Derelict Dignity

31-12-2023

11.30 pm

The old theatre's ornate stone pillars stood guard, clinging on defiantly to the grandeur they once owned, barely maintaining their dignity in a town that had long since given up on hers. Stained white steps lay frozen, spilling down to the black pavement like bones in a tarmac graveyard. Drifts of hard snow tucked themselves away in icy corners, out of reach of the steely wind that patrolled the narrow Victorian streets. The sickly flash of a neon-lit kebab shop opposite made the boarded-up entrance come alive, then die. Alive, then die.

Two frail bodies lay under a pile of cardboard, motionless in the derelict doorway, invisible to the world.

11.33 pm

Morris took a final swig of the foul-tasting vodka, draining the bottle. Savoring the warmth travel down his throat, he clutched at the stained sleeping bag he called home. Peeping through the broken zip, he lay perfectly still, listening to his ragged breathing. Deep lines on his yellowing skin betrayed his age, he had three teeth missing, two broken ribs and a mop of white mattered hair hidden beneath a filthy wool hat. He wore a threadbare tuxedo complete with a black bow tie. Thirty years had passed since the theatre lowered its curtain for the final time. Thirty years had passed since he lost his job as live-in manager and thirty years had passed since Morris started sleeping on the street.

"Hang on in there, it's nearly midnight," he whispered, gently squeezing the little dog closer to his chest. Kissing her head, he could feel her tiny ribs as she struggled to fight off the cold. Her disheveled fragile body trembling with hunger.

11.35 pm

Raised voices echoed against red terraced houses that ran alongside the canal as groups of revelers spilled onto the once cobbled streets, their footsteps and laughter drifting towards the clocktower. Morris had learnt only too well to lay still at this time of night, let alone New Year's Eve. He traced a nicotine-stained finger along the scar on his cheek. He felt lucky to have it. As they painstakingly removed shards of glass from his face, the paramedics had told him an inch lower he would have been dead. It was the same night the scruffy little dog chose him. Waiting for him, curled up on his sleeping bag, the blue lights of the ambulance reflecting in her deep brown eyes. One of the paramedics, a round-faced man called Steve, named her Hope.

11.40 pm

On the other side of town, the silence was broken as the last train rocked steadily into the station.

The fine line between reality and theatre blurred many years ago. Since losing everything, Morris had found front-row seats every night at the best theatre in town. And every night the wonderful and talented performers put on splendid shows. Many of them tragic, some of them funny, all of them—in Morris's opinion— BAFTA worthy. The last time he truly returned to reality was as the jagged beer bottle, thrust at him with such unfounded adolescent rage, punctured his skin. Even up until that point, he was thrilled with the gritty performance of the group of young thespians who stood before him. How could actors so young have mastered their craft so early? The youngest, Morris guessed, was barely a teenager. He found himself transfixed, totally absorbed, unable to move as every good audience should be when the theatre is that raw. Moments before the adrenaline and morphine carried him away, he touched reality briefly, feeling the anger. Seeing it for the first time in years in the faces of the gang who had climbed the steps to punish whatever lay beneath the cardboard. Challenging each other like rutting stags, until one of them succumbed to the thrill of beating another human being.

He made sure he never felt reality again.

11.45 pm

A disorderly queue was forming outside the kebab shop. Morris had spent his whole life observing other people. He watched as a young couple, entangled in each other, staggered into the shadows of the score that led to the river. Their hunger for food overwhelmed by their hunger for one another.

"Showtime!" He croaked, his cracked lips uttering the words with no sound.

"A juicy romance?" . . . Or maybe a murder mystery? . . . No one saw them leave, and the water will be freezing at this time of year." He blinked, wide-eyed at the prospect. His memory trawling back through hundreds of shows, standing backstage, invisible, in awe of the talent before him under the bright lights. A quick movement in the door of the kebab shop caught his eye. The queue parted and a small, portly, middle-aged man in a t-shirt two sizes too small and jeans two sizes too big, hit the icy pavement.

Morris straightened slightly, wincing, his ribs reminding him they weren't fully healed. The little dogs' ears straightened at his movement.

"Drama this time Hope, we like a good drama." He muttered, clenching in a wheezy cough.

Kebab meat, salad leaves and bits of chopped tomato scattered across the frozen street. In the shop doorway stood the silhouette of the owner, his face lit up in neon rage. A man Morris had come to know as Yusuf. He had played the main character in many a show. Morris was astounded at how realistic he made the fight scenes look. Muscular tattooed arms folded across his chest, he shouted at the crowd in broken English, capturing the accent exceptionally well—Morris thought. His words cut through the bitter night air. Morris understood enough to know it was the final scene. Closing time.

The portly little man pulled himself up onto all fours, oblivious of the blood seeping from a graze on his forehead.

"Fabulous make-up, bravo!" Morris slurred.

Focused only on scraping together the remains of his food, he clumsily stuffed it back into the polystyrene container and shuffled off into the night without looking over his shoulder.

1-1-2024

12.01 am

A flock of white pigeons, startled from their bell tower roost, circled high above the rooftops, their wings clapping in the new year.

The crowd drifted away. Tiny snowflakes began to fall whirling uncontrollably around the street lights as if drawn to their glow. Morris remained silent. Still. Numb. He watched Yusuf sweep the street outside his shop. The bells from the church tower continued to call out their song, welcoming in the new year with every chime. A woman laughed somewhere, her shrill voice bouncing along the terraces, rattling the windows as it went. A solitary Owl called out across the churchyard in response. Then silence.

Morris felt himself relax slightly as the curtain came down on another day. On another year. The little dog's body relaxed in unison. The numbing hunger inside them both relentless. They allowed their eyes to close.

The sickly flash of a neon-lit kebab shop opposite made the boarded doorway come alive, then die. Alive, then die. Then it went off. In the darkness, the freezing wind and snow waited patiently in the wings before crawling onto the stage and swallowing them up.

Two frail bodies lay under a pile of cardboard, motionless in the derelict doorway, invisible to the world.

There would be no encore.