‘The name’s Mick. If I don’ get back wiv it, they’ll blow me brains out. Wha’s yer name?’
‘Titus.’
‘Blimey. Come on.’
Titus went where he was being pushed. As they walked, each in his different way, one fairly firm, the other cursing whenever he tripped, a stale smell began to envelop Titus, rank and thick, but sickly sweet at the same time. Mick cleared his throat and spat, Titus retched and turned away to ward off the appalling fumes.
‘I know. I stink. That’s why no woman’ll look at me.’
By holding his breath and keeping his mouth closed, Titus avoided the physical result of nausea, but he dared not speak, even if he had wanted to.
They reached the end of the road and came to another, very wide, very deserted and even more decayed and hopeless than the one where this encounter had begun.
Titus felt his hand being grabbed, ‘Give it us.’
He put his hand in his pocket and brought out most of the coins, which he put into Mick’s mittened hand.
‘Stay ’ere.’
Titus stayed. He heard voices, disputing, and the whining, cajoling tones of his friend. Then the door was pushed open and out he came, his pockets bulging and holding to his mouth a huge bottle from which he was draining as much as he could in as little time as possible, spilling what he couldn’t get down on to his outer coverings, to add to his malodour.
They walked back the way they had come, until they reached the house from whose bowels Mick had emerged.
‘Comin’ in?’
‘For a bit,’ answered Titus, as they groped their way down steps, which in earlier times would have led to an ordered world of pots and pans of burnished copper.
Mick gave three taps on a broken window and a low little whistle, then turned to Titus to gesture him to follow. One candle lit a scene, which could be called nothing if not squalid. The smell so thick that Titus felt it was tangible. Two hands grabbed at the pockets of the vagrant’s clothes, and it was luck only that saved the bottles from breaking, as they were pulled unceremoniously towards them, the man with them.
Ugly oaths were shouted, and two figures collapsed on the floor, seemingly all acrimony spent for the time being, as the silence was broken only by the gulps and belches of some need being mercifully satisfied.
In the corner of the once-room was a mound, a stack of newspapers that moved slightly, the paper rattling, but not crisply as an unread one. Nothing in this hole could be crisp, and it was only because of the pig-like grunts coming from under the paper that Titus knew there was something alive there.
The candle allowed a stranger no great glimpse into the secrets it was hiding in all but the small area it lit up, but what Titus could see were the remains of a kitchen dresser, from floor to ceiling, with drawers hanging open and empty spaces where other drawers had been. He could only make out what he thought were one or two broken cups.
Mick had escaped into his own private oblivion. The pile of newspaper on the floor crackled more urgently and a head appeared. The head was covered by some kind of woollen hat, but Titus thought it was a female head and when it spoke the tone was not rough or coarse. There was an elegance of speech in it, which pierced his imagination.
His mind went over the nature of those who had left the organised world for the anarchic; both male and female who belonged nowhere, whose choice was made for myriad reasons. He felt at one with them, despite the squalor and poverty. He recoiled from the stench but understood the freedom the dark basement offered where layers of ordered life were peeled away.
From the not quite crisp crackling of newspapers a thin hand emerged, stretching out for benison. The grimy nails and the blue veins appeared like tributaries, and the cultured voice called for anaesthetic. No help came from the inmates of this dank region; each one was isolated in his own realm. Titus wrenched the bloated bottle from Mick and transferred it to that skinny hand, which grabbed it, and gulped and gulped to drown reality.
Titus took the only candle, to discover for himself the nature of the face behind the hand. He held it close and saw two dead eyes, a fine nose, and lips which, when the bottle had been drained, opened on to the black cavern of teeth, little stumps of broken blackness, like the old tarred wooden posts of a forgotten beach breakwater. What he was looking at had once been a woman. As he decided to leave these remnants, he heard steps descending, and a light flashed across the room with the abruptness of the moon emerging from behind clouds. Suddenly voices broke the silence. The dark humps of humanity were being bundled out of the basement, up the squalid litter-thick steps. Titus felt himself being manhandled, pushed up the steps, out of the gate and into the waiting car.
27
Other Places, Other Work
TITUS WAS PUSHED beside Mick into the back of the car. There was no dissent. It must all have happened many times before but they were too old to be saved or indoctrinated. All that could be done was to move them from one place to another until their hearts gave out, their lungs collapsed, their spirits drowned and their eyes closed for the last time, but that was not quite yet.
Desultory voices spoke in the front of the car, until it stopped, then the pantomime recommenced. The clowns were pushed and shoved, and Titus with them. They found themselves in a brightly lit official room. The remnants were marked off and taken away.
‘Your name?’
‘Titus Groan.’
‘Not seen you before – occupation?’
‘Traveller.’
‘Vagrant?’
‘Means of support?’
Titus reached in his pocket and found the few remaining coins, which he put on the counter in front of him.
‘I see. A man of property!’
What was the point of speaking?
‘Take him away.’
He was led into a small room. The key turned in the lock.
He was exhausted and hungry, and too much of each to care for any other sensation. He fell into a thick, dark sleep. When he awakened his limbs ached and he stretched himself with the abandon of a cat. He could not think where he was. He closed his eyes and was startled to hear a voice, which came from above him.
‘Hello,’ it said.
He rubbed his eyes and his face, then tried to trace the sound. Light came from a tiny window above his head, and he began to try to read his surroundings like a map that was unfamiliar to him.
‘Well, hello then,’ it said again.
Titus remembered the events of the previous evening. He found himself on a hard mattress. He saw a barred door and uninviting walls of dun-coloured brick. He put his arm up and it met some iron slats, and as he raised his head, he saw a head leaning down towards him. It had a smile. It had a gingery-white beard. He could take in no more detail but that there was no animosity towards him.
‘Well, well. We’re in the same boat, then. What are you on, then? Drunk and disorderly, that’s me. Funny that. I’m an orderly you know. That’s why I’m drunk. Couldn’t take it. Had to get away for a bit. They’ll let me out now. They know me. Doesn’t happen often. I want to get back, but sometimes I go round the bend, like the lot of them. Anyway, sorry to talk so much. Can I help you? Anyway, what’s your name? What do you do?’
‘Titus.’
‘Titus?’
‘Yes. Titus Groan.’
‘Oh, well – I’m Peregrine Smith. Why are you here?’
‘No reason, really. I just ran into a basement, and I was prodded out of it.’
‘Oh, I know, Mick and his friends. I’ll help you. Do you want a job? That’ll do the job. We want a ward orderly. We want more, as many as we can get. Are you afraid? Had any experience?’
‘I’m not afraid, but it’s difficult to be afraid before I know what to be afraid of.’
‘A man after my own heart. I’ll tell them you’re with me and were merely trying to help the old friends. They’ll just want to make sure someone will speak for you. I’m going back this afternoon. You can come too. They’ll be only too glad to have you. I’ll vouch for you. Breakfast’ll be here soon. You hungry?’