Men Like Us

By Michael Z Lewin

The novel is set in the highly competitive, youth-oriented world of television production where everyone seeks success, whatever the cost. The story pinballs across decades answering Leopold’s question: “How did my life bring me to this?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663231369

Michael Z Lewin

Michael Z. Lewin has been writing mysteries, stories, and other fiction for more than forty years. Raised in Indianapolis, many of his books have been set there. More recent fiction, including the "Family" novels and stories, have been set in England where he currently lives. His writing has received many awards and generous reviews. Details of many of these, and a lot of other information, is available on his website.

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Copyright © 2021 Michael Z. Lewin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover photograph Kate Butler; cover design by Elsie, and Sam Camden-Smith.

(These are three generations of the same family.)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3137-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3136-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/21/2022

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Coda

About The Author

Other books by Michael Z. Lewin

Albert Samson series

ASK THE RIGHT QUESTION

THE WAY WE DIE NOW

THE ENEMIES WITHIN

THE SILENT SALESMAN

MISSING WOMAN

OUT OF SEASON (OUT OF TIME in UK)

CALLED BY A PANTHER

EYE OPENER

Leroy Powder Trilogy

NIGHT COVER

HARD LINE

LATE PAYMENTS

Other Indianapolis novels

OUTSIDE IN

AND BABY WILL FALL (CHILD PROOF in UK)

UNDERDOG

OH JOE

Lunghi Family Trilogy

FAMILY BUSINESS

FAMILY PLANNING

FAMILY WAY

Other novels

CUTTING LOOSE

CONFESSIONS OF A DISCONTENTED DEITY

WHATEVER IT TAKES

Short stories

TELLING TAILS

ROVER’S TALES

THE RELUCTANT DETECTIVE and Other Stories

FAMILY TRIO – Lunghi family stories

ALIEN QUARTET – Albert Samson stories

Non Fiction

HOW TO BEAT COLLEGE TESTS:

A Guide to Ease the Burden of Useless Courses

For Liza

without her help, heart and encouragement this

book would not exist

Legs crossed like kisses

or exes? You, double you –

who knows in the dark?

Zadé Rajari

MEN LIKE US

1

L EOPOLD DISCOVERED PAUL’S Café by turning right when he came out of his building. It was on a corner and much larger than the nook where he’d breakfasted the previous morning after turning left. Paul’s was the ground floor of a substantial brick building, had windows on two sides and caught some of the day’s bright Spring sunshine.

Feeling anything but bright himself, he chose a square table away from the light. My back to the wall, he thought ruefully. But he liked sitting where he could take the whole place in: other tables, the door, the service counter.

Mid-morning customers dotted the room. A mum with a big pushchair, an old couple, two girls, a few hardhats. And he liked the fact that the room didn’t sound echoy despite the windows and the fact that the wall he backed on was tiled. Maybe it was because there was comfortable space between tables, and a high ceiling.

The tiles showed tropical fruits, not all of which he recognized. A choice that must have a story. And the tiles were clean – so they were attended to regularly.

If they had illustrated singers, say, or even instruments he might have chosen to face the music. Instead the childhood tale of Wild Bill Hickok came to mind. Hickok always played poker with his back to the wall. Then one night in Deadwood, South Dakota, he didn’t. And on that night he was shot from behind and killed. He held two pairs at the time, aces and eights, known forever after as dead man’s hand. One pair the absolute best, one quotidian: together fatal?

In fact, for years Leopold been playing with his back exposed to danger. Lucky not to have been shot for so long? But lucky was the last thing he felt. If only he’d been shot earlier anguish would have been saved, and not just his own.

He felt a wave of fatigue as his thoughts strayed from food and his new location. He’d been awake a long time. He closed his eyes, almost fell asleep but then, with a shuddery shake of the shoulders, he formed the words, Get over yourself.

He smiled minutely, aware that no one in the room was paying the least attention to him. He was already more comfortable here than in yesterday’s café. It was only his second day in this New World, but maybe he would put down a café root.

