Who is doggy bag in stone cold

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For one thing, my client was a female. I can take them or leave them, as a matter of fact. Manky, she was — you could see the grime on her neck from across the road — and there she was, stepping out of the hotel like a bleeding duchess or something. Anyway, I let her get a little way down the road before tapping her on the shoulder.

I looked the part in my suit and trenchcoat. There was a look in her eyes like a hunted animal. I went to the toilet. I told you — I needed the toilet. I was only there for a minute.

Looking as she did, she must have stuck out like a sore thumb in there. I judged it was time to pull my master stroke. I eyed her up and down, speculatively. I could see the dawn of hope in her eyes. Taxi back to my place. Dry clothing Tomato soup. Eternal oblivion.

They look so sweet, the two of them side by side, that I keep going down for another look. I must be getting soft. I trudged along Pentonville Road, peering into doorways and the entrances to office blocks. My left wrist felt naked without the watch and I added the scouser to my hit list. Rat-face and the scouser.

I was going to turn into a serial killer if I went on at this rate. After a bit I came to a doorway which was both deep and unoccupied. I dodged into it and stood there, wondering whether I dare doss down. Somebody big, like the scouser? Suppose he showed up and took a fancy to my pack, my bed-roll, and demanded them?

Or he might just knife me and take them. Anyway, I was dead tired. I had to get my head down somewhere, and wherever I went there was going to be this same doubt. I heard these footsteps and thought, keep going. Go past. The footsteps stopped and I knew he was looking down at me. I opened my eyes. He was just a shadow framed in the doorway. Stupid question. What I should have said was piss off. I wondered how big he was.

It felt good to be with someone. There were two of us. Where you from? Not to anybody. Clean break, right? Fresh start. He laughed again. I mean, really hungry? Well, when you are, smoking helps.

Dulls the pain a bit. You hungry now, Ginger? Why — you got grub? Not hungry. I opened my pack and groped about till I found the bar. He was pretty hungry at that. You could tell.

My first thought was that Ginger had changed his mind and wanted me out of his bedroom, but then my mind cleared and I knew it was the police. I sat up. It was still dark, and bitterly cold as I began to peel off my sleeping-bag.

There were two officers — a man and a woman. Ginger picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. I thought they were going to arrest us or something, but as soon as we were packed and on our feet they moved off, shining their torches into doorways as they went. Ginger shook his head. About six, probably. Get us up, I mean. It was warm and glaringly bright inside and smelled so good I practically drooled.

We were the only customers. We bolted doner and slurped coffee and talked. Ginger asked me what I planned to do. I told him I was looking for work while waiting for the DSS to come to a decision about my case. Foregone conclusion. Nobody cares, see? Nobody gives a toss. All day, every day. And do you know what the Sun says — the Sun and three or four other tabloids? They say we trick the punters out of their change all day and go home to our mums at night with forty, fifty quid in our pockets, and it all goes on drink and drugs.

It was a raw morning with a sneaky wind which came out of side streets and went right through you. I thought Ginger was looking for a good spot to sit — somewhere out of the wind with plenty of passers-by, but we just kept walking. This weather, gotta keep moving. Now and then Ginger would change course too and intercept some guy. For something to do, I began studying their various responses.

Some assumed angry expressions, compressing their lips and sweeping by as though grossly insulted. Now and then though, somebody would fork out a few coppers. The givers came in two types — the disdainful and the apologetic. The apologetic type would look embarrassed and fumble out a fistful of coins, saying something like. One such giver glanced at me with a worried expression, as though wondering whether he should have given to me, too.

We covered some miles that morning, trudging half frozen down Tottenham Court Road and on to Shaftesbury Avenue. He chuckled. We can take the weight off our feet, get out of this wind.

You can get your head down in a pew if you want, in the daytime. Locked at night, though. It was lovely inside — white and gold and clean looking, with vases of flowers and polished woodwork. The only person in there was a battered wino who sat hunched in a pew near the back, muttering to himself. He took no notice of us as we walked down the aisle, slipped into a pew and shrugged off our packs.

It was a relief to sit down, and great to be out of the icy wind. We can have cheese rolls for lunch, Link old son. They do an outstanding cheese roll here. I pay, you fetch. I was happy, I guess, right then. I had a friend, a full belly and a roof over my head. Who could ask for more? Daily Routine Orders 8. It has happened again, i was on my way to inspect theatreland when two dossers approached me. One — the scruffier of the two — asked me for change. I responded in my usual way, and as I passed on I distinctly heard them laughing.

I never forget a face, and our next meeting will prove far more amusing for me than for them. By golly it will. Tell you what — you try outside the National Gallery. Some were sitting on the steps in spite of the cold.

