Tramp

He huddled in a bus-shelter in an anonymous street in an equally anonymous city. 

Arthur hadn’t been asleep long when purposeful kicking roused him.

 ‘You can’t stay there! You’ll have to move on!’ The voice belonged to the hazy figure crouched over Arthur.

‘But where do I have to go?’ Arthur turned to take the sight of the figure into full focus. 

‘I really don’t know where you’ll go – I only know you can’t stay here.’

‘Can you spare a couple of bob? Just for a cup of tea.’

‘No! Now move on!’ A tinge of anger in the tone of the police officer.

Arthur shuffled to his feet and walked out into the rain. The teeming water began to soak through the hole in Arthur’s trilby causing him to shiver as the water found its way down the nape of his neck.

He passed through the crowd all milling around, dashing to work or to an early lunch. An old woman looked at him, was that scorn or remorse etched into her old, wrinkled features? 

‘Any money, old lady?’ Arthur asked in a sharp tone.

She didn’t answer. 

Arthur looked at the tall man with a wide umbrella. ‘I had one of those once, yes, once. Got a few bob for a cup of tea, sir?’

The tall man ignored the request. 

‘Sod you, sir. I had a big umbrella once.’ 

The police officer ambled toward Arthur and the tall man ‘Is he causing a nuisance, sir?’

‘No, officer – my umbrella was bigger than his.’ Arthur replied, smiling. 

‘Not you. This gentleman. Now if you don’t move on I’ll have to take you in. Now get on with you.’

 ‘Here, you scabby prick, eat this!’ A young woman spoke to him from inside a shop doorway. 

Arthur almost skipped to her. ‘You have some leftovers?’

She spat into the almost eaten sandwich and passed it to Arthur. He ate heartily. She retched as she watched him - he smiled rubbing his abdomen. 

A city is a place of evil come nightfall. Young thugs would be out. 

Drunken thugs. They were the best – always dropping good food into the bins. 

Thugs they were though - they would give you a good kicking if they had had a fight with their girlfriend.

Old Maggie would be around soon. She would bring some tea. Good old girl was Maggie, thought Arthur. She came around almost every night. Sometimes she had been able to acquire out of date food from a supermarket or shop. She handed the food and tea out for free to those who lived on the streets – it was her way of charity, her way of making a difference in a world that had become uncaring. 

Arthur stopped as he saw the first of many discarded beer cans. He bent slowly to pick it up. He put his nose to the opening of the can, taking in a deep breath. He had acquired a skill for sensing if the beer had leftover cigarette butts inside. He could drink the liquid and catch the stubs in his teeth before he swallowed them. 

Night crawled by, tonight had been good pickings for Arthur. Four half-full cans – two with a swig and some quite full cigarette butts. Now was the time of night to find a hideaway, somewhere to get some shut-eye after finishing off the free beer. 

The shop doorway looked inviting – even if he could claim a few hours sleep - that would be enough. He wrapped the long sheepskin coat around his body as much as he could. His tired eyes followed a few of the headlights of the late traffic as they sped by. Sleep came to him no matter how cold he was.

The warm liquid woke him. As his eyelids stubbornly parted, a splash of the warm fluid hit him in the face and quickly they closed again. He could hear a cackle of laughter as a new stream of the warm liquid flowed. Arthur pulled out an arm from beneath his coat – as he did so, a thin stream of the attacking liquid instantly hit it.

‘Hey, what are you doing? No, that isn’t nice. No, stop it.’ The thin stream had brought Arthur to his senses. They were urinating on him.

Then a sharp pain exploded around Arthur's cheekbone. A second kick almost knocked him unconscious.

‘Die, you piece of scum.’ A vicious voice called out as the third kick hit.

‘No, please. All I wanted to do was –.’ Arthur didn’t finish the sentence – he knew what was about to come. All he could do was roll himself into a tight ball – and wait for it to stop. 

The thugs had gone, and old Maggie was ushering Arthur up so he was sitting in the same doorway.

‘Arthur, did they hurt you much? Do you want me to call an ambulance?’ Her kind manner immediately soothing his aching body.

‘No, Maggie. They try to do all sorts to you at the hospital. They will try to shave me clean. And in the winter, you don’t want to be shaved clean. Have you any tea, Maggie?’ Arthur moaned as he moved to put his arm into his coat.

‘No, Arthur. It’s all gone. But please let me get you up to the hospital. They will have some up there and you really do need to get cleaned up.’ Maggie’s tenor was quite insistent. 

Arthur moaned loudly as he tried to move his body. She could see how much discomfort there was. She flipped open her mobile phone and rang for an ambulance.