The old couple was playing cards among their food, heedless of the dangers of exposed backs. He saw now that the young mum had twins. A pair… Had she been dealt aces, or eights? And would she appreciate the difference?

But that was a sexist and arrogant question: why should he think a young woman might not be able to appreciate unusual, talented children just because she was in a café in an unfashionable part of London and looked young enough to be in school herself? What snobbishness. People surprised you, had their own unexpected stories. He knew that; he ought to remember it.

He willed the twins, whatever their talents, to learn to articulate their feelings young and find the strength to act on them. To learn to think about the choices they were making and their potential consequences – for themselves and for others.

A late convert makes the most passionate advocate…

Suddenly the mother glanced toward Leopold. He looked down, embarrassed at being caught. He found his own pair, hands folded into an outsized fist. Slowly he unpicked himself and attended to other parts of the room.

Three tables away the two girls laughed together. They were decked out in bling and looked tired, as if they’d stayed up all night.

Leopold was tired too. He lifted the menu from the table. Many choices and it was inexpensive, by fashionable London standards. But this East London area was about as unfashionable as London got. Although nowhere in the city was safe from developers and gentrifiers these days, and this café, with it size and corner location, would be an obvious target. But for now it was just a café with tiles of fruit covering one of its walls.

An old guy with a rucksack came in. He sat near a window. His face wasn’t visible.

The place was bound to fill up as lunchtime approached. New faces. New stories. Not that Leopold was seeking new stories anymore.

But how about news stories? From his bag he took out a local paper, bought at a nearby newsagent’s before coming in. As he unrolled it he noticed white paint spots on his trousers. He felt a wave of disappointment, even depression. He’d tried so hard to be careful. Couldn’t he do anything right?

Leaving his paper on the table and his jacket over the chair he approached the waitress, who was near the counter and wore a nametag, Keila.

Are you ready? she asked. Be with you in a sec.

No rush. A mug of tea meanwhile, no sugar and not much milk, please. I’m going to the loo.

She nodded.

At the basin he attacked the emulsion spots with soapy, moistened paper towels. He worked at them and then worked at where they’d been. Over and over, feeling out of control.

He stopped when he realized the leg underneath the trousers now hurt. He glanced at the mirror and saw his own fatigue reflected. He looked like a corpse.

But bathroom mirrors did that. Didn’t they? Did they? He shook his head, pulled a new towel and patted the wet trouser leg.

A mug of tea waited on the table at his place.

He reached for the paper as he sat, but saw that Keila was heading his way with her order pad out. A heavy, pretty woman.

A teacake, please, he said, no longer very hungry.

Jam? Marmalade? Marmite?

You have Marmite?

In little sealed packets.

I’ve never seen that. But just butter, please.

The bacon’s good today. Paul accidentally bought back instead of streaky.

A round of bacon too. Thank you.

She nodded, and headed for the counter. Having written nothing. But… there was something in her walk. Did she show her mood by the way she moved? Was something bothering her today? Or was it just that her feet hurt?

He hurt. He glanced at the thigh where he’d worked so hard to clean the spots. His trousers were wet but there was no sign of the paint. So the splashes must have happened later rather than earlier in the morning’s work, maybe when he was closing the paint tin or cleaning his brush. He wanted his new life to be clean.

This day he’d awakened feeling a little better than the morning before. He’d been able to prise himself out of bed without much delay. The painting needed to be done. Prise and shine.

But he’d tired, with the walls in the little kitchen area only half done. When that happened he needed to get out of his partially painted and unfamiliar place. The same had happened the day before. Two days running now.

For he was running… Just not too far to be… What? Unavailable to most. Available to one.

He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. He sipped from his tea. The tea was good. Yes, he liked Paul’s Café.

He began to thumb through the paper, The East London Gazette. He wasn’t interested in local crimes or golden weddings. But maybe he’d see something to suggest a way he could be a bit of use in the world. Once he was settled. Once the painting was finished. Once he’d unpacked.

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The bacon tasted good. As did the teacake. Paul may sometimes be careless in his purchases, but he prepared his food with care, no matter how simple.

When his plate was empty Keila came over again. He pushed the plate toward her, to be helpful. But instead of gathering them she stopped beside his table. You’re a bloke, right?

