The Sky Is Dead (3 page)

At least I’ve got rid of the cough now. I caught pneumonia just after Christmas and had to spend three weeks in hospital. It had been the best time I’d had in over eighteen months. Three weeks of being warm and clean and having regular meals. Once I’d cleaned up, the nurses warmed up and took good care of me, feeding me extra food to fatten me up. One of them even brought in some old clothes her kid had grown out of. They were good to me, but I’m not stupid enough to think they would have been the same if I’d been Old Johnny, who’s been on the streets longer than I’ve been alive. Maybe that’s unfair; they were good to me.

The social worker at the hospital tried to get me into a shelter afterward, but places are tight and I didn’t want to leave the area. When they start talking about contacting my parents, I quietly left the hospital, despite the fact that my cough wasn’t fully gone. It wasn’t too cold, and I had new clothes, and I’d nicked a couple of their blankets too. I felt guilty about that, but I figured the NHS saved money on me, so they could afford to lose a few blankets. Going back on the streets was hard, but there is no choice for a kid like me. I refuse to admit I gave them no choice: the only person who makes the decisions for me is me.

I need a wash, but the park attendant is around. I can see him in the distance. The last thing I want is to be caught half naked in the gents by
him
. I don’t mind the ones who throw me out, but
him
I don’t like. He’d let me have a wash in the gents, but for a price. He should have used the facilities himself, that’s all I’m saying. Paying for a wash with a blow job? Do I like having some elderly guy’s knob shoved in my mouth? I ignore it like I ignore the cock in my arse for the money for food. They ask for a donation at the shelter for their hot meals, although they don’t make a fuss if you can’t pay up. I’ve learned not to be proud, but I help if I can, and sometimes, I don’t want the shelter’s food. I don’t think of myself as a hooker. Shit, I could make more money if I stayed in South London, but I live in a small town not far from Guildford. I don’t fancy standing outside Sainsbury’s, selling my arse every night to commuters and family men. I do enough to get me a hot meal and no more.

They’re pleased enough to see me at the drop-in center, which is really just a small room in the shelter. Ben, one of the volunteers, looks up from his paperwork and greets me with a cheery good morning as I walk in. I recognize most of the faces now. Old Johnny is already there, in his usual spot. He grunts at me as I walk past. I’ll go and talk to him later, after I’ve had my breakfast. Lil and Billy grin at me from the window seat. In the two years I’ve been coming to the shelter, I’ve never seen them apart. Lil’s about thirty, I guess, with Billy a few years younger. They’re inseparable, despite the fact both of them have learning difficulties. Billy told me the authorities don’t approve of their relationship, and each new social worker at the shelter tries to split them up. The last one ended up in Accident & Emergency. Billy took exception to the social worker trying to manhandle Lil and punched the man in the face. The assault earned Billy a few nights in the cells, and Lil went into a decline. It was the intervention of Greg, the manager of the shelter, that got them back together. I think they’re the lucky ones, in an odd way. They’d get more help if they were alone, but they love each other and provide comfort and support to each other in the best and worst of times. They don’t have to face the bloodsucking loneliness of being on your own twenty-four hours a day.

I’m waiting for my bacon sandwich when Ben appears at my elbow. He’s in his thirties and works at the shelter when it suits his shifts as a nurse. He’s part of the reason I get treated so well in hospital. Each time I’ve ended up in A&E, it’s been because Ben insisted I go. The first time I resisted, not wanting him to interfere. After that I was too ill to argue.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Ben. How’s the girlfriend?” It’s an old joke. Ben is desperately in love with another nurse. From the conversations we’ve had, he’s been in love with her for nearly fifteen years, but she’s never paid him the slightest bit of attention. The first time he told me this, I rolled my eyes and told him to grow a pair. What idiot pines away for that long and never says a word? I am young and naïve. Ben has been homeless. I stared at him in disbelief when he told me that. He nodded at my, “No!” and told me his story. It’s depressingly similar to mine. Ben was caught with a boy and thrown out. His parents were in some fundamentalist bullshit church. Gay is a sin blah blah blah. The ironic thing is that Ben is straight. Well, bi-curious, perhaps, but not enough to want to spend the rest of his life with a guy. He’s found the love of his life and is never going to do anything about it. The difference between him and me is he accepted the help that was offered and ended up in some sort of program for homeless kids. He’s always vague about the details. Anyway, he trained as a nurse and spends his spare time working at the shelter. When I ask him why he doesn’t ask the girl out, he says, “I’m damaged. What could I offer her?” I have no answer to that. I’m damaged too.

