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.Clots of buses and cars lurched northfrom the tight corner of Oxford Street, tootight for the bendy buses cranking their wayaround it.By the same corner loomed thetower of Centre Point, where not so long agomy sometime teacher and I had discussedblood and betrayal and it had not ended well.To the north, University College Hospital sat 266/1048like a child s picture of what a hospitalshould be, all green and white with big pot-ted plants in the foyer and a shop by the doorselling peanuts.On the stretch of roadbetween, you could buy anything youwanted, so long as it sparkled, shimmered orbeeped.But so much affluence attracted others.In Warren Street Underground station, orpressed up by the walls of the big glassybanks, huddled in tattered sleeping bags orwith bits of cardboard at their feet saying Hungry, please be generous, were the beg-gars.The city flowed around them like a riverrolling over pebbles.Some passersby wouldtut and proclaim, Why should I give up myhard-earned wages for people who can t evenpick themselves up? while the responsefrom those who thought themselves not somuch cruel as merely practical was, They llonly waste it on drugs. 267/1048With individuals playing so poor a role,caring for the city s beggars fell to institu-tions.Behind a plot of tarpaulined marketstalls, selling rucksacks, embroideredscarves, and mobile phone cases fallen off alorry, a low redbrick church was half hiddenby the bare branches of a group of planetrees.At the back, narrow steps led down in-to a small public hall, designed in the beliefthat versatility trumped character any day.Steam rose from a large vent and, inside thehall, long trestle tables stood in rows.Thesound of conversation bubbled, and thesmell of bread, leeks and tea washed over melike a hot shower on a cold night.It was a soup kitchen.It even servedsoup, out of a great bubbling vat full of pota-toes, but an effort had been made to diversifythe menu, adding pasta in tomato sauce, andbread and butter.This was a place for thedown-and-out of every form.Old men withvividly broken blood vessels in their bulbous 268/1048noses, young women with tired eyes andragged hair, men in donated suits far toosmart for their perished trainers, women intwo coats over cardigans down to their kneeswho chatted about getting to the next place,and young men hiding the places wherethey d recently been cut.A priest in blackvestments and white dog collar movedbetween the tables, ready to hear stories andtell tales; two women in pink aprons andblue rubber gloves washed up dishes beneatha sign that said Jesus is My Light ; and bythe door of the chapel a pair of plain-clothesdetectives drank tea and talked quietly withthe rector, trying not to look out of place.A woman came up to me and said, Canwe help you? I m, uh& looking for someone. Among the homeless, or one of us? Surprise showed briefly on our face, buther smile was innocent enough. 269/1048 I ll just look around for him, Imumbled.Our eyes swept the tables, but thefamiliar face was nowhere to be seen.Something cold brushed by my arm.Ijumped, fingers tensing, mind reaching outfor the nearest source of power, ready tostrike.Nothing there.I thought I heard&& a pair of footsteps, heavy hard bootsmoving on the floor&& and for a moment the rank smell ofskin so unwashed that sweat and dirt had so-lidified into a secondary layer.I forced my hands to my sides, and saidat the empty air, Don t muck about. I heard the snap of a cigarette lighter justbehind my left ear.He was leaning againstthe wall, hands cupped around the flameagainst a wind that wasn t there.His beardwas big and dark, flecked with grey-whiteand dirt, his hair was scraggy and long, 270/1048thinning to a bald patch, his eyes werestained with yellow gum, his skin so mulchedover with the dirt of the city that it gave himan almost caffeinated quality, his clothes theremains of a once-pricey waxed coat, cor-duroy trousers worn shiny in places, and athick sweater full of holes.The cigarettelighter was stamped with the wordsSMOKING KILLS, and as he dropped it intohis bulging coat pocket he drew a long breathand snorted out a thick white cloud. Most people don t bother to look, hesaid at last, through crooked brownish teeth.I followed him up the stairs to the out-side world.He had a torn heavy bag on hisback, all flaps and half-glimpsed tubs of 12ppot noodle and a smell that the open air didnothing to alleviate
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