As I walked away leaving everything I possessed behind me, even in my hungover state I could feel the chill of the January air and went back and grabbed my thick overcoat from the hall. As I walked back down the path and reached the road I noticed a locksmith’s van draw up. There was no chance of sneaking back in later when they’d gone.
Being drunk before most people have finished their breakfast makes you feel indestructible. It leaves you vulnerable. I really hadn’t thought it through. I left my mobile, although nobody would take my calls anyway, and I left my keyring with photos of those I treasured. I also left my dignity behind.
As the drink wore off, it was replaced with both fear and the reality of my situation; I was on the streets with nowhere to call home and no address to return to.
By mid-morning the whisky bottle was empty. The cold air had made my nose run and as I searched my coat pockets for a tissue I found a ten-pound note and some loose change left from a purchase I’d long forgotten about. The two local pubs had barred me weeks earlier, so my next stop was the local corner shop where I’d spent so much on booze I should probably have owned the place.
As if the day hadn’t already been shitty enough, I’ll never forget going up to the counter clutching a bottle of cheap booze and noticing the newspaper headline telling me David Bowie had died.
With my next drink of the day, I raised my bottle to him.
R.I.P. Starman.
My unexpected bonus wouldn’t run to a second bottle, so I headed towards the town centre to find a cash machine to extract some money. However, it seemed Barclays had other ideas as both the credit cards I put in didn’t return. All I got was a brief message, something about the bank needing to retain them.
And it wasn’t even lunchtime.
I needed somewhere to think things over, so I headed for the local park and found a bench. It must have been especially reserved for me as no one else wanted to use it.
After about an hour, a Police Community Support Officer passed by. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t stay here. You’ll need to move.” He was probably only a few days into the job and yet there he was telling me, a former police detective, what to do. At that moment, my brain took it in. Former. A past-tense word. I wasn’t sure if this was reality or a nightmare from which I would soon wake up.
As I pissed my pants, and the initial warmth of the trickle turned to discomfort, I knew the answer. Welcome to a new kind of theme park – reality land.
Thoughts were running around in my head: Where could I go? How would I pass the hours? What would I do after the shops closed? Where would I spend the night? Where could I get food? Where was my next drink coming from?
I’d gone from a highly respected Detective Inspector to a down-and-out homeless drunk. Well done, James!
But if I thought things had hit rock bottom, boy, was I in for a nasty surprise.
I didn’t know it yet, but this was only the beginning.
Lucky me!
Chapter Four
JAMES
The shop opposite where I’m sitting is a jewellers, and above the name of ‘Hurst & Co., established in 1923’, is a large brass clock with Roman numerals. It’s exactly 5.55pm now. I’ll give it till six. If I don’t get any more ‘donations’, I’ll wander up to the spot near the Market Square cash machine. I once got five pounds from an elderly couple who took pity on me. That’s the most I’ve ever been given in one go.
I’m about to leave when a young man I recognise as someone who often leaves me a donation, walks past without so much as a glance. Suddenly, he stops, turns round, walks back, and drops me a two-pound coin. “There you go, mate. Buy yourself a Lotto ticket. It’s a jackpot tonight – you might get lucky.” As he walks away he turns and gives me a nice smile and a ‘good luck’ thumbs up sign.
Two or three times a week he’ll drop me a fifty pence or a pound coin and once or twice he’s even handed me a sandwich and hot coffee. He appears to be in his late twenties. Perhaps he’d spent time on the streets when he was younger? Whatever the reason, I’m grateful to him.
I now have a total of three pounds as just after ‘Lotto Boy’, a young girl, obviously on her way home from working in either an office or shop, drops twenty pence and with a soft voice says, “I’m sorry, it’s all I can spare.” Thank you, whoever you are. I’ll take whatever I can get and I’m grateful to you for speaking to me like a human being. The thing is, some days this spot can be good and I end up with between ten and fifteen pounds but today, even before the weather took a turn for the worse, no one seems to be noticing me, or at least they pretend not to. One of the worst things is people avoiding eye contact. If you don’t want to give me money, I’ll settle for a smile.
The clock above Hurst & Co. has just chimed six times and the doorway doesn’t provide a great deal of protection. When the wind picks up, the rain comes down at an angle, and it’s difficult to shelter. So I’ve decided, all things considered, now might be a good time to try a new spot and I walk up to the cash machine on the Market Square.
Taking this route leads
