It is still dark when he leaves over the palings. His only thought: to get the body warm. He lounders along the pavements until the cafes are open, then goes into one for a cup of tea. The man is clear annoyed when he pays up, because he’s been sat there that long with just the single mug, but so what, it’s no like the place is mobbed with customers, so get to fuck, pal. A walk. The minimarket. Enough on his tail for an egg sandwich, but he gives the drink a bye, because that’s the last of his money.
It isn’t a bad sandwich in truth, for the price, anyway. No a bad spot by the water either, although as he approaches it now, he can see that somebody else has took it. A fat man in a suit, an empty sandwich case on his lap, just sat there. He walks past and keeps going along the pavement. Just a bench. It doesn’t matter. There’ll be plenty more down the water. But he can’t help looking back, the fat cunt lounging there with his arm stretched over the top of the bench like he thinks he’s got the invisible woman nestled in with him. Stupit, being angry about it. Pure ridiculous. But there you go. This guy has messed up his routine. And see as well he’s probably got some warm office nearby that he’s supposed to be in, with heaters and secretaries and the bloody whisky bottle stashed away in the drawer.
He is stood now, a way off, watching the man, who is fine well aware he’s being looked at. He’s kidding on he can’t see him but. Sat defiant and unmoving, the arm stretched out. Go on, ye cunt, look at me. Think I give a fuck, eh? And now he is getting up, clearly displeased about the whole situation, the poor chap, giving him the ball bearings as he departs, but so what, serious, so what? He’s glad. The wee battles you have to win. Good fucking to win one at last. He gets sat down and watches the man away down the pavement, the two great saddlebags shifting above his belt with each step.
A tugboat pulling into a wharf on the other side of the river. WASTE MANAGEMENT, one of the containers says on it. Twelve of them, he counts, full of what — binbags? Chemicals? Household tollies? Where does it all go, that’s what you’ve got to wonder, where does it go to?
A man and a woman are stood in front of him. He has been asleep. The sky is gone darker, car headlights beading over a bridge, and he is hungry. They are talking. Smiling at him. He tries to get sat up, no the strength to move away, warn them off, and they are staying there, giving it this constant gentle patter to him — blankets. . our Lord. . sandwich table. He pulls his bag onto his lap. Food. They are talking about food. Cruel, cruel bastards. They know. It’s all wired together somehow: the bank and the council and the electricity board and the auld bint in the minimarket. Now these pair. We have been informed as to your penniless situation and so are come the now to stick the boot on. The man is pointing down the road — see the big building there? It’s the car park behind it. More smiles from both, and they are away. Nobody else about for miles. Where do they spring from? One minute you’re asleep, and the next they’ve suddenly appeared from out the river and they’re offering you sandwiches.
It is colder, and his left leg has got the shakes, a wee trembling that doesn’t stop even when he presses down on it. Across the water, the power station is lit up. Something unearthly about it, holding him there, as if in a trance, unable to move, or think, or feel, until the stomach cramps and he is pulled back out of it.
There is a shooting pain in the trembly leg as he walks. He focuses on it, anticipating the short sharp jab each time he steps forward.
A passageway after the building, and through it, a car park. There is a minibus in the centre of it, with a trestle table pushed up against the open back doors. Bodies milling about. He stays in the passageway and watches. There is a group of four or five battered figures huddled on one side of the table. A short way off, a few others, all holding polystyrene cups. His blood is thumping; he steps back, against the wall of the passageway. An urge to bark out laughing moves through him, but it dies in his throat and he presses his palms hard against the wall, forcing them into the firm rough stone. He cannot do this. Better to starve than this, and he turns his face from the car park, starting out of the passageway and onto the street, back toward the river.
He keeps going, following the flow of the water. Now what? A pure aching need for a drink, but obviously that’s out the question. The only option is to keep walking, or go back to the pub yard. He is actually that hungry the thought comes to him he could go through the bins. He stops. A car slowing down as it goes past him, coming to a halt at a traffic lights. He needs to eat. He needs to eat — it’s that simple.
There are more of them arrived, stood in two groups further into the car park, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the table, steering toward it. He hurries on. A few people stood behind the table in big coats, one of them leaning forwards, smiling. He keeps his head down, doesn’t look him in the face. There are cheese sandwiches on a plate, biscuits, crisps, fruit, a bowl of pasta. He clears his throat. ‘A sandwich please.’ The man puts one on a paper plate, then shakes a few crisps on the side, like a picnic. ‘Would you like some soup?’ Mick nods. He is handed a cup. ‘Thanks,’ he says, and moves round the other side of the minibus.
He wolfs the sandwich and crisps, although the soup is too hot to swallow down quickly. Why is he stood there anyway but? He could go. No like he’s bloody beholden or anything, but still he stays put, staring into the side of the minibus, trying to get the soup finished and already it’s too late, a woman coming round the side, approaching him. He watches her over the top of his cup, his shoulders tensing.
‘Hello.’ She stands there just, no saying anything, smiling. Obvious it’s some kind of a ploy to make him talk. He stays quiet though, the cup held up to his mouth.
‘Good soup?’
He nods his head.
‘We always try to have a soup on. Especially nights like this.’
The roof of his mouth is scalding. Some noise on the other side of the minibus.
‘Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?’
‘No,’ he says, mainly because he can’t be bothered acting it.
She starts going in her coat pockets. ‘Here.’ Handing him a piece of paper. ‘This has the address of one of our winter shelters which is open tonight. It’s just off this main road, actually. Not far.’ She smiles, and he takes a big gulp of soup, watching as she slips the hand into her pocket again.
‘Do you have a faith?’
‘No.’
She is unperturbed. ‘Well, take one of these anyway. Something to read through, if nothing else.’ And she holds out leaflets of what look like Bible scriptures. He doesn’t take them, but she has turned round anyway, distracted by whatever’s going on past the minibus. Some kind of scuffle is broke out. She starts toward it, and he moves forward as well, by instinct, looking what’s going on. Some kind of argle-bargle between the two groups; facing off to each other, lots of shouting and birling about. One of the figures steps forward and there is a surge of excitement in the group behind him — ‘Do the soup, do it, do the soup. . go on, fuck off back to Warsaw’ — and a soup cup is thrown, the liquid arching through the air. A melee starting, the Christians softfooting up to it, and he takes his opportunity to go; he puts his plate and cup on the ground and is away.
The cardboard was took out during the day and possibly he is going to die here, sat up against the iceberg generator. Both legs are shaking now, and his face is that frozen the teeth have gave up chattering. Instead, a random spasm of his jaw each few minutes, the two sets of teeth crashing together, so that by this point he’s got toothache as well; no part of him wanting to miss out. He is past caring though. Nothing is real any more, even the pain. All that exists is the cold.