by Stephanie Simpkin
coffee to go
It, was, a cold, very
crisp, bright, sunny, November morning.
The young woman, on
her way, to work, wearing sunglasses, carrying, a coffee.
She saw, the tramp
ahead, in his usual spot, by a heat outlet. He’d been there, for quite a while,
weeks, maybe months.
Long, filthy, matted
hair, a dirty beard (dirty everything) lying on piles of bubble wrap, a few
badly, stained blankets.
She often, brought him,
hot drinks, soup, sandwiches. She, never, gave him money. He might buy Meths,
or worse. But, she would buy him a duvet, and a woolly hat. It was now,
getting cold, especially, at night.
He always mumbled,
his thanks. He never looked up. She tried, talking to him. He just grunted.
Today, the 1st
of November, was, a very, bad day for her. A year ago, to the day, she had
received the worse news, ever. The death of her beloved, older brother, Sam.
Keep yourself busy,
she, told herself sharply. Take your mind off things.
She had, a very
successful, career, which she loved. She’d just been made a junior partner,
(the youngest, ever) at a very prestigious law firm,in Lincolns Fields.
She couldn’t
concentrate. It was Friday afternoon. She gathered her papers and her mobile and stuffed
them, into her huge bag, and left, the building.
She pulled her collar
up, it was chilly, for autumn. She saw the tramp, just, sitting there. She
stopped. “What’s your name”? she asked softly. No one had asked him before,
at least, not for months.
“I don’t know!” he
replied. She thought, she detected, an American accent. “You, from the States?”
she asked.
“Must be, I don’t
know, can’t remember, anything.” Slowly, he looked up. Startling, bright, cornflower
blue, eyes peered out, of his filthy, bearded face.
She took a deep
breath, the frosty air and cleared her mind.
“Get up!” She said
quietly.
“What!”
“Get up! Stand up,
now! You are coming with me”.
“Why, where?”
“Get up!” she shouted. People, were staring.
“What about my stuff?”
“Leave it!”
He stood up slowly, he
was tall, 6’1” – 6’2”.
She prodded him to
the kerb, raised her hand. A black taxi stopped.
The driver saw the
tramp, and tried to drive off. She opened the door. "Triple fare," she said,
pushing the tramp, into the cab. “The nearest, super
market, the nearest Premier Inn, please!”
The cab pulled away.
At Tesco’s, she got out. “Stay
here!” she said, sharply.
She bought, a track
suit, socks, underwear, tee-shirts, a warm jumper, shampoo, deodorant, a tooth
brush, toothpaste, razor.
Shoes: she didn’t know
his size. He was tall. She guessed, a size ten.
The cab, dropped them
off, at a Premier Inn.
“Keep, out of sight.”
she hissed. She booked a room and pushed him quickly into the lift.
“Right, take this bag,
have a goodnight' s sleep and take a shower. I will be back, at nine tomorrow, we’ll
have breakfast together.”
“Thank you! Why, are
you doing this, for me, am I dreaming, is this real?”
“I will tell you
tomorrow. Here’s sixty quid. Get a haircut and a burger!”
“No! I can’t!”
“Take it!”
Nine o’clock Saturday
morning, she knocked on his door.
The door opened. She
took a step back.
The tall, thirtyish, good-looking, blue eyed, clean shaven, young, man. Hair, cut short.
“My God! Come,
Premier, breakfast.”
He smiled, showing
perfect, white, dazzling, teeth.
“My name's Samantha,
I’ll call you Sam, ok?”
“Yea! Why, you helping
me!”
“My wonderful,
brother, came home from Afghanistan, a broken man, both mentally, and
physically scarred. The army couldn’t help him. No one could. He was a shell,
of his former self, PTSD, diagnosed, and, chronic Q fever”.
“Sorry, Q fever?”
“Q fever, requires,
months of antibiotic treatment. It’s caught from animal faeces, the MoD denied
wrong doing. He saw his two buddies get their heads blown off in an ambush. Then,
the survivors guilt.”
“One day, he disappeared, without a trace. I
went to the police, the army. Eventually, I found a private detective. Nothing,
zero.”