He smiled.

And not a kid.

He blinked. Excuse me?

And you’re a Yank, right?

She could tell from the few words he’d spoken to her, although he’d lived in the UK for nearly thirty years? But, Yes. On both counts. All counts.

So maybe you know something.

He frowned. What can I do for you?

She pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit. "I got this kid. A boy, a bloke. He’s twenty, but he still lives at home, with me. Paul, he says I should kick him out. And the other blokes who come in here, well, they don’t seem to know how to stir sugar into coffee, y’know? But you… Maybe you’re different. You visiting, or have you moved?"

I live nearby now. Leopold wondered what might be coming.

Well, see, my kid treats me like a piece of… She stopped herself. Well, you know what I’m saying. He cheeks me even when he wants money. And I just don’t know what to say to him. I tell him, Don’t talk to your mother like that, but nothing works. So, Mr New in Town, who’s a bloke and a Yank but not a kid, tell me. How can I get through to a kid like that? I just don’t understand blokes, I really don’t.

Leopold turned his chair to face her directly.

Na, sorry, she said. I’m not really asking. I just get so fed up. I came over to see if you wanted more tea.

Yes please.

She walked away with the plate.

Leopold watched. Definitely not a happy walk.

When she returned with the tea he said, Do you give him the money?

What? Then, Yeah. I’m scared what he’ll do to get it if he doesn’t get it from me.

No job then?

She snorted. Nothing ‘good enough’ for him.

Next time he wants money, tell him you’ll give it to him. Maybe more than he’s asked for, if you can, but tell him you want him to sit down and listen for five minutes first. Just five. He can put a clock on it. Then he can go.

Yeah…?

Then tell him it’s really important for him to talk about the things he’s feeling – whatever they are. That when feelings get bottled up, they explode. Like shaking a fizzy drink. So whatever he’s feeling, whatever might be upsetting him, he should talk to you, or someone else. And that if he does talk to you, you’ll show him the respect of listening and really try to understand and let him have his say and you won’t get angry and he’ll be able to walk away. Then tell him it really upsets you when he treats you like his maid and his servant and his bank account. Then give him the money, and you walk away. That’s what I’d do.

Keila said nothing for a moment. A little laugh seemed to rise inside her, though it never made it out. I knew you were different from the other blokes we get in here. She left.

When he was alone again Leopold thought, What the hell was that? She’d only asked him because she asked everybody. But could his impulsive words mean anything to her?

They meant a lot to him. They were hard won.

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Renewed by the food, Leopold set off for a walk. It was a sunny day. If he delayed his return to the painting, maybe the empty flat would warm up enough for him to work in his underwear. No risk to trousers that way.

He liked to walk in a new area – though it had been a long time since he’d moved anywhere. It wasn’t about learning the layout of the streets. That would come, like the nouns when learning a new language. What he was looking for, looking at, was the verbs. How to do things. Shops and bus stops and signs offering services like altering clothes and furniture repair. But in the sun there was also a bit of satisfaction at just being outside, the stochastic sounds and sights, the air, and the breeze. It was like being outside of himself.

He’d turned into an unfamiliar street as he left the café. Although soon among modest terrace houses, he found a Chinese takeaway and a tattoo parlour, shortly followed by a primary school. Verbs, one of which he might use eventually.

He walked on and found a large park. Fancy!

In the park he followed a diagonal path that led through it. Sometimes he paused to lift his face to the sun and sometimes he stopped to watch what was happening. A football game – was it fathers v sons? Then six teens, including one girl, playing a half-court basketball game. On one of three tennis courts two women played, wearing long sleeves and sweat pants. They weren’t very good and laughed a lot.

A ball came over the wire fence. Leopold jogged to get to it, and threw it back. Both women thanked him. There you go, he thought, at least I’ve done something for someone else today. A good deed never dies. Kipling wrote that in Kim. If only it were true. Well, from now on…

He stood, seeming to watch the tennis players’ progress but actually catching his breath, surprised by the effect of a few yards of jogging. He should register with a GP. But he didn’t feel ready to do that.