Anyway, any mention of the girlfriend, and he sighs and changes the subject. “I have a suggestion for you.”

“No, thanks,” I say immediately.

“You don’t know what it is yet,” he points out.

“Programs to find me somewhere to live, a job pushing trolleys at the supermarket or wiping the arses of old men.”

He glares at me. “No.”

I arch my eyebrow and wait.

“Well, okay, maybe. But it’s not like the others. This is not an official program. It’s someone I know who has a bedsit, and it’s free at the moment.”

“And the catch?” There’s always a catch.

“No catch. A few simple rules, that’s all.”

Yeah, right. “No, thanks, Ben. Why don’t you offer it to Old Johnny or Billy and Lil?”

Ben shakes his head. “They don’t meet the criteria.”

My bacon sandwich turns up. I slather it in red sauce and head for one of the tables. Ben follows me. He at least lets me eat before he renews the attack.

“I’m worried about you, Danny. You can’t keep getting ill like this. Your lungs are going to give out if you’re not careful.”

“I’m eighteen. My lungs are fine.” I glare at him, because I don’t want to be reminded that whilst chronologically I might be a teenager, sleeping rough is taking its toll. “Chronologically” is a good word. The doctors throw that one at me a lot.

Ben sighs. “This is a good offer, and it might be a couple of years before it’s available again.”

I finish a mouthful and scowl at him. “You’re a good man, Ben, but I won’t follow any fucking program or obey any fucking rules laid down by someone else. All I want is to look after myself.”

He sighs loudly. “Don’t fucking swear. For Christ’s sake, Danny, don’t you want to get a home, maybe go to university?”

“No A levels, remember?”

“You could do an access course. You’re bright enough.”

I shake my head. I’ve thought about it, but doing that means I have to trust people not to fuck me over, and I don’t trust people. In my own way, I’m happy with my life. I help at the shelter with some of the day-to-day work. They’re always short of staff. Ben’s taught me how to do basic DIY. I ignore his suggestions that I take a course and learn a trade.

Ben leaves me alone after that, but later on I see him talking to someone on his phone. He keeps looking over at me as he talks, and I have a funny feeling I’m the subject of the conversation.

I help Clare with the dinner preparation, and then Ben wants me to put up blinds in the men’s room. It keeps me occupied until midafternoon. I’m tired by then and decide to go for a walk. Not the best timing. The schools are coming out, and I’m faced with the local arseholes who love taking the piss out of the shelter’s clients.

You soon learn who to avoid when you live on the streets. People are either hostile to the homeless or they ignore you. Most of them think you’re begging for their precious money so you can piss it away on booze. Teenagers are just as bad, if not worse. Usually I roll away under my bush and sleep in the afternoon. They don’t know I’m there.

As I enter the park, I see two dipshits I make a habit of avoiding. I know their names because they yell to each other constantly. Joe is built like a brick shithouse and has the same mental ability, and George is not much smaller. It isn’t only me they harass. I’ve seen them have a go at mums with pushchairs, elderly people, and all the girls that walk past. They are equal-opportunity morons.

They’re already pushing some poor kid around when I scurry past. I’m not heading for my bush. I’ll go sit in the far corner until they’ve gone. That’s my plan. Until I see Joe twist the kid’s arm behind his back. Joe’s a sadistic bastard and obviously likes hearing his victim’s squeal.

“Leave me alone,” the kid shouts.

No chance of that. Joe just laughs and twists his arm even more. “Not going to let go of some ponce,” he says.

My steps falter as I go past.

“Homo.” As always, George follows Joe’s lead.

I look over to see tears rolling down the kid’s face. He’s deadly white, and I wonder if he’s going to faint.

“I’m not a homo,” the kid says.

He is. Sorry, kid, but it’s obvious even to the blind.