The young nurse who tendered Arthur wrinkled her nose as she tried to hide the disgust at his odour. The stale smell of his sweat and urine was only made worse by the heated room.

He would be observed throughout the night – his temperature taken and logged down. His blood pressure would cause the night staff some concern for being too low. 

Maggie poked her head around the curtain, just quick enough to see if he was decent. 

‘Hello, Arthur. Are they treating you well?’ Her kindness oozing sincerity. 

‘They have taken all my clothes, Maggie. But, I suppose tomorrow I’ll have some new ones. Hope they are warm, it’s going to be cold this winter, I can feel it in my bones I can.’ 

 ‘I could do with a cup of tea, Maggie. I don’t suppose you could get me one could you? Nice and sweet like you always make them.’ asked Arthur slightly gripping Maggie's hand. 

‘They only have the machine tea at this time of night, Arthur. But if the nurse says it’s OK for you to have a drink, I’ll get you one.’ Her sweet smile comforted him.

Arthur had seen the doctor. He had said that Arthur would have to stay in the hospital until his wounds had healed. Two broken ribs and quite a large amount of bruises. 

His stay ended when a young nurse came to him with a social worker. Both asked Arthur about how he would go about getting somewhere to stay – in a hostel of some kind. How he could claim some benefits from the government to help him back into society – all they did was nag, thought Arthur. He didn’t want anywhere to stay – he had the streets. He didn’t want state money – he had the streets, why didn’t they understand that? Arthur saw the clothes that the social worker had brought and asked if he could try them on.

Arthur felt at the piece of paper in his pocket – the social worker had written everything down for him. She had made him an appointment at the local benefits agency, even though Arthur had asked her not to. 

He was back out into the centre of the city that he loved so much. To him it was freedom. To him he had no worries here - all the people ignored him. 

As Arthur patrolled his streets, he saw a dustbin – in it the remains of a baguette.

He felt deep into another pocket and found the prize – a twenty-pound note. 

Inside the street sidebar, Arthur, for the first time in an age, ordered a whiskey. He would only have this one and then be on his way. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he knew he was lying to himself – but what the hell he thought; you only live once.

The whiskey eased the pain in his mind and the ones that had become part of his body. Low down on his right-hand side he felt a gnawing, aching pain. 

There were a few pence left from his binge – a memory of how he would have left a gratuity returned to him and Arthur smiled. ‘Take that as a tip, young man.’ 

He had tipped many people in his past life. He, Arthur, had made people happy. 

The light breeze outside caught him like the wind of a hurricane would as he left the bar. He wobbled – unsteadily he rocked until he found purchase on a large shop-front window. Leaning on it, he waited for his numbed senses to return. 

‘All grey. Why are you all grey?’ His question was to the walls of the buildings. Every time Arthur had asked them the same question – they had never replied. He hated the buildings for ignoring him. His head bowed forward as he began to sit on the floor – cold and unwelcoming. He felt the release of the contents of his bladder but he didn’t care, nobody cared these days. Arthur slept. 

His eyelids opened only halfway. Enough to see scurrying feet walk in all directions – and especially around his little corner of the world. Arthur tried to stand – his attempts foiled by the smoothness of the glass he used as a prop. 

The cold damp patch on his trousers, so obvious to those who had walked past him, ate at his skin. It woke him – the buildings were brightly lit now. 

He steadied himself for the effort it would take to stand. One last heave and he stood. 

He was hungry. He fell into his old routine as easily as putting on old slippers – one bin, then another – he would find something. 

The ache in his side made him rub the thin skin. This street he recognised. He had made people happy on this street. But their happiness had made him sad – why was that? Why did those memories refuse to come out and talk to him?

Anxiety made him turn away from the entrance of this street – it held too many dark memories. 

The night could be a good time though. It could be good for foraging the industrial bins, especially those behind the restaurants. Good food was to be had from them. 

Arthur eagerly rubbed his hands together – yes, he thought, tonight I will have some good food. 

The yellow hue from the lighted building walls faded as Arthur found an unlocked gate. He moved inside the short alleyway, further in then stopped. Further still, stop and look around – make sure no one could see him. 

Good food thrown away – but those throwing it away guarded it as if it were gold. Arthur and all the others who loved the streets were outcasts here. These bins held life – food is life, didn’t they realise that? Thrown away food and the puddle water was what life needed. 

Arthur, with his belly full, smiled as he jaunted down towards the forbidden street – Arthur's forbidden street. His joy only augmented by the four full, unopened cans of beer that a drunken thug had left next to himself. The thug was asleep. Arthur saw an opportunity and took it.

