had happened to him.
“Thank you.” He took the tea, made eye contact. It was important. Back in the day when he had a home, a wife, a child, people had called him handsome. He knew his large brown eyes were considered intelligent, even sexy. He wasn’t trying to flirt with this woman. That was absurd. All that had gone. Those compulsions: desire, hope, fun. Now he existed, nothing more. And he existed to get justice. He made eye contact with this woman because maybe she could help, and she was more likely to help if she could see that his eyes were not clouded with drugs or alcohol. She would judge him. This nice woman with a wet arse who gave him sweet tea. She would try not to, but it was instinctual. She would feel hopeful if the eye contact was good.
“I’m Lexi.”
“Toma Albu,” he replied. “My authentic name.” Few homeless people give a surname, and even first names are often made up. He wanted to show her he was different.
“So, were you waiting for me to open?” she asked. He shrugged, unwilling to expose himself by committing so immediately. He was scared to ask for help in case she wouldn’t give it to him. In case she couldn’t. This was his last hope. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what else he
could do. Find a tall bridge over a deep river, perhaps. Because why not? What did he have to live for? “Have you any plans for today?”
He shook his head, tutted. She left him to drink his tea, went back inside and then, about five or ten minutes later, returned clutching some leaflets. “There’s a place you can go to get breakfast and a shower. It’s about a ten-minute walk. Here’s a map and the address, okay?” She was asking if he could read the leaflet. He nodded. “I’ll telephone them, tell them you are on your way. Come back here afterwards and we can talk through some options.” He slowly got to his feet, picked up his filthy, torn sleeping bag that was heavier than usual, bloated with rainwater. “I realize when I ask people in your position to come back to see me that there’s only a ten percent or less chance of them doing so,” said the woman.
“Then why risk it? Why not talk now?”
“We don’t open until nine thirty, and you’ll concentrate better if you’ve eaten something. Besides, I’ve worked with wilder odds. I’m secretly a bit of a gambler.” She smiled. He liked her. She was joking with him, appealing to him. Treating him as a human being.
Toma spent the morning in the hostel she had recommended. He ate the breakfast they offered and took the opportunity to launder his clothes. As he waited for his clothes to wash and dry, he showered and then—standing in a borrowed, baggy tracksuit that countless men before him must have worn—shaved. He imagined how easy it would be to use the razor to slit his wrists. He thought that maybe he’d come back to this place and do exactly that tomorrow if the woman didn’t listen to him. If someone didn’t listen to him.
He returned to the office just after midday. He looked through the glass door and saw that it was a very small place, the desks practically on top of one another. He no longer smelled so didn’t dread being close to people as he usually did, but there would be no privacy. He waited outside until she emerged. On spotting him, she said, “I can skip lunch if you want to come in.”
“You shouldn’t miss lunch. I’ll walk with you to get your lunch.”
She smiled again. She was definitely the sort who was fast to break into a beam. “Well, that’s a strange inversion of the usual order.”
“You mean a homeless man concerned that an office woman misses her lunch is comment-worthy?” He was suddenly irritated by her. Couldn’t she understand that he used to be someone responsible, thoughtful, caring? Couldn’t anyone imagine that?
She grinned. “I mean anyone being concerned with me missing lunch is an inversion of the usual order.” He thought she was too thin. He imagined she regularly worked through her lunch break because she seemed concerned, committed. His irritation subsided. Her boss ought not to let that happen; her husband should encourage her to look after herself, as well. There was a husband, she wore a ring. He had checked. He hoped she had children, too. It would help.
They walked to Boots, and she bought them each a sandwich, crisps and a drink. They sat together on a park bench. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t raining.
“Where are your things?”
“Things?”
“This morning you had a sleeping bag.”
“It fell apart when I washed it.”
“Oh.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He’d once had lots of things. Big things and small things. He’d had a life where he would sometimes be home from work in time to kiss his wife, tell her he’d take over. He’d carefully lower his son into a bath full of bubbles and toys, where the boy would babble, bathe and play. Toma would then gently lift Benke out, dry him carefully and thoroughly with a big towel, between the toes and behind the ears. Then he’d dress the child in Peppa Pig pajamas and place him softly in a bed. There was a night-light that threw out a golden light. It had small motifs twirling around the shade: cars, tractors and trains. Toma would read to his son from a colorful book, which lived with other colorful books on a shelf, until the son fell asleep.
They’d all gone.
The bath toys, the soft pajamas, the night-light, the colorful books, the wife, the child. Many things. Everything.
He should squirrel away the sandwich. He’d had breakfast. He didn’t need it. Or more accurately, he might need it more later. Being on the street demanded constant forethought and planning. He bit into it anyway.
