Chapter 14
The shelter to which she was going to have to make her daily pilgrimage was called Cedar Lodge, although some wag had replaced the E with an I, so now the sign read Cider Lodge. It was in Whitechapel, only one extra stop on the District Line from where she worked. She’d expected some towering monument to charity and good deeds, but this was an ugly prefab box tacked onto the side of an ornate Edwardian terracotta building. Apparently, it was a former psychiatric unit added on to the Barnabus Mission Hospital in the 1960s, during an era in which the recently discovered antipsychotic drugs were seen as the great white hope for curing all mental illness. By the 1980s, these small cottage hospitals had been deemed uneconomic, and the original building had been turned into offices. Its ugly appendage had limped on as a halfway house for people who had recently become homeless, and it offered additional day services to those who had lived on the streets for some time. It was completely unfitting of its modern-day neighbourhood. Whereas the rest of the street had been pimped, preened and pruned into a sweetmeat of middle-class gentrification, this had stayed resolutely untouched. It stuck out less like a sore thumb, and more like a wart-encrusted one on an otherwise perfectly proportioned and beautifully manicured hand. How it hadn’t been pulled down and replaced with trendy apartments was remarkable.
She approached the double doors, their paint flaking to reveal decades of layers beneath, and steadied herself. What the hell lay on the other side? Whatever it was, she’d handle it. Suck it up, get it done, get back to normal. The door swung open without her touching it, and a man emerged. He had prematurely aged skin that reminded her of the paper she used to crumple and stain with tea to look like parchment.
‘Don’t mind me, love.’
The grey blanket around his shoulders might just as well have been made of lead for all he looked crushed by the weight of it.
‘Do you know where the office is, mate?’
Mate?She never called anyone mate.
‘It’s through there, sweetheart.’
She made her way down the corridor and stopped at a door on which a manager placard hung vertically from a single screw. It wobbled when she knocked.
‘Come in,’ acockney accent replied.
She pushed open the door and could immediately see why the sign had tried to make a run for it. It was less ‘office’ and more ‘tip’. It was crammed with desks on which it looked like someone had played Jenga with box files, but then abandoned the game once the towers had fallen. Half of the floor was hidden under small chipboard filing cabinets, presumably unused, and there were piles of archaic computer equipment whose once white plastic casings had turned cream. Light streamed in through a Venetian blind that looked more like shredded paper.
‘I said come in!’
She gingerly stepped into the room.
‘Come where I can see you.’
She inched towards the voice, carefully stepping round the flotsam and jetsam, until she found its source, a muscular spiky-haired woman doing press-ups on the floor.
‘Take the weight off. I’m nearly done.’
She nestled on the edge of a chair, avoiding a pile of newspapers. Her gaze alighted on a half full cup of coffee which had tiny white flotillas of mould on the liquid’s surface.
‘Ninety-eight … ninety-nine … a hundred.’ The woman sprang to her feet.
She wore blue jeans, an open short-sleeved check shirt over a grey vest, and a large man’s watch. Her face was surprisingly feminine, with cupid’s bow lips and soft brown eyes, although the shaved eyebrow slits were doing a good job of drawing attention away from the latter.
‘Feel that!’ She leaned down, flexed her arm, and offered up a sinewy tennis ball of muscle and bulging veins.
‘That’s okay, thanks.’
‘Don’t be shy. Feel it!’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Course not.’
‘Great.’
‘Go on, though.’
Simone reached out and tentatively poked the bicep with a freshly manicured nail.
‘It’s very muscly,’ she said.
‘I know, right?’
The woman thrust out a hand. This was a far better part of the body to be offered. Simone took it.
‘I’m Gay, by the way.’
As if that wasn’t obvious.
‘That’s cool.’
The woman regarded her expectantly. Was she meant to say something else?
‘I don’t have a problem with homosexuality, if that’s what you want to know.’
Still the hand persisted. In fact, there was a fair bit more pressure on it.
‘As in short for Gayle,’ said the woman.
‘Oh, right.’
‘Did you think I was a lesbian?’
The grip tightened.
‘Erm … no?’
Gayle stared at her. ‘So, are you one of these do-gooding, little pony princesses with lovely hair, good intentions, and a pocket full of giving a shit, here to ask about volunteering? Because I can categorically tell you that you won’t last three days.’
Simone stared back and reminded herself that if she could handle Tony, she could handle someone like Gayle. The trick was to show no fear.
‘No. I’m here on community service for kicking a police officer. I’m as close to Mother Theresa as Rasputin is, and I just want this over so I can return to a life of wilful ignorance, hedonistic abandon, and corporate whoredom.’
Gayle released her grip and slapped her hard against the side of the arm. ‘You might just last the week.’ She leaned against the desk. ‘Three rules. No violence. No drinking. No drugs.’
‘Shit,’ said Simone. ‘I might not last the day.’
