run to a taxi.’ He looks up with a sideways grin.
I’m still staring at the envelope.
‘Put it away, now. Stick it down your pants or something.’
I don’t ask where he’s got the money from, because I know.
When we were first together we agreed we would never beg in the streets. I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t want to be recognised, but Andy wouldn’t do it because he was ashamed. Ashamed of the life he had never wanted to live; ashamed of the person he had become – stealing to eat, sheltering in damp, miserable tunnels. I don’t know much, but I do know that this isn’t the life he wants.
I know he won’t have nicked the money. That isn’t his thing. We only ever steal what we need – enough to keep us alive. So he must have begged, and I know exactly what he would have done. He would have rolled up his sleeves, so that people could see his deformed arm, and he would have held it so that it looked even worse. He knew how to dislocate his shoulder – he said it was because it had been done so many times that it popped in and out easy as anything – and it made his arm hang at a really odd angle. He would have sat outside the posh shops, looking like a pathetic, skinny, injured kid so people would feel sorry for him. I know how much he hates pity, but he’s done it for me.
I want to kiss him, but I know he wouldn’t like that. At least, I don’t think he would.
’Now,’ he says. ‘I’m going to have to own up to saving some of the money for a special treat tonight.’
He looks at me, and he makes me wait.
‘We’re going to have chips!’
I can’t speak because I can taste the chips, dripping with vinegar and loads of salt. I bet we can get some free ketchup too – perhaps take a few extra sachets to put on sandwiches – especially if we end up with those falafel things again. My mouth is watering.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘We’re going to go up the back way, stick to the alleys as far as we can. We’ll have to come out when we get to Cross Street, but it will be busy if we time it right. There’s something on at the theatre, and there were loads of people around earlier. If we wait until they all come out, they’ll be milling around going to restaurants and stuff. Best place to hide is in a crowd.’
I’m not sure if I can wait that long, but for a treat like a bag of chips between us I can ignore the angry noises my belly is making.
*
It was worth the wait.
We barely make it out of the shop before we’re digging into the chips, each of us making sure that in our excitement we don’t take more than the other is getting. We walk back towards Albert Square, heads down over the shared packet, hoovering up every last morsel. The guy in the shop gave us some scraps too, so we’re in heaven.
When we’ve finished we dodge down some of the quieter streets and make our way back to our pitch, our bellies for once feeling full. The empty chip paper gets thrown in the first bin we see, but only after I’ve licked the salty, vinegary mess off it.
Once we get off the main road and there’s nobody else about, Andy starts mimicking some of the posh people in the chippy who had behaved as if going into a place like that was a special treat – an experience to share with their friends as they tried to live like normal people. I tell Andy that I bet they take the chips home to eat off a plate, rather than be seen eating from a bag in the street. By then, the chips will be cold, pale and soggy. What a waste.
He carries on messing about, making me smile, and I run on ahead a bit, pretending I want nothing to do with him. He’s doing a posh person walk and shouting something silly about chipped potatoes. I pretend to ignore him for a minute then, laughing, I spin round to say something funny about the ‘battaar’ on the fish, but the words freeze in my throat.
The end of the alley is lit by the bright lights of central Manchester, but a dark shadow is standing at the
I’m still staring at the envelope.
‘Put it away, now. Stick it down your pants or something.’
I don’t ask where he’s got the money from, because I know.
When we were first together we agreed we would never beg in the streets. I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t want to be recognised, but Andy wouldn’t do it because he was ashamed. Ashamed of the life he had never wanted to live; ashamed of the person he had become – stealing to eat, sheltering in damp, miserable tunnels. I don’t know much, but I do know that this isn’t the life he wants.
I know he won’t have nicked the money. That isn’t his thing. We only ever steal what we need – enough to keep us alive. So he must have begged, and I know exactly what he would have done. He would have rolled up his sleeves, so that people could see his deformed arm, and he would have held it so that it looked even worse. He knew how to dislocate his shoulder – he said it was because it had been done so many times that it popped in and out easy as anything – and it made his arm hang at a really odd angle. He would have sat outside the posh shops, looking like a pathetic, skinny, injured kid so people would feel sorry for him. I know how much he hates pity, but he’s done it for me.
I want to kiss him, but I know he wouldn’t like that. At least, I don’t think he would.
’Now,’ he says. ‘I’m going to have to own up to saving some of the money for a special treat tonight.’
He looks at me, and he makes me wait.
‘We’re going to have chips!’
I can’t speak because I can taste the chips, dripping with vinegar and loads of salt. I bet we can get some free ketchup too – perhaps take a few extra sachets to put on sandwiches – especially if we end up with those falafel things again. My mouth is watering.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘We’re going to go up the back way, stick to the alleys as far as we can. We’ll have to come out when we get to Cross Street, but it will be busy if we time it right. There’s something on at the theatre, and there were loads of people around earlier. If we wait until they all come out, they’ll be milling around going to restaurants and stuff. Best place to hide is in a crowd.’
I’m not sure if I can wait that long, but for a treat like a bag of chips between us I can ignore the angry noises my belly is making.
*
It was worth the wait.
We barely make it out of the shop before we’re digging into the chips, each of us making sure that in our excitement we don’t take more than the other is getting. We walk back towards Albert Square, heads down over the shared packet, hoovering up every last morsel. The guy in the shop gave us some scraps too, so we’re in heaven.
When we’ve finished we dodge down some of the quieter streets and make our way back to our pitch, our bellies for once feeling full. The empty chip paper gets thrown in the first bin we see, but only after I’ve licked the salty, vinegary mess off it.
Once we get off the main road and there’s nobody else about, Andy starts mimicking some of the posh people in the chippy who had behaved as if going into a place like that was a special treat – an experience to share with their friends as they tried to live like normal people. I tell Andy that I bet they take the chips home to eat off a plate, rather than be seen eating from a bag in the street. By then, the chips will be cold, pale and soggy. What a waste.
He carries on messing about, making me smile, and I run on ahead a bit, pretending I want nothing to do with him. He’s doing a posh person walk and shouting something silly about chipped potatoes. I pretend to ignore him for a minute then, laughing, I spin round to say something funny about the ‘battaar’ on the fish, but the words freeze in my throat.
The end of the alley is lit by the bright lights of central Manchester, but a dark shadow is standing at the
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