Nora calls at the barbershop unannounced that Friday. She taps on the window as I’m sweeping up after closing time. It’s been really busy today – most of the week, come to think of it – and I’m longing to get a cold beer down my throat.
‘Hello,’ I say, letting her inside. ‘This is, um, unexpected. How’s it going?’
‘Good, thanks.’ She smiles. ‘I have some news for you and, as I was in the neighbourhood, I thought I may as well deliver it in person.’
‘That sounds intriguing. Grab a seat. I need to finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind, but I can talk while I go.’
She tells me how she pitched my story to The Sunday Times Magazine and, although she wasn’t sure whether it would be their kind of thing or not, they turned out to be really keen on it. ‘They want to run it the Sunday after next,’ she says.
‘That’s brilliant,’ I reply, making a mental note to give Rita and family a heads-up this time.
‘It is, but there’s one small hitch.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They’re not entirely happy with the photos I have so far.’
‘Why not? What’s wrong with them?’
She purses her lips. ‘The nationals can be quite, er, specific about what they want when it comes to these things. Basically, they’d like some pictures of you actually cutting the hair of a homeless person.’
‘You got some shots like that on your phone, didn’t you?’
‘I’m a writer. Photography isn’t my forte, Luke, and phone pictures are never likely to be as good as photos taken with a professional camera. Plus I think they’d like some images that haven’t been used anywhere else.’ She shrugs, explaining they liked the shots Rudy, the photographer who came here previously, had taken. But as those had been of me alone in the barbershop, they’d requested that he take some more.
‘So what were you thinking?’ I ask. ‘Because the next session isn’t until a week on Monday, which will be too late.’
‘Exactly. I, um, was hoping we might be able to set something up beforehand. Tomorrow, maybe?’ She flashes me a doe-eyed look. ‘Do you think one of the guys who came to the session earlier this week might be up for popping back to get involved? What about the man you gave that paperback to? It seemed like you already knew each other.’
‘Tommy? I wouldn’t say we’re close or anything. That was literally the second time we met, but yeah, we’d had a chat previously. We’d spoken about the book he was reading at the time, which was why I’d dug out that other one for him. He might be up for getting involved, I suppose, if I can track him down. Leave it with me.’
‘Perfect. Could I give you a call tomorrow morning?’
‘Fine.’
When Nora first showed up, I was tempted to ask her if she fancied joining me for that cold drink I’ve been looking forward to all afternoon.
A naive part of me must have swallowed Meg’s nonsense about her liking me and, in a state of delusion, let myself believe that was why she’d dropped by. Now I know the real reason for her visit, all I can think about is whether I’ll be able to find Tommy and persuade him to help. Hopefully he’ll remember me this time – assuming I can locate him.
As I’m letting Nora back out, I ask: ‘What if Tommy’s up for it but doesn’t want to be identified?’
She screws up her face, looking pensive, before replying: ‘I don’t think that would be a major problem. I’m sure Rudy would be able to take the photo so you can only see the back of his head or something. Yeah?’
I nod.
‘Okay, speak tomorrow. Have a great night.’
It’s tempting to say my night would have been better if she’d not showed up, sending me on a potential wild goose chase. I don’t, of course. I feel like I owe her for getting me the publicity I needed and helping out here the other day. It would have been nice if she’d offered to give me a hand to find Tommy, mind; then again, I could have asked for her help and I chose not to.
Once I’m done locking up, I head for the supermarket where I first met Tommy. I’m not too hopeful of finding him, based on previous experience, and – sure enough – he’s not there. No one is camped outside the store today, which surprises me, although when I walk along the road a little further and turn a corner, I almost trip over a woman in a grimy pink bodywarmer. She’s sitting on a pile of cardboard boxes with a tartan blanket over her lap and a dog at her side.
‘Could you spare any change?’ she asks in a hoarse, smoker’s voice, clearing her throat before flashing me a brief weary smile.
‘Um, sure.’ I root through my pockets and dig out a few coins, which I hand to her. ‘You look like you could do with a hot drink,’ I say.
‘Thanks, love.’
I turn to her dog, a black and white Staffie, who looks up at me with sad, kind eyes and then opens his mouth so his long pink tongue flops out and he appears to be smiling.
This leads me to reach into my pocket again and hand over a couple more pounds, adding: ‘Treat this one to something nice too, yeah? He looks like a great companion.’
The woman thanks me again and reaches over to tickle her pet under the chin. ‘Did you hear that, Milo? This nice man thinks you deserve a treat. I reckon he’s right.’ Looking back at me, she adds: ‘Milo’s my watchdog. He’s always got my back. He knows straight away if someone’s to be trusted or not, and he likes you, right enough.’
I smile. ‘That’s nice to hear. I’m looking for a guy called Tommy, by the way. I don’t suppose you know him, do you?’ I describe him as best I can, both before and after his recent haircut, making sure to mention the fact he likes to read.
