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Soon enough I pass the islands, with a couple of boats moored alongside. And then like she said, a patch of trees and a thin wisp of smoke rising.
There are a few little tents and some plastic sheeting strung up in the trees. A dude in pink leggings and blond dreads hacking at some branches with an axe; a patchy brown dog yelping with every swipe. I take a wide circle around the dog and reach the fire. There’s a few people sitting on logs or rusty oil cans. One of them is slumped back in an old car seat. Black hair in a ponytail with a bleached stripe down the middle, nursing a two-litre bottle of White Lightening. I shuffle forward, hands in pockets, as he waves the bottle at me.
‘Hey. What yer after, loping round here?’
‘Skunky?’
‘And who may be asking?’ He grins round at his mates. One of them sniggers as he pokes the fire with a stick. He’s stick-thin himself, looks about twelve.
‘Jeanette, from the social enterprise café said to ask for you. I’m, like, need somewhere to crash.’
‘Ha, that’s the social enterprise for you! They ban me from their swanky café, but they’re happy enough to send me the waifs and strays.’ He shakes his head. ‘Got any dosh?’ Stained tooth grin at me.
‘No, not much. I will have on Monday, but I’m hoping to get to Lochgillan before then.’
‘On your holidays?’
‘Well, in a way.’
‘So, you’re no’ homeless, just a tourist.’
‘But I’ve only got twenty odd quid until Monday. I’ve literally got the clothes I stand in. As in no sleeping bag, nothing?’ I trace the dirt in front of me with my trainer.
‘You’re a fooking divvy tourist, aren’t yer?’
‘What can I say?’ I shrug, throwing in a daft smile.
‘Och, you were after Skunky and you’ve found him. You can get some messages with your twenty odd spondoolies and we’ll find you a corner to kip in.’
‘Messages?’ I imagine being a runner for some homeless spy-ring.
‘Ha! That’s Scots for what you English call shopping, I believe.’
‘Oh, right, thanks,’ another stupid smile. I glance round, feeling awkward. An African guy with leathery bare feet, carving a stick. The skinny kid on an oilcan poking at the fire. A man in a battered suit staring straight ahead. Nobody looks at me.
‘A seat for the laddie, Aiden.’ Skunky waves at the kid, who gets up and crashes round the woodpile. Finds a log and stands it next to Skunky.
‘Our Aiden’s from somewhere in west Fife.’ Skunky’s exaggerated gestures remind me of Fagin in our Y7 production of Oliver. ‘Here we have Paoul from Slovakia, Mustafa all the way from Sudan, and Gordon with the dog crossed the waters from Ulster. Me, I’m from the universe, via Glasgee, you mind.’
‘I’m Gethin, from Sheffield,’ I offer.
Homeless – Gethin
I sit on my log watching the smoke in the shaft of afternoon sunlight. Awkward as fuck, like a new boy at school.
‘News from the missus, mannie?’ Skunky points his bottle at Paoul, sitting across the fire.
He’s a small nervy looking bloke, probably in his early thirties, with dirty blond curls and brown pinstripe suit that’s too big for him. Mud spattered office shoes. He stares at a well-worn letter on lilac paper and looks up, all confusion.
‘Reading it over and over will no’ make it any different,’ Skunky says.
Paoul shakes his head, goes back to reading.
Skunky turns to me. ‘Our Slovakian friend was laid off from the fish farm. Lost his accommodation with the job too.’
‘Double whammy!’ I say, as Paoul shakes his head.
‘Missus,’ he moans.
