It was just a quick jog to the High Street. On the way I stopped under a street lamp to look at what I had in my hand. The wallet was fat snakeskin, the watch was heavy gold, and the loose change was all pound coins and fifty-pence pieces. For once in my short life I’d struck oil.
All the same you don’t break old habits for the sake of one lucky dip, and when I saw all those plump taxpayers doing their late Christmas shopping on the High Street, I stuck out my hand as usual.
“Got any spare change, please?” I said, as always. “For a cup of tea. For a bed for the night. For a hot meal.”
And as always they coughed up like princes or told me to get myself a job. It was nice that night. I perform best when there’s no pressure, and by the time I’d worked my way down to the station, I’d made a nice little pile. But it doesn’t do to loll around and count your takings in public, so I jumped a tube to Paddington.
My sister has this room in Paddington. She lives in Camberwell with her boyfriend, so this room’s just for business. I don’t trust my sister’s boyfriend, but I do trust my sister, up to a point, which was why I went to her business address. You may meet all sorts of funny blokes there, but you won’t meet her boyfriend, and that suits me. It suits him, too, if you want to know the truth: he doesn’t like me any more than I like him.
When we first came down to the city, Dawn and me, we relied on each other; we didn’t have anyone else to turn to. But after she took up with him and he set her up in business, she didn’t need me like she used to, and we drifted apart.
The trouble with Dawn is she always needs a man. She says she doesn’t feel real without one. Feeling real is important to Dawn so I suppose I shouldn’t criticize. But her men have been nothing but a disappointment. You could say I’m lucky to have an older sister like Dawn: she’s an example to me. I’d rather die than turn out like her.
Still, she is my sister, and we’ve been through a lot together. Especially in this last year when we came down to the city together. And before that, when our mum kicked us out, or rather, kicked Dawn out because of the baby. And after that when Dawn’s boyfriend kicked Dawn out because of the baby.
I have never been hungrier than I was last year trying to look after Dawn. She lost the baby in the end, which was a bit of a relief to me. I don’t know how we would have managed if she’d had it. I don’t think she would have coped very well either. It’s much harder to get a man when you’ve got a little baby to look after.
Anyway, that’s all in the past, and now Dawn has business premises in Paddington.
I waited outside until I was sure she was alone, and then I went up and knocked on the door.
“Crystal!” she said when she opened the door. “What you doing here? You got to be more careful-I might’ve had company.”
“Well, you haven’t,” I said. And she let me in, wrinkling her nose and pulling her kimono tight. I don’t like that kimono-it’s all hot and slippery. Since she got her hair streaked, Dawn has taken to wearing colors that would look all right on a tree in autumn but turn her hard and brassy.
“Gawd,” she said, “you don’t half look clatty. Can’t you get your hair cut? That coat looks like it’s got rats living in it.”
I took the coat off, but she didn’t like the one underneath either.
“What a pong,” she said.
“I had a wash last week,” I told her. “But I would like to use your bathroom.” I wanted somewhere private to look at what I’d got off the dead man.
“You can’t stop around here,” she said, worried. “I got someone coming in half an hour.” She looked at her watch.
I sat in her bathroom and looked at the dead man’s watch. It had Cartier written on the face, and it really was proper gold. Quality, I thought, and felt a bit sad. By rights a man with a watch like that shouldn’t end up in the Trenches without a stitch on. Because that’s how he’d be by now, pale and naked in the moonlight. Nobody would recognize him without his coat and suit and shoes. He’d just look like anyone. We’re into recycling in the Trenches.
To cheer myself up I looked at his wallet, and when I counted up I found I had 743 pounds and 89 pence. And I couldn’t use half of it.
Imagine me trying to change a fifty-pound note! There’s a chance in a million a cat with cream on his whiskers milked a cow, but that’s good odds compared to the chance I’d come by a fifty-quid note honestly. I couldn’t even pop the watch. One look at a watch like that and any honest pawnbroker would turn me in. A dishonest one would rip me off quick as a wink. Either way the watch was no good for me.
I borrowed my sister’s toothbrush and had a fast swipe with her deodorant before I joined her again. You never know when you’re going to find clean water next so it pays to make use of what there is.
“Do me a favor, Crystal,” she said, when she saw me. “Bugger off before you frighten the horses.”
“Brought you a Christmas present,” I said and handed her the watch.
“You’re barmy, Crystal.” She stared at the watch like it was a spider in her bed. “Who’d you nick this off?”
“I never,” I told her. “I found it.” And it was true because the feller was dead. It wasn’t as if it was his property because there wasn’t a him anymore for it to belong to. When you’re dead you’re gone. And that’s final. Dead men don’t own watches.
Even with a Christmas present, Dawn wouldn’t let me stop for the night. It’s a funny thing, if I hadn’t had 743 pounds, 89 pence in my pocket, I wouldn’t have wanted to. If it had just been the 89 pence, I’d’ve been quite happy sleeping out.
But having things is dangerous. Having things makes you a mark. It’s like being pretty. If you don’t believe me, look at Dawn. She’s pretty and she’s been a mark from the time she was eleven. Being pretty brought her nothing but trouble. She’s always had to have someone to protect her. I’m glad I’m not pretty.
There’s a hospital down the Harrow Road so I went there. I couldn’t decide what to do, so I sat in Casualty till they chucked me out. It’s a pity there aren’t more places you can go and sit in at night to have a quiet think. It’s hard to think on the hoof, and if you are cold or hungry, thinking is not on your mind at all.
It seemed to me, after a while, that the best place to go was where I slept last night. Some might say it was a daft idea to go back to a place that was rousted, but I thought if the police had been there last night, it would be deserted tonight.
Twenty-seven Alma-Tadema Road is a condemned house. They say it’s unsafe. There are holes in the roof and holes in the floors, but it is perfectly safe if you are sober, tread carefully, and don’t light fires. That was what went wrong last night: we had a couple of winos in, and one of them got cold just before daybreak.
When I got there, I saw that they had nailed more boards across the front door and downstairs windows. I could get in, but it would take time. There were still people up and about so, to be on the safe side, I would have to come back later if I wanted more than a few minutes’ kip.
I walked on past and went down to the Embankment. It is quite a long walk, and by the time I got there I was hungry. Actually, I’m hungry all the time. Dawn says she thinks I must have worms and I probably do, but mostly I think it’s just my age. Someone like Bloody Mary does almost as much walking as I do, but she doesn’t seem to need half the fuel. She stopped growing years ago.
There are a lot of women like Bloody Mary, but I mention her because she was the one I picked up on the Embankment that night, huffing and puffing along with her basket on wheels.