Why not? Was it because it smacked of self-help and his resolution was to try to help other people?

Actually he’d tried to do something for Keila after her unexpected approach. Giving his best off-the-cuff thinking.

A twenty-year-old living at home with his mother? That was nothing unusual in Britain these days, especially in London where accommodation was all but impossible if you weren’t well off.

But living with parents had been inconceivable to Leopold’s generation. Despite Red and Wilma’s generosity and fundamental goodness, from his mid-teens his central ambition was to get out, to get away from the control and scrutiny. College was all kinds of liberation. That had nothing to do with lack of love for and appreciation of the people who’d raised him.

Leopold looked up. He saw that the tennis players were gone. When had that happened?

He returned to his walk. Already off the path when he fetched the tennis ball he continued on the grass.

He saw two dogs running together. Running. Together. There was a pure joy about dogs sometimes. He would love to run with Zadé here in the sun, on the grass. Though they’d never run together.

He headed for a cluster of trees and arched his back slightly, standing taller. He looked at the treetops rather than at the ground in front of him. There was some new green growth.

Zadé knew about trees, could tell one brand from another. He could hear her. The chestnut twigs have just grown hair and dyed it green.

He barely knew a chestnut from a cheesecake. And he wasn’t up to sustaining whimsy.

He stumbled.

Was it from walking tall and looking up, or from thinking about Zadé?

He missed her whimsy. He missed her.

Past the trees he found a pond with benches scattered around it. He would have rested for a while, but none of the benches was empty. He didn’t want to risk a conversation. He was tiring. He turned for home.

Would this new place, his bare rooms, ever become home? He didn’t want it to become home. He hated that it was now home. That he could not make home where his heart was.

Just outside the park an empty bench faced the intersection before it – what an odd place for a bench when it could be turned around and look into the park. But he sat and was grateful for it.

By the time he reached his building he was in need of a dark room, even one painted white. He stopped only to check for post but the pack forwarded by his lawyer included nothing personal, nothing that he wanted. Which made him all the wearier, sadder. He dragged the post and his sorry butt up the stairs to his flat.

He lay on his bed. He pictured a long silvery knife, a short sword really, aimed upward from just below his sternum toward his heart. The perfect short-sword for the purpose was on the wall at Zadé’s, a relic from one of her ancestors. Her brothers had placed it near the door so that every time she left or returned she’d be reminded of her position as a woman. Even as a woman with talent and fire.

But it was the sword he focussed on now. Sometimes when he conjured this image he pictured his two hands on the sword’s handle but this time there was an alternative. Holding the sword in place and running hard at a locked door – symbol of how he couldn’t get to where he wanted to be.

But running? Even a little of that had left him breathless in the park.

He sighed. Images of self-abuse helped nobody and selfishness was not the way he had resolved to live the rest of his life.

Once before, in his late twenties, he’d given himself a new life and a second chance. He could do it again.

But only after he’d finished painting the goddam kitchen.

2

O NE AFTERNOON FIVE days later Leopold was in the café when a woman came to his table. She was not a waitress – Keila had already taken his request for crumpets and tea. May I sit down? the woman said.

As he puzzled over the question because there were at least half a dozen free tables, the woman dropped onto a chair opposite his.

The table was not small so he shrugged and returned to examining a form he’d picked up at the nearest police station. It would authorise them to do a criminal record check on him as part of a process aimed at qualifying him to become an appropriate adult for vulnerable people during police interrogations. But he was stuck on how to answer whether he’d ever been known by another name.

The woman said, Are you busy?

He lifted his eyes. It was obvious that he was busy. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. What do you want? he asked quietly.

Keila said I should talk to you.

He glanced toward the counter but didn’t see Keila. The other afternoon waitress was adding up a bill. To this woman he said, About what?

Would you rather I went away?

He came within a whisker of saying Of course. But he was trying to treat people better. That depends on what this is about.

The woman, muscular and well-shaped, maybe forty, smiled broadly, a big mouth. Keila said you gave her some good advice. She said it didn’t work, but it was good advice.