Gayle raised an appreciative eyebrow. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Simone.’
‘Ah, yeah, Paul said to expect you.’
Paul was her probation officer.
‘Do you have any experience of the homeless?’ Gayle asked.
‘I’ve seen them around.’
‘Is that your attempt at a joke?’
It had been.
‘Interesting. Well, you’re going to need a sense of humour. Do you have any relevant skills?’
‘I work in PR and events.’
‘We’ve got as much use for that as a cock ring at a eunuch convention. Fill out this form then I’ll find you something to do.’
She cast around for a pen and some clear desk space. Neither were forthcoming.
The door opened and a man backed through it, mug in each hand. ‘Hey, Gay. Just got to grab some files.’
‘Simone, this is Jasper.’
Jasper. The only person she’d ever met by that name was…
He swung around. ‘Simone?’
WTAF. It was the guy. That guy. The thatguy guy.
‘You know one another?’ asked Gayle.
‘Jasper once instructed me on the merits of opening my own doors.’
What were the chances of bumping into him again? He looked even hotter than he had three months ago, tight white T-shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, and cute green Nike Blazers adding a pop of colour. His hair was longer than it had been, and a little curl hung down across his forehead.
‘What are you doing here?’ He sauntered over to pass one of the mugs to Gayle. He smelt of cedar wood and citrus. Probably Chanel Bleu.
‘I’m volunteering.’
‘Really? You don’t seem the type.’
‘Why don’t I?’
‘No disrespect, but I suspect there are human traffickers with more empathy.’
Gayle snorted. It was a pretty solid burn.
‘She’s not voluntarily volunteering. She got into some argy-bargy with a police officer.’
‘That sounds more like it. What did he do? Enquire after your health?’
‘No. He was trying to open the door for me.’ She smiled sweetly. So he and his girlfriend (if there was still a girlfriend) definitely hadn’t seen her being led away.
‘Who sent her?’ asked Jasper.
‘Paul,’ said Gayle. ‘I think he’s punishing us.’
‘Hello. I’m right here.’
‘I’m sure we can make some use of her,’ he said.
‘Still here.’
‘The men’s khazis look like a cow with cholera has taken a shit in them,’ said Gayle.
‘I’ll have you know I once worked with disadvantaged teenagers.’
‘Was it offering to buy them booze from the off-licence?’ said Jasper.
‘No.’
It had been. Still, it was worth a try to prove him wrong about her.
‘And what makes you so uniquely qualified to read people?’ she asked him.
‘I’m a psychotherapist.’ The wink he gave her was entirely lacking in flirtation. ‘It’s kind of my job.’
Psychotherapist. That explained a lot.
‘Come on, admit it,’ she said. ‘You’re pleased to see me.’
‘No, it’s true, I am.’
She allowed herself a smug smile.
‘Those toilets really do need a clean. It’s like there’s been an explosion in a Marmite factory.’ He scooped up some files with his free hand and headed for the door. ‘I’d better get on.’
She watched him leave the room. Damn, his arse looked really good in those jeans.
When she dragged her gaze away, Gayle was watching her.
‘You don’t stand a chance, sweetheart.’
‘Who said I’d be interested?’
‘Who are you kidding? There are Orthodox monks that are interested.’
But it wasn’t what Gayle was thinking; not precisely anyway. Sometimes the only thing more annoying than people finding you sexually attractive was people not finding you sexually attractive.
‘Are you listening?’
Gayle had said something.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I said I’m as busy as a cat trying to bury a turd in a concrete floor, so don’t you be adding to my woes. No messing around with the staff. That’s rule number four. Understood?’
Was it too cliched to suggest that he might be gay? Perhaps the woman he’d been with hadn’t been a girlfriend after all. But even a gay man could appreciate the artistry of a beautiful picture, even if he had no interest in nailing it up against a wall.
‘Hello! Is there anybody there?’ Gayle knocked on the desk. ‘I said understood?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you ready for a little tour?’
‘Sure.’
She followed Gayle to the door.
‘For clarity, though, why do you think he wouldn’t be interested?’
‘Darling. You spend money on getting your nails painted to look how nails look when they haven’t been painted.’
She took in her French manicure; she’d never thought about it like that. Still, if it was because he was gay, she’d have said so.
‘This isn’t the la-di-da world of PR. The people you’re going to meet are fighting for their dignity, respect, and basic human needs to be met. The fact that you happened to get lucky with your skin suit counts for nothing around here. And it definitely won’t count for anything with Jasper.’
‘Okay, cool. Good pep talk.’
Gayle led her down a dingy corridor. ‘We’re a small operation, but vital nonetheless. There are sixteen bedrooms, with folks staying with us anywhere between one to six months.’
They entered a sparse magnolia room. On the dark linoleum was a metal bed draped in a blanket the colour of despair. Next to it was a cheap teak-veneered MDF cabinet, its drawer front missing. Some large plastic boxes filled with clothes were piled up against the wall.
