by Jon McGregor
They’ll be putting tags on us next la, they’ll be strapping tags with listening devices on them round our ankles and then there’ll be nowhere to hide, you know what I’m saying? Like them chips they put in dogs’ necks, you know, like, what’s her name, Einstein, she’s probably got one without you even knowing, they’ll be using that to track you and no doubt.
And then Danny’s number being called, and Danny up at the little window and talking through the hole in the glass. Name, date of birth, national insurance number. Address, previous address, place of birth. Always the same. Don’t matter who it is, the police or the doctors or the benefits, they’ve all got forms to fill and they all want to know the same thing. And none of them ever happy with you saying I don’t know.
But what does it say on your birth certificate?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Like they can’t hear you and they keep going on, looking at the computer screen like the answers might just pop up at them. Asking you the same questions all over again: What does it say on your records? Where were you born? What are your parents’ names?
Jesus. You’d think they’d have training about that sort of thing.
Like what the French call it la. The little death.
And then what happens is sometimes there’s not even a room to wait in is there. Sometimes it’s just a long corridor with a line of chairs leading all the way down it, with people in suits like swishing up and down and making out they’re not looking at you or trying to guess what your business is. What your problem is.
Like at the courts. All these different courts spread through the building, and you find your way through the maze by following the trail of grey metal chairs against the walls. Another place where we know how to sit and wait. Don’t we all. Been there enough.
Like Heather. This is a long time ago now. A lifetime ago.
Sitting outside the Family Court or whatever they called it then. Waiting to be called in, a bag of clothes tucked under the chair. Books. Toys. A long row of chairs and no one else waiting. Could have stood up and left and it wouldn’t have made no difference. Could still be waiting there now and it would have been just the same. Sort of feels like she is still waiting there now.
The door behind her opening and closing and a clerk or someone coming out with an armful of papers and her shoes clicking away down the corridor. Ignoring Heather because who was she anyway.
Dressed as smartly as she could but she still looked out of place. She wanted to, most days, it was sort of the point, all the jewellery and the tattoos and the layers of torn-up clothes, but that day she’d known it would have helped if she’d just looked sort of normal and standard and capable. Capable being what they were talking about in there.
The doors opening and closing. The sunlight in the foyer at the end of the dark corridor. Felt like a schoolgirl outside the headteacher’s office, swinging her legs. The metal chair cold against her skin. Her hair sticking to her forehead where she’d tried to wet her fringe down over the tattoo. Because she’d known that wouldn’t help, the tattoo.
Her hair all hot down the back of her neck, and she lifts a handful up away from her head, hoping for a breeze to blow down the corridor and cool her skin. But there’s nothing. No movement, no sound, and so she opens her hand and lets her hair fall and every time she does this again for the rest of her life she’ll be back in this moment, this waiting in the long corridor for a door to open and her name to be called. She’s waiting there now, her hair still falling from her hand against her hot red neck.
I can wait, she says.
Don’t mind me. I’ve got time on my hands.
We’ve all got time on our hands, now.
But if he could have just shouted. If he could have got to a phone. And if Penny could have barked and howled and hurled herself against the door.
And look at him now.
All these gaps. All this waiting. All these things coming back into view.
Like Robert, all the waiting he did. Waiting for Yvonne to get in touch after all, to say Come on, Robert, it’s been a while now, shall we have another go.
Must have known she never would.
But if she found him in that state. If anyone found him in that state. It had been too long. He wasn’t waiting any more. But how old would Laura be now, he kept thinking, then. All those years. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Asking questions all over again and maybe she’d come and find him one day. But if she found him in that state.
Here’s something Steve, he said one morning, the three of them barely awake. This was later, when Heather was stopping there as well. When was this. The noise of H and Penny scrambling around in the hallway. Here’s something Steve, I’ll tell you what. This is important.
Boxes of latex gloves on shelves along the wall.
Disposable aprons.
The tag on the door. A date, a time, a reference number. A space where his name should be.
Too many gaps.
Too many, fucking, known unknowns.
That man who went to the chiropodist with the maggots in his feet, what was his name, where did he go. Is he here now.
The man in the wheelchair who can hardly move it but won’t let no one push, crying out with each turn of the wheels. What’s his name.
Yvonne. Where is she, even now.
Laura.
That man in the wheelchair, we know him but we don’t even know his name. Plenty of stories about him though. Like he’s rich as fuck, for one. Got a big house out on the tops that he inherited years back but he couldn’t never bear to live there. Like he’s going to leave it to some animal charity when he kicks it, some dogs’ home or something. Like he reckons they deserve it the most. Like it’s arthritis that’s crippling him and they could do plenty about it but he won’t let them get him in the hospital. All stories but so who knows what’s really true and he keeps dragging himself all over town.
We sit and we stand and we lean against the wall. We lie on the cold stone floor and we wait for the morning. The clock ticking round towards the windowless dawn.