Now he saw where Keila was, taking an order from a young woman sitting with a child of perhaps five. He said, So you’re looking for some good advice that won’t work? He leaned back and contemplated the high ceiling for a moment. OK, here you go. If you have a boyfriend who doesn’t treat you the way you want him to, tell him once what you want in clear, simple language. He’ll either change to please you, or he won’t. If he doesn’t, change boyfriends. That’s good advice. Next patient, please.

The woman stared at him.

Who are you? he asked. And why did you sit down at my table?

Actually, I’m not looking for advice at all, the woman said. I’m talking to people in the café who are regular customers. Keila said you’re new around here but you come in every day.

He waited, something he did in his previous life when people wanted something from him. He saw her feel the pressure of his silence.

She said, I’m writing up Paul’s Café for the local weekly, The East London Gazette. We have a series featuring interesting businesses in the area. This hasn’t always been a café, you know. It used to be a brothel. Well, there was a brothel on the site before there was a fire and it was rebuilt in Edwardian times. But before the brothel it was an abattoir.

He didn’t react.

One meat market to another. She smiled.

So you’re a reporter?

A contributor. Yes.

One who subscribes to the modern media preference for the sensational over the significant?

Her turn to be silent.

He said, The original stone building on this site went up in the 1750s, a deluxe family residence that later became a boarding house, one with a variety of uses. For instance in the early 1900s they had a photographer working from the ground floor, according to the census. After the fire you mentioned the site was cleared and the owner of an important transport business built this brick building as his home. When his business went bust in World War One the building became a small hotel that then was developed for flats above and a pub below, which became this café in 1974.

Sounds like you should be writing this article, not me. Have you always been a local historian?

There’s a lot of local history in the library. I can give you directions if you don’t know where it is.

Meow, Mr…?

I’m not looking to get my name in the papers, thanks. And I can give you some more good advice. Never tell a reporter – or a contributor – anything you don’t want to see in print.

I can see why Keila thinks you’re wise. Well, I’m Jane. Just plain Jane. She gave him a moment to contradict her self-description. When he didn’t she said, Jane Morrison, and stuck her hand across the table.

He left her hand in the air. I’ve probably already said enough for you to gather that I don’t have a very good opinion of media representatives, Ms Morrison.

You’ve had a lot of experience with the press?

Either tell me what, exactly, you want from me or leave now. Please. He stared.

But she was not intimidated.

As I said, I’m talking to regulars here. Trying to build up a picture of who comes in and why: what they like, anything unique and interesting because the café itself is unique and interesting. Keila says you started coming in about a week ago. What is it that you like about the place?

Please excuse me, he said at last. I’d appreciate it if you’d take your questions elsewhere.

Her head gave a tiny shake, as if she’d been lightly slapped. It struck Leopold as spontaneous. So did that mean the rest of what she’d said was rehearsed?

Of course, she said. And you didn’t invite me to sit down. Thank you for this much of your time which has been, I must say, intriguing. She got ready to rise. I haven’t always been an aspiring reporter. In fact I’ve only just started. Trying to rebuild a shattered life, you know. But I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s a nice place, Keila’s nice, I thought you might have wanted to say something about it or about yourself or anything.

Paul, the chef, really cares about what he cooks, however simple.

Jane Morrison stood in front of her chair with a bit of a smile and a nod. Thank you. But Paul’s not just the chef. He’s also the owner. She left.

Leopold returned to his form but, still stymied by his problem with it, he looked up in time to see Plain Jane sit down with two men across the room. One black, one white, their dress suggesting they might be construction workers. Did she prefer talking to men? he wondered. But by the time he’d finished his crumpets she’d spoken with three tables of women.

He’d kept track. Why? Then he realized that her comment about trying to rebuild a life had pricked him.

But was he rebuilding his life? Or just trying to survive the collapse of his last one in a way that could justify its continuation.

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The police station was a twenty-five minute walk. He decided to leave the question about names empty, as well as a section that asked for any addresses before this one if he’d lived in it for less than three years. How about seven days? If they really cared about those things they could reject him. But an article in The East London Gazette for which Plain Jane was preparing her contribution had said the police urgently needed new volunteers to be appropriate adults.

