would be a peril, an adventure.
A newspaper passed by, sliming his face like a heavy eel. Experimenting with his face, he constructed a tight-lipped smile that grew to be a skull-wide grin.
The adventure began.
He took his first steps, lifting his feet and wading through scratchy silt. His head slowly broke the surface. He blinked away water. A rush of noise poured in: the backwash by the dock, gulls, distant traffic. Nose and mouth clear; he filled his lungs and began, evenly and deliberately, to breathe. He did not gulp or choke.
The Thames coughed him up. Covered in an oily film, he walked. The tug of water passed down his body, pulling at his chest, his groin, his shins. It was the work of minutes to get ashore.
Emerging from the dock’s shadow, he stood on a stretch of mudflat at the foot of a grey wall inset with rusty giant rings. Water-smoothed chunks of glass and snapped lengths of clay pipestem pricked the soft soles of his feet.
He wiped sludge from his face. Carefully, before muck could dry on him, he washed. Naked and clean, he squatted by the river. He considered his wavering white reflection a moment, then scattered it with a swirling dip of his fingertips.
The flat was littered with gifts. He collected a pair of empty spectacle frames, a bottleneck with a blade of sharp glass, a stub of pencil, a cellophane crisp packet and a squeaking rubber teddy bear.
A gull alighted on the dock and watched him with disinterest. It beat its wings once. He imitated the movement, shaking his head, straining his shoulder-blades. The bird reached up and flapped into the air. Unblinking, he watched it spiral to the sun.
A ropey twist of cloth, stiff with sewage, unwound into a long overcoat, its pockets exploded, its buttons a memory. He did his best to wring out the dirt and covered his nakedness. He found a length of material, once a school tie, and used it as a belt.
His first meal was a soggy breadcrust with a stone-hard core and a ripe dog turd. He had no taste or smell, but knew his current appearance and habits would give general offence. Soon, he must moderate them. He tore an arm off the bear and chewed it, mouth filling with saliva, sharp teeth grinding. He needed to keep his jaws working, lest his teeth outgrow his mouth.
On top of the wall, something tiny fluttered. It was a pound note, paperweighted with an egg-shaped stone. Using a ring as a foothold, he eased himself up and claimed the prize.
He held up the note and looked through it at the sun. Green light shone through a young woman’s face.
POPLAR, 1961
His first spoken words were ‘I want to bet.’
‘You got no shoes, mate,’ said the man behind the window.
‘I want to bet,’ Leech repeated, smoothing the note on the formica counter.
‘It’s your money.’
‘Dog Number Six.’
‘Twenty to one, mate.’
‘Dog Number Six.’
The man shrugged and took the note. He scribbled a ticket and slid it under the grille.
A man in a cap, slouching by the steam radiator pointed and laughed, low-hanging belly shaking. Leech took out his spectacle frames and put them on. Receiving a quick glance, the man stopped laughing.
While he waited for the result, he chewed the severed bear arm. He ignored people who stared at him.
Dog Number Six came in at twenty to one.
‘Lucky Jim,’ someone said.
Leech told the clerk to let his winnings ride and picked Dog Number Four in the next race.
By closing time, he had nearly £400. Outside, men waited to take his money from him. He put the banknotes into the surviving inside pocket of his coat and took out his treasure trove. In one hand, covered by the long sleeve, he held the bottleneck. In the other, concealed by his palm, the stub of pencil. He left the betting shop and protected his winnings.
SOHO, 1963
He insisted on sprinkling his own cappuccino. Without the distraction of taste, he was able to create a perfect image of chocolate-spotted froth.
‘You’re a connoisseur signor ,’ Mama Gina
A newspaper passed by, sliming his face like a heavy eel. Experimenting with his face, he constructed a tight-lipped smile that grew to be a skull-wide grin.
The adventure began.
He took his first steps, lifting his feet and wading through scratchy silt. His head slowly broke the surface. He blinked away water. A rush of noise poured in: the backwash by the dock, gulls, distant traffic. Nose and mouth clear; he filled his lungs and began, evenly and deliberately, to breathe. He did not gulp or choke.
The Thames coughed him up. Covered in an oily film, he walked. The tug of water passed down his body, pulling at his chest, his groin, his shins. It was the work of minutes to get ashore.
Emerging from the dock’s shadow, he stood on a stretch of mudflat at the foot of a grey wall inset with rusty giant rings. Water-smoothed chunks of glass and snapped lengths of clay pipestem pricked the soft soles of his feet.
He wiped sludge from his face. Carefully, before muck could dry on him, he washed. Naked and clean, he squatted by the river. He considered his wavering white reflection a moment, then scattered it with a swirling dip of his fingertips.
The flat was littered with gifts. He collected a pair of empty spectacle frames, a bottleneck with a blade of sharp glass, a stub of pencil, a cellophane crisp packet and a squeaking rubber teddy bear.
A gull alighted on the dock and watched him with disinterest. It beat its wings once. He imitated the movement, shaking his head, straining his shoulder-blades. The bird reached up and flapped into the air. Unblinking, he watched it spiral to the sun.
A ropey twist of cloth, stiff with sewage, unwound into a long overcoat, its pockets exploded, its buttons a memory. He did his best to wring out the dirt and covered his nakedness. He found a length of material, once a school tie, and used it as a belt.
His first meal was a soggy breadcrust with a stone-hard core and a ripe dog turd. He had no taste or smell, but knew his current appearance and habits would give general offence. Soon, he must moderate them. He tore an arm off the bear and chewed it, mouth filling with saliva, sharp teeth grinding. He needed to keep his jaws working, lest his teeth outgrow his mouth.
On top of the wall, something tiny fluttered. It was a pound note, paperweighted with an egg-shaped stone. Using a ring as a foothold, he eased himself up and claimed the prize.
He held up the note and looked through it at the sun. Green light shone through a young woman’s face.
POPLAR, 1961
His first spoken words were ‘I want to bet.’
‘You got no shoes, mate,’ said the man behind the window.
‘I want to bet,’ Leech repeated, smoothing the note on the formica counter.
‘It’s your money.’
‘Dog Number Six.’
‘Twenty to one, mate.’
‘Dog Number Six.’
The man shrugged and took the note. He scribbled a ticket and slid it under the grille.
A man in a cap, slouching by the steam radiator pointed and laughed, low-hanging belly shaking. Leech took out his spectacle frames and put them on. Receiving a quick glance, the man stopped laughing.
While he waited for the result, he chewed the severed bear arm. He ignored people who stared at him.
Dog Number Six came in at twenty to one.
‘Lucky Jim,’ someone said.
Leech told the clerk to let his winnings ride and picked Dog Number Four in the next race.
By closing time, he had nearly £400. Outside, men waited to take his money from him. He put the banknotes into the surviving inside pocket of his coat and took out his treasure trove. In one hand, covered by the long sleeve, he held the bottleneck. In the other, concealed by his palm, the stub of pencil. He left the betting shop and protected his winnings.
SOHO, 1963
He insisted on sprinkling his own cappuccino. Without the distraction of taste, he was able to create a perfect image of chocolate-spotted froth.
‘You’re a connoisseur signor ,’ Mama Gina
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