Spent a lot of time on the cold stone floor of the underpass, waiting. Danny did. Before they bricked up the underpasses and filled them in. Sat on a blanket with another one round his shoulders. Before they banned the charities from giving out blankets, before some council leader started going on about cleaning up the streets and calling it respect, some cunt watching too many films and giving it all like Some kind of rain’s going to come and wash all the crap off the streets but in the meantime a blanket ban and some asbos will have to do. Sat there with Einstein curled up in his lap. Eyes down and cup held out. Very humble, very fucking what is it, penitent. Mike keeping watch at one end of the underpass. Counting and recounting the money, how much they had now and how much more they needed before they could pick up their blankets and hurry on over to the flats to score. Always starting to hurt by the time the last coin hit the cup, and as soon as it landed they were up and moving off, folding the blankets as they went, taking the steps out of the underpass two and three at a time, Mike already up ahead at the phonebox putting in their order, Danny striding past him, Einstein not needing to be told to keep up, the two of them hurrying off down the street like Olympic walkers, or more like Special Olympics walkers the state of them, their loose-soled trainers flapping as they limped along the pavement and Mike explaining where the delivery would be. No point rushing because when they got there they always had to wait. But they couldn’t help it. Always waiting longer than they’d been told, longer than they wanted, longer than they could bear but they had to, while Mike paced around and chatted on his phone. Watching every car that slowed down, every kid on a mountain bike, anyone who caught their eye who might be bringing what they needed. Deliver us what we need would you la. Three or four times a day, standing and waiting. Deliver us from, whatever, this fucking sickness.
Like Danny at the phonebox by the Miller’s Arms where we saw him last. Waiting there still, in the dark, w
ith the evening’s trains rattling past and the door to the pub slamming open and shut somewhere behind him. Shivering and moaning and Einstein curling round and round his ankles, as if that could make him feel better, as if that could help at all, as if anything but what he was waiting for could help or can help him now.
Do you think He believes in you.
I could just really do with something to hold me until I get out, is there anything you can do.
Pardon me for asking but if you could just, fucking.
And it was Danny doing more or less all the begging out of those two. I’m not being funny and that but I’ve not really got the temperament, Mike said, when they talked about it. Weren’t much of a discussion. I’ve not got the patience la, he said. People can be funny when you’re sat there like that, and I switch a bit easy, you know what I mean, I like lash out and that and it causes more trouble than it’s worth. I tend to misinterpret people’s faces Danny, that’s my problem, that’s one of my problems, I tend to see the worst in them pal and then it all kicks off. So like it’s best all round if you do the sitting and I’ll keep lookout and plus once we’ve got the cash I’ll take care of the scoring is that cool with you?
Muttering all this into Danny’s ear like it was a question but it weren’t really a question at all. Things weren’t like that. Were they. Mike was the one with the plan. That’s how it was right from when they first hooked up, when Danny’s first giro ran out and they had to leave the old warehouse and head out for more cash. Mike telling him the plan all the way there, stooping while they walked and spitting it into Danny’s ear.
And that was when Steve started seeing them around the place. Sitting outside the wet centre waiting for it to open, reading a book or talking to the others waiting there as well, and it seemed like every other time he looked up he’d see Danny and Mike rushing past one way or the other. Mike chatting into his phone and Danny pulling that dog along behind him. Skinny buggers the both of them, needle-thin, all hands and arms and tripping over their feet, Mike always striding out with Danny tagging along behind, Danny squinting ahead of him like he was venturing into a long dark tunnel or something. Looked like people with a lot of business to attend to. Looked like they were in what you might call a high-stress occupation. Was what Steve thought, then.
There’s a patch in the underpass we’ll try first off, over by the bus station, big crowd from the offices coming through, should get enough for the first bag of the day. This is Mike, with his plan. Then we’ll get you signed up at the Issue, they barred me a while back for like a misunderstanding, you know what I’m saying, but you’ll be all right and they give new boys the best patches so with a bit of joy that’ll be enough for bag number two. Then if you’re any good at lifting we’ll go through Boots and get some blades and batteries and that and sell them on at the King’s Head, maybe tap up a few more people on the way back to the flats and we’ll have enough for a third bag which’ll hold us through until it’s time for the coming-out-of-work crowd so we’ll get back down the underpass and we’ll be sorted in no time la. Then we’ll think about finding somewhere to sleep. Full-time job living like this and then some. Takes a lot of dedication. Takes a lot of planning. Got to have a plan Danny boy, got to have a plan. Stick with me and you’ll be all right. I’ve got the plans. Got them all up here.
Tapping at his head and tugging Danny’s sleeve to guide him through the crowds by the bus station, the two of them clearing a path, Mike with his long black coat swinging around his knees, Danny with his mouth still swollen and red from the lamping he’d taken the week before.
Two of them made a pair sometimes, striding through the streets with Danny hauling a load of blankets and dragging his dog along, and Mike chatting away on his phone, giving it all No you listen to me pal youse all listen to me. Like he was talking to his agent or his stockbroker or something.
Takes a lot of fucking, what, commitment and that.