The role was legally mandated but, strangely, performed only by unpaid volunteers. Well maybe he could learn how to save a few poor sods from being railroaded by overzealous cops. Maybe he could spend some time helping someone other than himself. The leper colony could come later.

He left his form at the desk in the station. But instead of heading directly home after the cop shop stop, he browsed some windows. His repainting was finished – living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette, walls, doors, ceilings and trim now glistened in deceptively pure whites. He’d left the floors as he found them, covered with an oatmealish vinyl. Replacing it was beyond his DIY skill level and would require authorizing strangers to come in. Maybe one day, but not this day. But he was minded to consider what he might add to his mostly empty flat.

There was no question of filling it. Just as the neutrality of the white paint was important, empty space was important too. He already had a bed, a table and chair, an upholstered armchair, a table lamp and a kettle. Even a television and a computer, although both of those waited in boxes. But some shelves? A side table?

Not curtains though, because undefended windows represented the new openness with which he needed to live. But how about a recliner? Wasn’t owning a recliner an American dream?

However the only thing he actually bought was from a miscellany shop. A simple black furry comforter, it would help keep him warm in his armchair in the night when the bed was too dangerous.

The comforter under his arm, he headed for home to try it out. Fatigue was beginning to set in but he liked the idea of having something that felt good to the touch. How many acrylics had been killed in order to make it, he wondered.

Can you spare some change, mister? I’m trying to get enough for the night shelter.

The begging man was maybe in his late-thirties, with rough grey and white stubble on his chin and head. He sat cross-legged on a piece of cardboard with an upturned hat in front of him, his back against a low wall. People heading from a cluster of shops would pass him on the way to a nearby car park and bus stop.

Leopold fished in his pocket for some of the coins he’d carried for purposes like this ever since Margaret Thatcher had made countless people homeless. He dropped a two pound coin into the peppery guy’s hat.

Thanks, the man said. Have a good rest of your day.

Leopold crouched beside him.

What? the man said, drawing away slightly.

This shelter you mentioned, where is it?

Over St Elizabeth and Angels Church. Why?

Could Leopold explain why? Would the man actually want to hear that he had time he wanted to fill usefully?

The man said, I ain’t shittin’ you. I’m trying to get enough to check in there.

How much does that take?

The man hesitated for just a second, long enough for Leopold to recognise that he was being assessed for how much he could be asked for. I need another eight quid, the man said.

Leopold laughed and stood up. Good luck.

The man looked up, a hurt expression on his face at first but then he smiled and laughed. Good luck to you too.

I think I’m going to need it, Leopold said.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Well, watch your back, the man said, making a gesture meant, somehow, to refer to what had caused his current situation.

What’s your name? Leopold asked.

Donnie.

I’m Leo. He bent over. The two men shook hands. What did you do in your previous life?

What fuckin’ previous life? Donnie said, lowering his eyes, the connection fading.

Leopold laughed again, left a tenner from his wallet, and walked away.

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St Elizabeth and Angels Church was not on his way home but wasn’t back toward the police station either. Another new direction, Leopold thought. How many do I need?

The shelter was in the basement of the large Victorian church. A sign secured to railings outside the stairwell leading down to its door read, We Can Help.

Oh yes? Leopold thought. He descended the stone stairs, found a buzzer button and pushed it.

A woman’s face appeared behind a square pane of dirty glass set in a wall at right angles to the door. A disembodied voice said, Hi.

The sound system was poor. He spoke slowly as he said, I’d like to talk to somebody about the shelter.

After a moment something electronic sounded and the voice probably told him to push on the door. He pushed.

There was an open hatchway inside through which the woman again said, Hi. She was maybe forty-five, with an array of piercings that hadn’t been visible through the murky glass. What can we do for you?

You have a night shelter here?

We’re full tonight, but I can ring around.

Thanks, but I don’t need a place to sleep. Although… how much does a night here cost?

Our accommodation and meals are free for the first three days. If you stay longer it’s three pounds. But you can come in just for the meals. Mr…?