“Can you tell me your story?” she asked gently.
He took another bite. He wanted to tell her. He had to, but he hated pulling the words forward. At first, he had not been able to believe they were dead. For months he kept expecting to come home from work and find his wife behind the ironing board or in the kitchenette, his son in front of the TV. He would open the door and see them both instantly—there was nowhere to hide in their tiny flat. He would expect them to run to him, kiss him, hug him. It sounded old-fashioned. Him at work, her at home. But she was studying, too, a correspondence course in accounting. She had ambitions. She had plans to go out into the world. Be something. Do something. But Benke was young and she had to get the qualifications first, so she stayed at home, did her best to make the small, neglected flat into something that was not awful. They didn’t have much. They didn’t have enough. The place they lived in was a disgrace, really. Damp on the walls and in the beds, everything broken—locks, taps, cupboards, windows—and they couldn’t get warm. Toma doubted an Englishman would have ever rented the place. It was all they could afford.
For months he had not accepted they were dead and so never looked for the words to say that they were. When he did finally accept that he’d never open the door to their smiles or sulks, their laughter or their grumbles, he fell into a profound, prolonged depression. He existed in a fug of antidepressants and alcohol. The months slithered by like black slippery eels. There were warnings at work. He was reluctantly let go. Someone who knew his story and felt sorry for him found him another job.
More tablets, more whiskey. The same solid grief. The warnings were more brusque the second time, the letting go less reluctant. He couldn’t pay his rent. An eviction notice. Then there was a bed at the YMCA. No permanent address to write on application forms meant that there was no gainful employment to be had. Then finally there was another flat. Even worse than his home with Reveka, but better than the streets. He shared a bathroom. It was a cesspit. The place was horribly overcrowded. People and mold spores jostled for somewhere to rest. One day he tried to talk to the landlord about what needed to be done. That was the end of that, out on his ear, no notice period. Throughout this time, people asked him to explain himself. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t trade Reveka’s and Benke’s lives and deaths for sympathy. For a bed, for an extra coin. Their names stuck in his throat, choking him, five years on.
The woman sighed heavily and admitted, “I Googled you this morning.”
He was not offended; it was a relief. She was curious and concerned. She might be the right person. “Providing Toma Albu is your name—”
“It is.”
“—then you are either a genius mathematician born in 1943, which seems unlikely because I’d peg you mid-to late-forties, or—” She left it hanging for a moment. He nodded stiffly. The pain, which people thought resided in the heart, permeated throughout his body. It throbbed in his legs, his neck, his arms. Everywhere. “Or you are a man who tragically lost his wife and child in 2014. Carbon monoxide poisoning, the result of a broken boiler.”
“Yes, I am that man.”
“I’m sorry.”
People always said they were sorry. It wasn’t their fault. What else could they say? It wasn’t enough, though.
“How sorry are you? Sorry enough to help me?”
“Of course, I’ll help you. There are ways to get back on your feet. I can’t imagine what you’ve been though, but I do know that you are not the first person to find themselves on the street after such a monumental loss. I can make some calls to the Housing Advice Centre. I’ve seen enough cases to und
erstand how easy it is for people who, one minute, are living fairly ordinary lives, to have a knock—not even anywhere near as profound as your loss, and then the next minute find themselves homeless. I can find you somewhere to live. I can help you find employment.”
“I want justice.”
She looked confused. “I read the newspaper articles about the incident, and court records. A woman, the managing agent, was brought to trial for her negligence.”
Toma objected to her word incident. “They were murdered.”
The Lexi woman looked uncomfortable. Her research would have told her that Elaine Winterdale was charged with negligence and several breaches of the Gas Safety Regulations, but not manslaughter and certainly not murder.
“The sentence might have seemed inadequate to you, and for what it’s worth, I certainly thought it was, but if you think about it, Toma, even if she had been given a custodial sentence, no amount of time could bring them back.”
“It wasn’t her. She is just the monkey. I want the organ grinder. The bastard landlord that killed my beautiful Reveka and Benke but then wasn’t held accountable.”
“The landlord was exonerated. Winterdale lied to him about the checks she was doing, and she didn’t forward on the gas-board warnings to the owner. He was ignorant of all wrongdoing.”
Toma shook his head. “No. I do not believe this. He has walked away and still doesn’t change his ways, all these years later.”
The woman weighed it up. On one hand, aggrieved people had bias and denied facts. On the other, mistakes were made. “What are you saying?” she asked cautiously.
“I accepted what the court said. I was too tired, too broken, to question. I thought it was this Winterdale woman. She said she was guilty herself. But later I stayed in another place. I discover same man is the landlord and I discover he is criminal. The laws, they are clear about a landlord’s responsibility, right?”