Steve spent a lot of time at the wet centre when he started drinking again. Waiting. Easy place to be when he needed to get out of the rain, and no one bothered him. Didn’t have to talk to anyone unless he wanted to. And he didn’t want to after the year he’d had. This was when, long time ago now. Ten years or something. Who knows. After he’d gone dry for a time, a big mistake he was more than making up for now. Which put him in good company but he didn’t go there for the company did he. Went there for the food, the dry clothes, the chance to get out of the weather. He was what you might call between residences, meaning he had no bastard place to stay, but he’d learnt enough survival skills in the army to know that you make use of whatever resources are available to you at any given time. And the wet centre was a resource and a half and no mistake. Even if he had to wait outside half the morning for the place to open.
That dog though, what a state. Danny told him about it one time, said it was how come he’d left London in the first place. Some dealer smashed her back leg with an iron bar on account of Danny owing him money, and he thought it was best not to wait and see what might happen next. Keep trying to get to the PDSA to get it looked at, he said. But I don’t want no one taking her off me. Else what would I do then.
Some people are never comfortable just sitting there like that though. When they’re sat waiting for the same thing, at the doctor’s or the housing or wherever. Think they have to break the silence. But not Steve. He could sit and wait in silence all day if he had to. Something he’d learnt on manoeuvres. Patience. Sat outside the wet centre though and someone would always crack on about the weather or the police or asylum seekers and Steve would just give them a look and go back to whatever he was reading. That was enough, mostly. That and H growling at them. Weren’t even a growl hardly, just this noise in the back of his throat that you knew would get much worse than a growl if you didn’t stop whatever it was you were doing. He was good for things like that. Mean-looking stump of a dog, white-faced and black-eyed with a flattened nose, not exactly what you’d call playful or affectionate even with Steve but at least he kept people out of the way. Which was what Steve wanted, mostly.
But one time Heather turned up, and crouched in front of H and scratched his chin and he didn’t make a sound. And Steve looked up, and Heather said You look like you could do with a drink. Made him laugh. Felt like he hadn’t laughed in a long while. Felt like a start.
Knew Heather from around but hadn’t spoken to her before. Hard to miss though. Big woman, with layers and layers of clothes and long knotted hair that she kept changing the colour of, and a whole bunch of tattoos including a tattoo of an eye in the middle of her forehead. Which was what people mostly noticed first. Was hard to miss.
So I can keep an extra eye out for trouble, she said, when people asked her why she’d had it done. There’s sort of always trouble to look out for.
They started drinking together, Steve and Heather, and they got talking, and she asked him about H. He said he’d had him about twelve or thirteen years, since he was a puppy, and that was more or less how long he’d been out on the streets. Been through a lot together, he said, and Heather finished a can and said Haven’t we all sweetheart.
She said it sounded like they’d been on the scene for about the same time. Said she’d been in a band before that, they’d done a lot of touring and it had been going well but things hadn’t worked out. Musical differences, she said, rolling up her sleeve and showing him the state of her arm. All the marks from what the needles had done. Plus this other stuff, these rows of raised pink scars all up and down her arm. Helps to distract you sometimes, sort of keeps you from doing other things or thinking about other things.
She asked him where he was stopping and he said Nowhere much, and a while later, when they were leaving the wet centre, leaning out into the night like they were walking into a storm, holding each other up and slipping on the dry ground, she said I’m stopping with this bloke up the way, he don’t like going out but he’s a decent bloke so he won’t mind if you stop there for a bit a
s well. And when he got there he was too drunk to be surprised that it was Robert’s flat they were falling into.
It all comes round again, in the end.
Robert didn’t look surprised to see him. It had been years though hadn’t it. Maybe it took them a moment to recognise each other. If they even did. How long had it been. It had been years. It was hard to remember. There were too many. Could have been seven or eight or nine years, could have been two or three. Too many, gaps.
Didn’t say much when Steve said hello. He’d got himself a dog as well by then, Penny, and all three of them watched Penny and H sniffing around each other for a minute, like Little and Large, growling and snapping and then calming down. H sniffing around for crumbs on the floor. Steve sat on the floor because there was only the one chair by then. Heather fell over in the corner and closed her eyes, and just before she fell asleep she said Eh now you two I’m still watching you two now. Meaning with her third eye, with that faded blue and green tattoo.
Told the same joke most nights from what Steve could tell. Weren’t even that funny. Gave him the creeps.
Weren’t quite true when Heather said she’d been in a band. Was more like she’d been with a band. Or like they’d been with her.
When they woke up in the morning, the three of them, with H and Penny barking in the hallway and banging against the door to be let out, Robert looked over at Steve and pushed his hat up out of his eyes and said What was your name again mate? Don’t I know you from somewhere?
These, gaps.
Here’s something, he said. I’ll tell you what. This is important.
Steve waited all day for Robert to remember who he was, and then he forgot about it. It had been a long time ago. They’d both, what was it, they’d both moved on since then. Although Robert hadn’t moved far, about two or three feet by the look of it, and Steve was still drinking, was drinking again, and still going around the same places. But still, things had happened in the meantime. Steve had been away, for one. He’d been dry, and he’d been away, and he’d come back and he wasn’t dry any more. Robert had put on weight, had more or less doubled in size it looked like, like he must have stayed put in that chair the whole time since Steve had seen him. Like he’d run out of the energy or something.