Leopold smiled. At least his instincts about Donnie had been intact. I’m Leopold. Leo.

And I’m Cat. So is it a meal you’re wanting, or to donate a million pounds, or what?

I’m wondering if you need volunteers.

We certainly do. What are you offering?

Some time.

Cat cleared her throat and looked him over, as best she could through the hatch. Having first taken him as homeless, now she’d see a clean, simply dressed man looking, perhaps, sixty. Do you know much about shelters like ours or the people who use them?

I know I’m not much different from anybody likely to need help here, and that your guests’ stories will be as diverse as people’s stories anywhere.

She nodded. "Well, volunteers serve a lot of functions for us. But tell me, Leo, why would you want to put in some time here?" She kept his gaze dispassionately.

He decided not to use the r word – redemption. He said, Although I have a place to live, there are other kinds of homelessness. Emotional ones. I want to feel I’m spending time on some people other than myself.

It sounds like you have a story of your own.

I promise I won’t bore you with it.

Did the tilt of her head mean, We’ll see about that? Or just Thanks? What she said was, I’ll show you around?

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A tour of the premises and an explanation of how volunteers helped out led Leopold and Cat to decide that his best fit would be to join the rota for cooking evening meals. These were prepared in the afternoons. Evening volunteers then reheated the food, finished it with vegetables, and served it at about half past seven.

There was a shortage of afternoon volunteers, apparently because most helpers wanted to see who they were helping, perhaps expecting thanks. But Leopold was not looking for gratitude.

He would work alone from a recipe, ingredients having been assembled ahead of his arrival. He’d cook meals for twenty-five unless a larger quantity was needed.

However St Elizabeth and Angels also required a background check of their volunteers. Which made sense, of course, because the shelter’s clients were vulnerable people. This form too included questions about previous names and addresses.

But Leopold decided to give his solicitor’s address and just leave the alternative name thing blank. Would St Elizabeth and Angels appreciate that he was making a compromise with his determination to live an honest life?

He felt a more visceral desire to work for the shelter than he had about working with, or against, the police. He wanted to do this. But one other item was a problem. The shelter form required contact details for two people who would vouch for him.

As Leopold headed for home, walking slowly he contemplated what to do about that. There were plenty of people he could ask. He just didn’t want any of them to know where he was.

His lawyer would be one. That was OK. But someone else?

He felt a wave of fatigue. Suddenly he could hardly go another step. He dropped onto a low wall by the pavement.

The waves of fatigue since he moved were coming later in the day now and, until this one, less intensely. Well, he’d been out for longer and done more in one trip than on any day since he’d moved. Done more, or spent more time with people?

It was an effort to breathe.

He’d thought he was past those early days of immobility and purposelessness. The shock and horror of what had happened, of what he’d done, eventually gave way to a level of numbness. And then to the resolution if not to move on, then move aside. To completely revise his life so as to be, somehow, worth the air he breathed. To live decently.

And now he was here. On a wall. Somewhere.

No, he would not be telling Cat his story if he was allowed to cook for St Elizabeth and Angels. But he had a feeling that by cooking for others he might feed himself.

He heard a door open behind him. He didn’t turn to the sound but as steps approached he looked and saw a tiny, elderly man with a broom. What you do on my wall? the man shouted. Get offa my wall. I don’t want no more shit on my wall.

So that’s a no to giving me a reference then? Leopold thought as he dragged himself to his feet.

3

T HE ISSUE OF people knowing where he was came up again a week later. While Leopold was having a late lunch a fashionably dressed young couple stepped inside the café. They stopped in the doorway and looked around.

The young man smiled broadly. He turned to his companion and said, Oh yes! loudly enough for Leopold to hear him across the room.

The woman was younger, maybe mid-twenties. She smiled too and wrote something in a notebook. The young man took a picture with his phone. Then another. People at several tables looked up to see what was happening. The incomers couldn’t care less.

They walked around the café, passing free tables, talking in lowered voices. Having done a circuit, they walked from one side of the dining room to another. They looked out the windows. The young man took many pictures; the young woman made many notes.