‘This is cosy.’
‘Throw cushions aren’t high on the priority list.’
They continued on their tour.
‘There’s a range of reasons why people come to us, the most common being a breakdown in relationships with family. But we do have some here because of substance misuse, gambling, mental health issues and spousal abuse. The four horsemen of the modern apocalypse.’
‘Sounds like a riot.’
‘Everyone’s required to keep their room tidy, but we also clean them once a week. You’ll be helping with that.’
Gayle told her how the building was council-owned, but the shelter was run by a charity, one operating in difficult circumstances as income sources became increasingly hard to come by. ‘Which is why we’ll take whatever help we can get. Even princesses like you.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Just use your loaf, pull all eight stone of your weight, and I won’t get you sent to prison.’
They entered the kitchen where a young woman was removing pans from an industrial dishwasher, clattering them loudly onto the hob of a double-fronted oven.
‘Tasha. This is Simone.’
Tasha stopped for a moment and glanced at her. ‘Another one?’
‘Yep.’
‘They do like to send them.’
She watched as Tasha went back to her pans, her long pink and black braids swinging like ropes. She was wearing a loose black band tee over a short tight jersey skirt. Around her neck was a spiked dog collar, along with multiple silver chains. She had a bullring piercing through her nose, a small hoop through her bottom lip, and two vertical black lines running across the centre of her large dark eyes, like she’d been twice slashed with a Sharpie. She was, presumably, some form of goth or emo, not that she understood the difference. To her they were all just girls being less hot than they could be.
‘Gary’s texted to say he won’t be in,’ Tasha said with an eye roll. ‘Again.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ said Gayle. ‘Lazy bastard.’
‘Yeah. And Fairshare have been delayed. Food won’t be here until this afternoon.’
‘Fuck’s sake! Is there anything in?’
‘Not much.’
Gayle reached into her back pocket and pulled out a wallet. She counted out six pound coins and five twenty pences, and handed them to Simone. ‘I need you to go to the market and pick up enough stuff to feed twenty people.’
‘Do you need me to do a sermon on the mount too?’
She held out her hand for more money, but Gayle’s demeanour made it plain there wasn’t any.
‘Seriously?’
Gayle nodded. ‘Welcome to the real world, darling.’
‘What am I meant to do with this?’
The girl sighed. ‘You should be able to get two big bags of pasta, some garlic, half a dozen onions and five tins of chopped tomatoes. We’ve got dried herbs and spices. I’ll make an arrabbiata.’
She pocketed the cash. She’d barely made it to the end of the corridor, though, when Tasha shouted her back.
‘You’ll need these.’ She held out a couple of bags that looked like they’d been recovered from a litter pick in the grounds of Chernobyl.
‘Err, it’s okay, I’ll pick up some fresh ones.’
Tasha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Err. That’s twenty pence wasted. You’ll use these.’
She was pretty bossy.
‘Err, how about I buy the bags out of my own money?’
She was now having an err-off. Nice vibes. Very mature.
‘Err,’ said the girl. ‘If you want to waste your cash and destroy the environment, be my guest. But you could get a grapefruit for that.’
‘Do you need a grapefruit?’
Tasha defiantly swept her braids behind her shoulder. ‘No, I’m just saying you could.’
She ran her fingers through her own hair. ‘Because if you need a grapefruit, I can get you one.’ She sounded like she was offering the girl outside for a fight.
‘I don’t need one. And besides, we all eat the same thing here.’
‘We?’
Surely the staff were allowed to head out and get their own lunches. She’d been banking on it. There was a little sushi place she’d picked out for lunch that got rave reviews.
‘The residents,’ said Tasha.
This was confusing.
‘You’re not a resident, are you?’
‘What did you think I was?’
‘I assumed you were the cook.’
Tasha tutted. ‘That’s Gary. I help out because he’s got issues. And it keeps me busy. There’s not exactly much else to do around here.’
‘How old are you?’
Tasha lifted her chin. ‘Eighteen. Why?’
She was almost twice the girl’s age, but looking into eyes whose dark rings probably hadn’t solely come from a make-up palette, she sensed there wasn’t such a gulf between them life-experience-wise. A litany of questions welled up in her, but she didn’t dare ask any of them.
‘I should get going,’ she said.
Tasha thrust the bags at her and held her gaze until she took them. She then marched back down the corridor, stopping suddenly at the kitchen door.
‘Go to the second fruit and veg stall on the left. He likes the pretty ladies, that one. You might get a discount.’
She disappeared and Simone deposited the money in her pocket. He’d have to give it away for it to be much cheaper. Still, after Jasper’s point-blank refusal to seem in any way gratified that, of all the homeless joints, in all the boroughs, in all of London, she happened to have moseyed into his, charming a street trader might just help get this day back on track.