Something Hidden by Kerry Wilkinson Page A

like frozen mashed potato clumped into an overgrown beard, while another had two black eyes, and the final one was wearing a New York Mets baseball cap with a hole in the
side.
    When they were confident he wasn’t trying to steal something, they finally started to listen, although the name ‘Joe’ seemed to confuse them.
    ‘Joe or Moe?’ asked Beardy.
    ‘Joe.’
    ‘I know a Moe,’ said New York Mets man.
    ‘I’m still looking for Joe.’
    The three of them stared at each other, muttering loudly and incoherently. Andrew couldn’t make out a word.
    Beardy seemed to be the most aware of what was going on, although he didn’t have much competition. ‘We know a Joe with the shoes and a Joe with the hair. Who are you
after?’
    Andrew didn’t want to mention Luke Methodist’s name in case it caused a bad reaction, so he hedged his bets. ‘I’m not sure. If you tell me where they might be, I can see
for myself.’
    After another mini conference, Andrew got his answer. Joe with the hair was staying somewhere close to Canal Street, because, according to the man with the pair of black eyes, ‘gays like
his hair’. None of them had seen Joe with the shoes any time recently.
    Unsurprisingly, Canal Street ran alongside Manchester’s canal, with a row of rainbow-flagged gay-friendly bars close to Piccadilly train station. Andrew had spent a few interesting nights
in the area when he’d been out with friends as a student. He’d certainly seen some sights.
    Dusk was beginning to darken the horizon as he hurried from one side of the city centre to the other. The stone canal banks were dusted with frost, the freezing cobbles surely plotting treachery
as he carefully worked his way along Canal Street. Aside from a few office workers and students using it as a cut-through to get to the train station, the main thoroughfare was deserted. After
making his way up and down twice, Andrew moved through to the tight collection of alleys that made up the rest of ‘the village’. Tall dust-speckled red-brick buildings bathed the area
in shadow, with weeks-old snow packed into the verges, looping around wheelie bins and abandoned black bags.
    This really was no place for anyone to be sleeping rough.
    Andrew had been worried that finding Joe with the hair might be a problem – but the name was plenty enough of a clue. As Andrew rounded a skiddy corner, he spotted a man sitting close to a
shopping trolley, with a tatty umbrella as a shade. He’d made a home for himself in the doorway at the back of a club, using paper bags to create makeshift bedding that looked surprisingly
comfortable. Despite his situation, Joe had maintained a thick afro that was shaped into a slightly squished heart shape. It was as impressive as it was incomprehensible.
    Joe was sitting in the doorway as Andrew approached, one hand on the shopping trolley, which contained a mound of carrier bags covering something Andrew couldn’t see. He tugged his
trousers up, eyeing Andrew suspiciously.
    ‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked.
    The reply was gruff. ‘What of it?’
    ‘I was wondering if you knew Luke Methodist. I was told he had a friend named Joe who lived on the street.’
    Joe shook his head, making the afro shake in the breeze. It must really keep him warm. ‘You want Joe with the shoes.’
    ‘Do you know where I might find him?’ Andrew took out his identification card but the man didn’t seem that fussed, instead eyeing Andrew up and down.
    ‘How old are you?’ Joe asked.
    ‘Why?’
    His accent was becoming more local the longer he spoke. ‘’Cos I’m asking.’
    ‘Thirty-odd.’
    ‘Hmm . . . that might work.’
    ‘What might work?’
    Joe shuffled himself into a kneeling position, rummaging around his bed, reaching underneath carrier bags that had been stuffed with packing peanuts to make pillows, and then pulling out a jam
jar. He offered Andrew a smile, showing off his missing front teeth.
    ‘You clean?’
    ‘Of