Just My Luck(7)

‘Weird how?’

Dad doesn’t directly answer, he says, ‘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.





5


Toma


Wednesday, 6th February

‘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.

Street. Widower. Immigrant.

He stared at her, the woman asking the question. She looked kind enough, concerned. He had learnt the importance of making quick character judgements. 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 been 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 spat 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 towards 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 Citizen’s 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 patronising, take offence. 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 smelt 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 smelt of damp and faeces, 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 smelt worse, death smelt worse – the sensory assault is accepting that the smell is made by another human being. A fellow human being.

People who have been on the streets for days or weeks, rather than months, smell 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.