what?’
‘You’re not on anything, are you? Dibs, dope, crash, K?’
‘I don’t know what half of that is.’
‘You drink much?’
‘Why?’
‘Smoke?’
‘No.’
Joe held out the jam jar. ‘I kinda need your piss.’
Andrew peered from Joe to the jar and back again. ‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t tend to go around weeing in pots, let alone for strangers.’
‘I can tell you where Joe with the shoes is.’
Andrew glanced both ways along the alley, almost considering it for a moment. If Jenny was here, she would have almost certainly gone for it – probably while giving him a lecture about why
refusing to do it showed that he was a suppressive person.
‘Why do you need it?’ Andrew asked.
Joe tried to pull his coat tighter but the collar caught on his hair. He stared at Andrew’s shoes as he replied. ‘You have to do a test if you want to get into the
shelter.’
What was it with the emotional blackmail today? If it wasn’t a shivering young girl, it was a bawling woman and her cats, a charity mugger, or a homeless man wanting some wee in a pot.
February had sent everyone loopy.
‘I really can’t do that,’ Andrew said.
Joe gulped, nodding acceptingly. ‘Fair enough, man, I just thought that if you help me, I help you.’
‘I’m not sure we share the same definitions of help.’ Andrew took a step backwards. ‘I could really do with knowing where the other Joe is.’
‘Who’d you say you were after?’
‘Joe with the shoes.’
‘No, the other guy.’
‘Luke Methodist.’
Joe nodded again, finally putting the jam jar down and pointing a thumb towards the canal. ‘Joe got a housing ‘sociation place out Ardwick.’
8
Dusk was now an aspiration, the dark bleeding across the sky, leaving a bright white moon to light the city. Andrew could have returned to the office for his car but by the
time he’d collected it and negotiated the rush-hour traffic, he could’ve walked to Ardwick. He figured a person could only get so cold anyway and he was pretty much there.
Bloody February.
He walked past Piccadilly Station and kept going, sticking to the main road until the housing estates began to swell on either side. When he saw the spark of a cigarette, Andrew passed through a
gate onto a football pitch, treading carefully across the frozen turf and heading towards a graffiti-covered, run-down play park. Sitting on the roundabout were half-a-dozen teenagers, wearing
thick coats, beanie hats and trainers so white that they glowed in the moonlight. Some god-awful music was seeping from one of their phone speakers, like a drowning cat trying to escape from a sack
but with more howling.
Their chatter quietened as Andrew approached, leaving him wondering if he’d miscalculated the situation. He didn’t think young people were any worse than they’d been in his day
– but there were six of them and one of him. Plus they had shocking taste in music, which was always a worry.
The tallest of the lads was sitting in the centre of the roundabout, smoking with one hand and sipping from a can of Stella with the other. The others looked to him for guidance as Andrew came
closer and started to cough nervously.
‘A’ight?’ the teenager said, with a flick of his head.
Andrew nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt. ‘Do you know which block is the housing association one?’ Six bemused sets of eyes stared at him before the taller lad
answered with a thumb-point behind him.
‘I’m looking for someone named Joe who lives there,’ Andrew added. ‘I think he moved in recently. Does anyone know him?’
‘We know everyone, mate.’
‘Right, er—’
‘You a fed?’
‘No.’
‘So why’d you want to know where he is?’
‘It’s a friend of a friend thing.’
The six of them exchanged unconvinced looks until the one in the centre nodded towards the almost empty crate of Stella at their feet. ‘Beer’s kinda
‘You’re not on anything, are you? Dibs, dope, crash, K?’
‘I don’t know what half of that is.’
‘You drink much?’
‘Why?’
‘Smoke?’
‘No.’
Joe held out the jam jar. ‘I kinda need your piss.’
Andrew peered from Joe to the jar and back again. ‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t tend to go around weeing in pots, let alone for strangers.’
‘I can tell you where Joe with the shoes is.’
Andrew glanced both ways along the alley, almost considering it for a moment. If Jenny was here, she would have almost certainly gone for it – probably while giving him a lecture about why
refusing to do it showed that he was a suppressive person.
‘Why do you need it?’ Andrew asked.
Joe tried to pull his coat tighter but the collar caught on his hair. He stared at Andrew’s shoes as he replied. ‘You have to do a test if you want to get into the
shelter.’
What was it with the emotional blackmail today? If it wasn’t a shivering young girl, it was a bawling woman and her cats, a charity mugger, or a homeless man wanting some wee in a pot.
February had sent everyone loopy.
‘I really can’t do that,’ Andrew said.
Joe gulped, nodding acceptingly. ‘Fair enough, man, I just thought that if you help me, I help you.’
‘I’m not sure we share the same definitions of help.’ Andrew took a step backwards. ‘I could really do with knowing where the other Joe is.’
‘Who’d you say you were after?’
‘Joe with the shoes.’
‘No, the other guy.’
‘Luke Methodist.’
Joe nodded again, finally putting the jam jar down and pointing a thumb towards the canal. ‘Joe got a housing ‘sociation place out Ardwick.’
8
Dusk was now an aspiration, the dark bleeding across the sky, leaving a bright white moon to light the city. Andrew could have returned to the office for his car but by the
time he’d collected it and negotiated the rush-hour traffic, he could’ve walked to Ardwick. He figured a person could only get so cold anyway and he was pretty much there.
Bloody February.
He walked past Piccadilly Station and kept going, sticking to the main road until the housing estates began to swell on either side. When he saw the spark of a cigarette, Andrew passed through a
gate onto a football pitch, treading carefully across the frozen turf and heading towards a graffiti-covered, run-down play park. Sitting on the roundabout were half-a-dozen teenagers, wearing
thick coats, beanie hats and trainers so white that they glowed in the moonlight. Some god-awful music was seeping from one of their phone speakers, like a drowning cat trying to escape from a sack
but with more howling.
Their chatter quietened as Andrew approached, leaving him wondering if he’d miscalculated the situation. He didn’t think young people were any worse than they’d been in his day
– but there were six of them and one of him. Plus they had shocking taste in music, which was always a worry.
The tallest of the lads was sitting in the centre of the roundabout, smoking with one hand and sipping from a can of Stella with the other. The others looked to him for guidance as Andrew came
closer and started to cough nervously.
‘A’ight?’ the teenager said, with a flick of his head.
Andrew nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt. ‘Do you know which block is the housing association one?’ Six bemused sets of eyes stared at him before the taller lad
answered with a thumb-point behind him.
‘I’m looking for someone named Joe who lives there,’ Andrew added. ‘I think he moved in recently. Does anyone know him?’
‘We know everyone, mate.’
‘Right, er—’
‘You a fed?’
‘No.’
‘So why’d you want to know where he is?’
‘It’s a friend of a friend thing.’
The six of them exchanged unconvinced looks until the one in the centre nodded towards the almost empty crate of Stella at their feet. ‘Beer’s kinda
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