A few people continued to watch, seeming puzzled about what the couple might be up to. Were they were estate agents. Was Paul selling?

But Leopold recognized what they were doing, what they were up to. In the dim and distant he’d done the same job for a few months. Had he behaved as imperiously as these two children? Probably he had. He recognized not only their behaviours but their reek of entitlement and ambition.

With a sigh he lifted his copy of The East London Gazette and used it to mask his face. He continued to enjoy his lentil and bacon soup, his thick slice of multi-seeded bread. But he kept track.

He heard the woman say, Sight lines. The young man looked right and left, and then to the high ceiling.

The woman said, I’m hungry, Gee. Let’s eat, since we’re here.

The man was reluctant. From his body language Leopold knew he was public school and money and an arsehole.

Then, Sod’s Law, the woman picked the table next to his.

"I was surprised by the suggestion, but this is just what Wayne is looking for," the man, Gee, said as he pulled out a chair. He looked at the seat before he dropped his tailored bottom onto it, not quite arsehole enough to wipe it first with the handkerchief protruding from his jacket pocket. Would he end his career doing hagiographic documentaries about the rich and famous?

The woman sat and examined the menu. The man looked around and took another picture. Then, Sod’s bloody law firm, he leaned over to Leopold. What kind of soup is that meant to be?

Meant to be? Arsehole. But Leopold told him.

How imaginative.

Leopold stiffened, but said no more. The couple was looking at the woods and he was a tree and wanted to stay that way. But he felt like dragging the little turd out the front door and to the nearby bus stop, then pushing him under a number 666. He felt like telling him to find a café location on the other side of London, or build a set they could dress to look however they wanted it to look. Just keep away from here.

Leopold lingered briefly on images of the bus wheels squeezing Gee-juice out of the expensive suit like toothpaste. Or how about beating him up in an alley? That’s how things got settled back when he was a child, and out of place himself.

He drank from his tea. He breathed.

Was he so angry because this Gee kid was what he used to be – although without the posh background? Not the job, but the vortex of arrogance and self-regard that could suck people in and drown them without a moment’s thought?

Leopold sighed. Sighed again. Lowered his head.

Keila appeared and the woman ordered a tuna salad sandwich. Gee looked up from the menu and said, Same for me. Wait. Where do you source your tuna?

From the kitchen, Keila said, not missing a beat.

And suddenly Leopold relaxed. Keila didn’t give a flying fuck when the young man, about to explain what he meant, was shushed by the young woman who put a hand on his wrist and said, Gee, belt up.

Oh never mind, Gee said. Same as hers and an Earl Grey.

Keila even caught Leopold’s eye for a moment and he saw – he thought he saw – a glint of pleasure. Her walk, as she left the couple, seemed happier than he’d felt it had been earlier.

Leopold returned to his soup and tried to focus on his newspaper. But he saw Gee pull the woman’s notebook across the table and then not look at it, thinking of something else. He seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Gee glanced at Leopold’s table, leaned close to the young woman and whispered something. She turned to look too.

Oh shit.

Bull by the horns. Leopold rose and leaned over the couple, his face especially close to Gee’s. What you lookin’ at? he said, keeping the pitch of his voice up, his accent his best approximation of East London.

Nothing, nothing, the young man said. "It’s just you look like someone we know. Well, know of."

"I look like someone you bleeders know? His version of the accent wasn’t good, but the intimidating tone was. In what bleedin’ universe?"

A producer named Finn Davis.

A producer of what? Bullshit?

Of television drama. He used to be quite famous. The Warehouse Plays? Well, famous in the business.

I’ve told Gee, the woman said, the man he’s thinking of has black hair and, well, he’s younger. I’m really sorry to have bothered you, sir.

"Well, Gee, you tell your pal Finn to come in ’ere and I’ll convince ’im to mind ’is own fuckin’ business just like I’m tellin’ you two. OK? Got it?"

Yes, we’ve got it, the woman said.

Leopold stared at Gee. Got it, he said.

I’m very sorry, the young woman said, glancing evilly at her colleague. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.

"Then ’e