‘Yes, I know Tommy,’ she says. ‘You’re the one who’s been cutting folks’ hair, are you?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, offering her a handshake, which she accepts. ‘I’m Luke, and you are?’
‘Maggie.’
I tell her she’s most welcome to come along to the next free cutting session, giving her the details, and she advises me to try near the bus station, where she thinks I might find Tommy.
‘Don’t bank on him being too chatty,’ she adds, miming someone smoking. I don’t understand this comment; rather than querying it, though, I nod and thank her for helping me.
When I eventually find Tommy, after circling around the bus station a couple of times, I understand what Maggie meant. The reason I didn’t spot him straight away was because I was expecting to find him sitting on the ground reading near a shop or a cashpoint, perhaps. The last thing I anticipated was for him to be standing frozen in the middle of an alleyway like a zombified statue.
I’ve seen people in this state before, so I know straight away what’s going on. He must have taken spice: the former legal high that’s caused a lot of problems across the city centre, not least among the homeless.
I’ve read numerous articles about it in the papers and online. Also known as ‘fake weed’ or ‘synthetic marijuana’, it’s usually smoked in rolling paper, like cannabis, but is far more potent and dangerous. Essentially, it’s a cheap mix of nasty, lab-made chemicals sprayed on to herbs to give the appearance of being natural when it’s actually anything but.
It’s common to see those who’ve taken it crashed out on benches or pavements, dead to the world, or – even scarier, like now – rooted to the spot while still standing, in a zombie-like catatonic state.
I’ve never tried speaking to anyone I’ve encountered in that condition before, and I’m sad to say there have been plenty. I’ve always shuffled past, bemused – one of the herd – assuming someone else will deal with them. How can I do that now, though? I know this guy, unlike the various others I’ve seen. Days ago, I was cutting his hair and chatting to him; giving him one of my old paperbacks.
Previously, although I feel bad admitting it, I suppose I tended to think of the people who took spice as being either desperate or foolish. And yet I wouldn’t consider Tommy either of those things, based on my limited experience of him. You could argue that no one would live on the streets in the first place unless they were desperate. But equally Tommy has never come across as desperate to me. Until this moment, I thought he carried himself with an impressive level of self-respect.
But there’s no dignity in what I see in front of me now. It’s horrific. Every bone in my body is urging me to turn and run, but still I can’t bring myself to leave. I have to do something. I have to try to help him.
‘Tommy,’ I say, gingerly walking up close. ‘Are you all right? Do you remember me? It’s Luke. I cut your hair the other day.’
I’m standing right in front of him, but I get no response other than a guttural groan, which may or may not be anything to do with my presence. His eyes are unfocused and glazed over. It’s freaky as hell. My pulse is racing.
I click my fingers right in front of his face several times, but it makes no difference. He’s away with the fairies. It’s like his mind’s gone somewhere else and his body’s been left behind. What’s so disconcerting, though, is the way he’s still standing up, staggering and twitching. Part of me fears he could suddenly turn violent and attack me, although that’s probably down to watching too many zombie movies.
Standing back a couple of metres, I pull my phone out of my pocket, ready to call 999, when – to my surprise and considerable relief – an ambulance pulls up at the end of the alley.
‘Was it you that called us?’ a young male paramedic asks me after stepping out of the vehicle and walking over in his yellow hi-vis jacket, radio attached to the breast.
‘No, I’ve just got here,’ I say. ‘I was about to phone for help, but someone obviously beat me to it. He’s in a right mess. I can’t get him to respond.’
‘He’ll have taken spice,’ the paramedic says. ‘He’ll be like that until the drug wears off. Do you know him?’
I’m not quite sure what goes through my head at this point, but rather than telling the truth, I lie. ‘No, I was, um, passing by and saw him like this.’
‘Okay, well, don’t worry about it. You can leave him to us. We’ll check him over.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’ I ask.
The paramedic frowns. ‘It’s nasty stuff, but he’s in safe hands now. It’s nothing we haven’t dealt with lots of times before.’
Back at the flat later that night, Alfred curled up on my knee in front of the TV, I’m beating myself up about the way I disowned Tommy. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I tell the paramedic his name and admit that I knew him?
I’m really not sure why I reacted in such a strange way. I guess I panicked, thinking I might get drawn into that whole mess. They might have wanted to leave him in my care, for instance, once he came to. And what would I have done then: brought him back here? No way. Not after seeing him in that horrendous state. Not knowing he’s into taking spice. I’m not stupid. Welcoming a destitute druggie into my home would be like inviting them to steal my stuff.
I may have cut Tommy’s hair, had a chat with him and given him a book; that doesn’t make him my responsibility. And yet I still can’t help feeling bad about disowning him. I wonder if he’ll have any recollection of that. Unlikely, considering the condition he was in. He didn’t seem remotely conscious, but who knows? I haven’t got a clue what it’s like to be on spice – and I never want to find out.
Regardless of whether Tommy remembers or not, I’m ashamed of my actions. Iris would never have walked away like I did. Not a chance.