“I got a phone call, a
year ago yesterday. He had, been found, dead, on a pavement, in Scotland,
hypothermia. He had, become a tramp, a vagrant! I tried getting the coroner to
look into his death. He wouldn’t. I am a lawyer. Even I could do nothing.”
“How, did they find you?”
“The only, item on his
body, only possession, his army ID card”.
“I saw you, yesterday,
if, someone, had stopped, helped, him, taken the trouble, he might still be
alive today.”
“You must remember,
something?”
“Well, yea! I woke up
in a hospital, in Charring Cross. I had no phone, no wallet, not even loose
change. I was wearing a tee-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.”
“The doctors couldn’t
tell, if I had been mugged, or fallen, my head cracked open. I had amnesia. “Eventually, I
recovered, physically. No memory, not even my name. The police came, no luck, I
hadn’t, been reported missing.”
“ No ID! Some social workers,
tried to help, they were good to me, they found me a place at a half-way house,
sort of hostel. I found a few casual, part time jobs, kitchen porter, cleaner. Cash
in hand, no national insurance card.
“I left the hostel, it
was full, of down and outs, yea!”
“ At first, I earned
just enough, for food. When I went back to the hostel, I had lost my place. I
tried keeping myself clean, I found beds
sometimes, slept in churches, doorways, anywhere, everywhere. Then, I
was sacked, four months, of sleeping rough, a nightmare.
“People, spat at
me and swore. Some were kind, like you. They gave me money, hot drinks and food. I
moved about. I was, moved on. They didn’t allow me into, MacDonald's. One kind
café owner, brought me food, I always stood outside, insisted on paying.
“I survived, it was
relatively safe near where you worked. But, I had enough. Yesterday, I
decided to end it all, Jump in to the Thames. It was so cold, at night, enough.
Then, you, came along. Fate. Luck!”
“Your family, a wife, a
girlfriend, friends, someone, must have missed you, somewhere, surely?”
“Don’t know, really
don’t!”
“Right, I have a
friend. She works, in a brain trauma unit. I will get you some help, I
promise”.
She let him move into
her spare room. All her friends told her she was mad. He could be violent, a
murderer, a rapist, a thief.
He cleaned her flat,
cooked, shopped. She came home from work to tasty hot meals, not takeaways.
It was hard for her,
hard for them. Was he married? Did he have children? Who, was he?
This couldn’t, go on
indefinitely. He saw various doctors, a shrink and a hypnotist. There was no progress. Was, he
for real, her brain asked. Her heart, said yes. Three weeks later, he told her,
he was leaving, that it wasn’t fair on her. She had spent a fortune on his private
health care.
She sat him down,
poured a large drink, for both of them. Sinatra’s mellow tones. Suddenly, he
sat bolt upright, “New York “ he shouted. "New York," sang Sinatra.
“Brad, my names Brad,
Brad-----"
She took a photo of
him on her mobile and emailed, it to her best friend, who worked on the New York
Times. Told her, his story. Front page, news.
Two days later, his
sister had rung the Times. "Has he got blue eyes?” she’d asked.
The full story,
Bradley Holmes, New Yorker. Very, successful corporate lawyer. Thirty-five,
unmarried, in Paris on business. Decided to make, an unscheduled stop. Euro
Star to London, a bit of sight-seeing for the weekend. He’d checked out of
the hotel, left his suitcase, in the porter’s store. One last stroll, then
home.
His sister, his
friends, his bosses were all looking, for clues in Paris. The French police checked
the hotels and found out he had left. Missing without a trace.
The problem nowadays: data protection, the banks, the airlines, even the police, and, hospitals. You
could die, be ill, data protection, rules! Who, is it protecting?
Brad, became, like her
brother and she another sister to him.
He got married, had kids, and she was the
children’s Godmother. She loved his wife.
She got married. He loved her husband. He
stayed with her and she stayed with him, The became like a proper family.
Life went on, every
November 1st, no matter, where they were in the world, there was an email or a
phone call. Neither of them, would, ever, forget.
