For The Want Of Her - Part 1

He found her cowering in a deserted subway shrouded in heaps of blankets on a bitterly cold winter’s night at minus three C. He breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight, she was alone. Most of her face was concealed, tightly wrapped up in a drab, beige, woollen shawl. Still, he could see her Grover brown eyes studying him. Her dirt-crusted forehead. The tangled knots of damp, greasy, coppery, shimmering hair clinging to her neck. He stared down at her. Her eyes shut like roller blinds, hiding her shame, her humiliation, at having to beg to a young man like him for money.

I Am Homeless. Please Help Me.

A torn-off strip of cardboard lay at her feet. Her plea was scrawled in marker ink: black, bleak, like her future. Assuming she had a future. He shrugged, snug, cosy, warm inside his fur-lined winter coat. He drew out his leather wallet. Found some loose change, leaned forwards, and deposited his charity into her empty tin. The single silver coin made a dull clanging noise as it hit the bottom of the can.

The girl murmured a slurred, shivery, thank you to him for being so kind to her. Her voice was thin, parched, weak with cold, wrought with fatigue, laced with traces of uncertainty girdled with fear.

Seeing she was frightened of him he sought to reassure her. He told her not to mention it. He felt sorry for her, riddled with guilt at his wealth compared with her impoverished existence, by what he wanted of her, what he expected of her, in return for his  proposition. He did this to her every night, at the same time, in all weathers, using different donations, different denominations of coins, notes, and he always did this to her when she was alone. When the others weren’t there. He gazed down at her, fascinated by her, intrigued by her, assessing her as an opportunity, a risk. The young man loved to take risks with vulnerable, stray girls - like her.

Who are you? he asked, Why are you here? How did your young life end up in this mess?

For the want of her, he would need to know her height, her weight, her bra size, her inside leg measurements, every last minute detail of her. His mind returned to her night ahead. How did she feed? How did she go to the toilet? She must stink to high heaven underneath those filthy rags. She must be starving, emaciated. He’d need to fatten her up. Did her body harbour lice, or worms? She’d need a hot bath when he got her home, a healthy rinse afterwards with sanitiser.

A freight train rumbled along the track overhead, shattering the still peace between them.

He looked around her squalid home. The walls of the subway were sprayed with graffiti: obscenities, harsh demands for equality, freedom and change. The sunken, shielded lights in the ceiling, some of them smashed, cast a dull sodium glow over their art. The concrete path was covered in decaying mulch from where the chill winter wind blew in dead leaves from outside. At least she was dry, safe from the freezing frost. Satisfied that he’d done all he could to help her survive another night, he turned to leave, unsure of whether or not he should take her with him.

She felt, heard, him go. Her exhausted body slumped against the curved wall in despair. She needed him, and yet? She fretted, wept, crying out, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

He didn’t answer, never answered, her. He left her lying on the ground to work out why.

He abandoned the girl to survive another night in her ice house, confident, she’d still be there for him when he returned tomorrow night. So far, she’d survived five nights of cold snap with temperatures falling as low as minus seven. He saw no reason why she couldn’t survive the daunting snow, ice and frost of the hard nights to come. This girl had an inner steel, a resilience he admired in her, loved in her.

He wondered whether his visits after dark were the reason she stayed alive for him. The need in her eyes when she posed the question, why are you doing this to me? demanded his response. It’d taken all of his self-restraint for him not to reveal his unusual offer of a sanctuary: a hot bath, clean clothes for her to wear, a hot meal, followed by a warm bed. He’d turned away just in time, conscious of the culture shock his proposition represented for both of them. After all, the wealthy young donor and his beggar girl did live in entirely different worlds.

One end of the subway led to a tarmac footpath, a clear hazard for her to skate over when it was frozen, uphill, along the crest of the down, thru sheep fields, into the ancient town with its swollen, muddy tidal river, its ancient castle, the quaint antique and map shops, restaurants, tea rooms selling fancy cakes, its boutiques. There was a food bank at the far end of the supermarket car park. He suspected this was where she foraged for food during the day. He wondered how thin she was getting underneath the blanket, how wasted she’d become, but could only imagine. He had only ever seen her eyes, forehead and hair. How old was she? What was she called? At least, the girl seemed to be local. Her voice carried a familiar country burr. Why did she leave the warmth and safety of her home, her shelter or hostel? To live here alone exposing herself to the risk of serious illness, death or worse still, attacks by the predatory, evil men known to prowl this area in search of easy prey?

He shook his head, ashamed of himself for deserting her: why did I leave her here, what if she doesn’t survive? He’d never forgive himself if she came to any harm. He went back.

The girl’s eyes widened as he approached, slowly, sidling up to her, standing over her, staring at her.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she asked, searching his blanched white face for a reason.

He crouched at her feet, so as to be closer to her, so as to be less threatening and fearsome.

‘I have a warm place, not far from here, where you can stay. You’re free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you want. There’s a hot bath, clean clothes for you to wear, a hot meal, a warm bed for you to sleep in afterwards,’ he hesitated, his heart stuck in his throat, sensing a softening in her, seeing her shoulders slump under the blanket, her frown.

‘Why would you take me in? You don’t know who I am. Besides, I don’t have any cash.’

‘You won’t need any. I’ll help you until you’re earning. Get you back on your feet again.’

She found him condescending, ‘Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?’

‘I’m only trying to help you.’

Her face hardened with anger, all cold, ‘Don’t need your help, thanks. I’m happy as I am.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really.’

The strain in the girl’s voice told him otherwise: she was clearly in two minds as to what to do next, ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’

‘It is what I want. I want you to leave me alone.’

‘Take care of yourself,’ the young man found  himself saying, ‘Try to stay warm, for me.’

He really, truly, did care about her. The tears welled in the girl’s eyes. She choked on her own words, as he stood and turned to leave her for the last time, ‘Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself,’ but even as she spoke, she knew it wasn’t true. She needed him.