Ginger left me there. I watched him merge with the crowd, then turned my attention to the business of the day. It was hard at first. Really hard. I stood, watching people pass, trying to spot a likely punter. It was futile, of course. Finally, I steeled myself and asked a guy at random. I wasted the next five minutes feeling hurt. I asked myself how it was possible for a person to be sensitive to the beauty of fine art, and at the same time insensitive to the feelings of a fellow creature.

I took it personally, which is fatal. After a while I realized this and began choosing guys and women at random, expecting nothing, telling them to have a nice day whether they gave or refused. I blunted the point of my own sensitivity in the flinty soil of their indifference till I too became indifferent, and after that it was easier.

I worked till the Gallery closed, standing sometimes, sometimes sitting on the steps. I stumped across to the Square and found Ginger slumped on a bench. He looked up as I approached. We ended up in the doorway of a shop called China-craft on the Strand, huddled in our bags, waiting for the Vaudeville Theatre to close.

Deep ones. I hesitated and he chuckled, exhaling smoke. So you pick your spot. It might be a bit cramped, too — shop doorways often are. Settled for the night? Well maybe, maybe not. Remember my first night? The Scouser? He kicked me out of my bedroom and pinched my watch. Well, that sort of thing can happen any night, and there are worse things. You could be peed on by a drunk or a dog. You might be spotted by a gang of lager louts on the lookout for someone to maim.

That happens all the time too, and if they get carried away you can end up dead. So, you lie listening. You bet you do.

Breathing, even. What bruises? Try lying on a stone floor for half an hour. Just half an hour. You can choose any position you fancy, and you can change position as often as you like. Try sleeping on concrete then. And in January, in a doorway, in wet trainers, it can be quite a struggle.

And those are only some of the hassles. You lie on your bruises, listening. Trying to warm your feet. You curl up on your side and your hip hurts, so you stretch out on your back so your feet stay cold and the concrete hurts your heels. Your pack feels like a rock under your head and your nose is cold. You wonder what time it is. Can you stop listening now, or could someone still come? Distant chimes. You strain your ears, counting. Did I miss a chime? Sounds like breathing. Heavy breathing, as in maniac.

Lie still. Is he still there? Silence now. Creeping up, perhaps. Jeez, my feet are cold. A thought out of nowhere — my old room at home. My little bed. No sleep that way. Somebody could be asleep in that room right now. Warm and dry. Lucky sod. Remember that time in Whitby — fish and chip caff? Long, sizzling haddock, heap of chips like a mountain. So many, you had to leave some. Wish I had them now. Wonder if she wonders where I am? How would she feel if she knew? I miss you, Mum. Do you miss me?

Does anybody? Chimes again. Quarter past. Quarter past one? Are they considering my claim? Snug as a bug in a rug. Do they know what it feels like, kipping in a doorway? And so it goes on, hour after hour. Now and then you doze a bit, but only a bit.

I walked all the way back to the DSS next morning and Ginger was right. I was dirty, cold and hungry and my feet were killing me. I was so tired I could hardly string a coherent sentence together. In the end I gave up and went and sat under a bridge in an icy draught. Ginger had given me two fags, so I cadged a light and smoked them both, lighting the second off the first. When the fags were gone I counted my dosh and found I was down to four quid — four pounds sixteen pence if you want it exact.

I was desperate for something to eat and also needed a lavatory, so I set off hoping to find a hot-dog stand or something. I trailed back to the Needle and this time Ginger was there, sitting on his pack with a dustbin bag draped over his head and shoulders. Four hundred quid.

It was dusk already. Full of raving head- cases. Spent a night in one once — scared me to death. No — I was thinking of Captain Hook. Three is a significant number. It crops up in all sorts of places. Three cheers. The Three Musketeers. If I had three wishes. Three blind mice. The Blessed Trinity. The three armed services. The three little pigs. A significant number. I have three recruits now. It was about It was an unpleasant evening — wind and sleet — exactly the sort of evening one needs in my line of work.

He was a miserable looking creature — thin and round-shouldered with rat-tails of greasy hair halfway down his back. It was fairly dry there and it was obvious he was setting up a billet for the night. Oh, yes. I shrugged, putting on my best apologetic grin. Eats better too. No catch. Breakfast, too. Mornington Place. Know it? No work there, eh? No chance. I tried the Army first. I was genuinely interested now.

Thick sods bawling at you all day long. Telling you what to do. And the grub — Jesus! So I bought myself out. I was magnificent. Thick sods, indeed! I told myself, watch this one. Soft sod squatted down on my kitchen floor to fondle the ruddy animal and I let him have it with the Kit-E-Kat tin.

Well — trained to kill, see. Know the exact spot to go for. That lad looks a hundred per cent better with a short back and sides. His mum would be proud of him. So I fetched a coffee from the pizza bar and we shared it and Ginger told me about Captain Hook.