I would have just walked on by, but then George pulls out a knife.

Even Joe is shocked. “Jesus, George, where the fuck did you get that?”

“My stepdad. He said I needed to protect myself.”

Christ, the stepdad is as thick as his stepson.

“What are you going to do with that?” the kid asks, fear written all over his face.

George approaches him with the knife, and then the inevitable happens.

Suddenly Joe lets the kid go, shoving him violently away from him. “Shit! He’s just pissed himself.”

The kid is wearing dark school trousers, so I can’t see, but the smell and the puddle by Joe’s feet gives him away.

“Fucking queer cunt,” George shouts at the boy.

And that’s it. I lose it. Despite the fact the bullies have a knife, I rush forward, shouting at them to get away from him. They turn to look at me, and I take advantage of their confusion to twist George’s wrist to make him drop the knife.

I know if they’d seen me coming I’d never have got away with it. “Fuck!” George yells, and I take great satisfaction in knowing he’s in the same pain as the kid must be.

“Leave him alone, you arseholes.” I quickly pick up the knife and stand between the kid and the bullies. Of course Joe can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Look, the nancy has the bum protecting him. Is he one of your bumboys?”

“Just go,” I say, stepping forward, the knife held rock steady in my hand. It’s a miracle, because I’m shaking with fear and adrenaline.

To my relief they leave, but not before spewing more insults. I watch them walk away, making sure they aren’t about to turn around and try again. Joe looks over his shoulder and I wave the knife again. He gives me the finger and turns away.

I look down at the kid. To my surprise, the boy is looking up at me with what looks like anger on his face.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” he yells. “I could have handled them.”

“You’re welcome,” I retort.

“They’re going to kill me now.”

“They were going to kill you before.”

“They only wanted to rough me up a bit. It’s what they do every day.”

I frown at him. “They do this to you every day?” I’d never seen it, but then I’d been avoiding the bullies as well. I feel stupidly guilty that I had been blind to what was happening on my doorstep.

“They wait until I get away from the school and then….”

“And they always threaten you with a knife?”

“That was new. But they wouldn’t have hurt me.”

I scoff at him disbelievingly. “And that’s why you pissed your pants.”

“Joe and George… they’re just idiots.” The kid gets to his feet, pulling a face. I guess the wet trousers are feeling yucky now.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Harry Cooper.”

“I’m Danny.”

Harry nods. “I’ve got to go. Mum’s expecting me home.” He picks up his backpack and looks at me.

“’Kay. You see that bush?” I point to where I sleep.

He nods again, a frown on his face.

“I sleep there. You need me, that’s where I’ll be.” I almost laugh at the look of horror on his face.

“You really are homeless? I thought that was Joe pissing about.”

“Look at me, kid.” I spread my arms out so he can take a good look and watch as he takes in my matted hair, dirty face and clothes.

“I didn’t know. Thanks for helping me.”

“You’re welcome. Bring me a McDonald’s next time.”

He nods and walks away, squelching a little. He turns once to look over his shoulder. I watch him go and then look at the knife. I can’t be caught with something like this. Fortunately the river is nearby and it’s really deep at this point. I tuck it under my jacket and walk to the river, then stand on the bridge to look down at the dark water. I’ve thought about throwing myself off the bridge but I’ve never had the balls to do it. It’s probably not deep enough to kill me anyway, not unless I’m lucky enough to hit my head on a rock. I look around. No one’s in sight, so I wipe the handle of the knife and drop it in. It sinks almost immediately. I hope it doesn’t get caught by the current and resurface downstream.

In the distance, church bells chime out four o’clock. I might as well head back to the shelter for an early dinner. As I walk, I think of the confrontation with the bullies. I get the feeling I’ve made enemies today. I swear under my breath, angry at myself for getting involved. I should know better than to get involved, no matter how cute the gay kid. I’m more worried about the fact the kids have knives and seem prepared to use them. Most kids are all gob. Joe’s like that. George is more dangerous. He follows Joe’s lead, but the fact is, he’d had a knife and seemed prepared to use it.

I can’t help looking over my shoulder more often than normal and feel relieved when I reach the shabby white door of the shelter.

Chapter Three