He drank from the first can. Sweet cider – but beggars cannot be chooses thought Arthur. He looked at the building so proud to be the centre of this street. Four giant Roman columns holding up a fanciful facia. In there, Arthur thought, in there was where I made people happy. Why, he thought to himself, was I sad at that thought?

‘Why? Tell me why?’ Arthur shouted into the night sky.

A police car drew up and stopped on the corner of the street. 

The passenger officer wound his window down and asked ‘What are you doing?’

The policeman got out of the car briskly – standing tall in front of the broken man. 

‘I worked there,’ Arthur pointed across the street, ‘I made some people happy – but that made me sad. I still don’t know why. But I must have done something right, mustn’t I?’

‘I doubt very much that you did work there. How did you manage to get the cider?’ asked the officer.

‘I found it. And it was a long time ago, but I did work there.’ Arthur replied.

‘Well, I’m telling you to move on – go to where you normally sleep. I don’t want to see you around anywhere near here again tonight.’

The officer got in the car and drove off.

The columns were high. Arthur looked upward as he lay on his back. 

‘Never really looked at you this way before, did I?’ Arthur spoke to the nearest column. It, like all the other buildings, didn’t reply.

The quickly drank cans of cider were beginning to take effect. He desperately wanted to urinate – he looked around as much he could from where he was. He spied a corner that seemed to be a shade darker from either of the rest.

His relief was audible – but no one was around to hear him sigh. The splashed puddle and the small stream strangely seemed to find his shoes. He cleared his nasal passages and spat the phlegm into his personal pool. As he turned to return to the last remnants of cider, he saw a police car. He stood still until it had gone.

The wind began to whistle through the marvellous columns – a cold, winter wind. His body – not fully protected from it, shivered. He did not need his sleep – he just wanted to remember. Why did he know this place so well? Why was he drawn here? This place where he had made so many people happy in this sprawling metropolis. 

He sat on the cold ground again – the police car off in the distance. They didn’t care, all cosy in their warm car. 

Arthur felt the spitting water from above. Oh, how he hated the rain. He turned his back on it, facing the huge oak doors. Arthur knew that behind those doors were the answers to his many questions. 

 He crawled to the left-hand door. His hands and knees not registering the pain. He climbed one door panel at a time. The rain – now blown by the wind, drenched Arthur and the door. A brass plate embossed on one panel at eye-level drew Arthur's gaze. 

Before he could read the ornate lettering – the gnawing ache became a sharp stabbing pain. It broke through the alcohol anaesthetic that had aided Arthur so far. He doubled up – groaning at the mounting and worsening agony.

‘Maggie!’ Arthur called out.

Was it Maggie he really wanted? Or was it Grace? The pain warmed his swollen belly. He wanted to go home – go back to that place where he could be comfortable. 

Home – that place so long ago where Grace lived. He and Grace had lived together. He had been married and he had loved her so very much. His tears of grief – so openly flowed when she had died.

 Arthur stood even in the face the pain. The wet plaque still shone bright – well polished by an adoring cleaner.  

He looked at the plaque intently, his fingers caressing the ornate lettering. He remembered. Memories began to flood back. Arthur remembered the marble floor just inches away from him on the other side of the doors. Lush red carpet strode in a uniform line up the stairs. The huge crystal chandelier that hung from the beautifully decorated ceiling. 

Pain – an evil and illicit pain, one that did not belong to his body. This time so sharp, he cried out once again. He lay on the cold wet floor unable to move. The rain fell freely onto his face. The smile that greeted it was a cold smile – an unmoving smile, fixed there until his body would be found. Arthur – the street bum, one of the many who wandered this great city – was no more. 

The ambulance crew did not even bother to try to revive the cold, still, figure that lay on the doorstep of Arthur Dobson-Fredrick’s building. It was obvious to them he had been dead for quite some time.

The young woman who had turned up in the morning to perform her duties as a cleaner had screamed when she had seen him. She had pressed the security button on the door – not for her normal access into the building, but in blind panic. She had never seen a dead body before. 

The small crowd that had gathered around asked repeatedly who was he – did anyone know him? All had shaken their heads. No one knew him, or why he would be outside the large life insurance company building.

One week later the local paper published the obituary of the founder and former chairman of Arthur, Grace, Dobson, and Fredrick’s. It was a simply worded piece only stating that Arthur Dobson had died of kidney failure. That he left an estate valued at over five million pounds. And that now he could rest in peace with his beloved and most cherished wife, Grace.