He has a better idea. Floating doss-houses, right? Dry kips, out of the wind, safe from crazies, no hassle from the fuzz — three quid a night. So he rips out all the fittings to maximise floor space or deck space or whatever, and works out he can cram sixty kids on each boat — all under cover.

Six boats. One thousand and eight quid a night. Fire and that? Out of the weather for once? Sells the paper. The Big Issue. Sells it at fifty p, gets to keep thirty. Two lost boys, off to the never-never land. He was sitting on a folding canvas chair wearing wellies, a waxed jacket, a muffler, a knitted cap and gloves with the fingers cut out.

He had a smooth, pink complexion and pale eyes and looked about thirty- five. When he smiled, as he did when he grabbed our dosh, he showed very small, very even white teeth. He stuffed the notes into a bulging wallet which he returned to an inside pocket.

Probyn showed his teeth again. Then he pointed to the nearest of his boats, moored fore and aft to bollards on the bank. You went through a narrow door and it hit you —the stench of too many damp, unwashed bodies, too much lingering flatulence.

There were three steps down and then you were falling over sleepers, looking for a space in the poor light from a paraffin lamp which dangled unlawfully from the deckhead. We found a sliver of unoccupied floorspace and bedded down, drawing grunts and curses from those we kicked and elbowed in doing so. The boat rocked very gently on the water, and once you stopped noticing the smell the whole thing was quite pleasant.

It was terrific while it lasted, but waking up was a drag. Has it ever struck you how much money people waste buying crap? I never really noticed till that Saturday after our night on the boat, when me and Ginger walked round the market. Candles, for Chrissake. Money to burn. Breaks my heart how they chuck it away. Makes you weep. We used the lavatories and had a proper wash. Ginger even washed out a pair of Y-fronts he produced from his pack.

People were in and out all the time but nobody paid us any attention. I must have used about sixteen paper towels drying myself but I felt a whole lot better afterwards. Ginger knows them and calls out and they come and sit with us. Two guys and a girl, all with packs and that grey, zombie look you get from living on the street.

Where you been? I sit gazing into my tea, feeling — what? Apprehension, certainly. Have acquaintances in common. They know what he knows. What if he ditches me — goes off with them? If I was alone again, could I stand it? Do I know enough to get by? A name comes up. A jokey name. Doggy Bag. This closes the subject and the chat moves on, leaving me wondering how a guy gets a name like that. They get up eventually, shrugging on their packs.

We do the same. None of us wants to leave. I know it sounds daft. I mean, I never knew the guy. Never even met him, but what I started thinking was this. Daily Routine Orders I do believe the mountain has come to Mohammed. Remember the two dossers I told you about — the ones who laughed at me in the Haymarket?

I mean. A lot of these dossers get together in twos, threes and fours and stick together. They might separate in the daytime — one might have to go to the DSS or somewhere — but at night they huddle together for warmth or protection or whatever.

Loners is what you look for in my line of business. The last days of January were a swine. I nearly went back to Vince. I mean it. It snowed every day so the pavements were thick with slush, and nothing gets inside a pair of trainers like slush can. Night after night, frost turned the slush to grey iron and crept into our damp bedding to stiffen footwear and make sleep impossible.

It had the opposite effect. Everybody slogged grimly by and their hands never left their pockets unless they were wearing gloves. Nobody stopped. We grew hungry. Really hungry. We tried everything — stamping our feet, running on the spot, blowing into our hands, huddling together in the subway. It was no use. All we could do was keep moving through sleepless nights and days that merged into one another till we no longer knew what day it was or whether it was morning or evening.

He said you had to put non-alcoholic because people seldom give to winos. We stood on raw feet for hours outside various hostels, but there were always hundreds of kids and we never got a bed.

I started hallucinating. The walk would keep us from hypothermia, and the Sally Army came round about midnight with soup or sandwiches. My clothes were sodden rags. Tapping got a bit easier too. Not easy, but easier. The day Ginger vanished. It began like any other day. We woke in a doorway when it was still dark, packed our gear and went for some coffee.

I did, though. It hurt like hell. I spent the day trailing up and down the High Street, tapping. It was cold and blustery, but dry. Smack and crack. I looked at it every time I passed. At five thirty I stopped walking up and down. Some of the shops were just closing so I sat down in a doorway from which I could watch the station. I could see the clock, so I kept an eye on that, too.

Laughing Boy One. That was the code name of the exercise. In a well-regulated army, every operation is followed by a thorough de-briefing. First, my intelligence work. Who did link fall in love with? Gail Shelter Toya Ginger. Progress: 5 of 10 questions. What did shelter steal off link? Watch Bag Glasses Water. Progress: 6 of 10 questions. Why did link jump over the turnstiles? He need a wee He needed a poo he needed a wash he wanted to sit in the toilets. Progress: 7 of 10 questions.