I go straight up the promenade towards The Mansion, with the rusty tracks of the railway and its metal fence to my right and the towering wall across the road to my left. The wind pushes like a cold hand against my bent head, all the way to the broad expanse of concrete before the tatty white building, where it dies away.
It’s eerily quiet; I’d be glad to see even Mad Alec come out now, but nothing breaks the silence. I peer in like a stranger, but see only an old sleeping bag, an empty crate or two and some bent beer cans. It’s deserted. I stand a moment longer and then I hear it – a shuffling and something falling. It’s coming from the side room where the old man used to sleep. My heart starts jumping inside me and I want to run. ‘Banks?’ I whisper, ‘Banks?’ and step in, eyes wide in the gloom. A man turns, loses his balance and puts out a hand, cursing. I’ve never seen him before in my life.
We look at each other. He speaks. ‘Got any money?’
His face is narrow and thin like a dog’s, with long teeth and the lower rims of his eyes drooping and red. I put my hand in my pocket and find a coin. ‘This is all I have,’ I say. ‘Take it.’
The man looks at the pound in my hand and as he moves to snatch it, I see my old bag clenched beneath his arm. The sleeve of a pink sweatshirt is hanging out like a tongue. A mean look comes over his face.
‘Clear off,’ he says, and takes a step forward.
‘You put that down, it’s not your stuff,’ I tell him, but he lunges at me again.
‘You wait until Banks comes,’ I tell him, ‘then you’ll be sorry.’
I step backwards – one, two, three – until I’m out and walking away. When I glance back, the man is peering at me from the doorway.
‘I only wanted to ask if you’ve seen someone!’ I yell. ‘It’s not even your house!’
He disappears, but a moment later comes back and hurls something, which falls through the air straight towards my head.
‘Bugger off!’ he shouts again, but I don’t need telling. I walk away, furious. The man has my bag that Banks was supposed to be looking after. How dare he go in and just take it. He’s like some animal that finds an empty lair, picking over the bones until he knows the owners aren’t coming back. Then he’ll overlay it with his own scent so that nothing familiar is left.
Once I’m home, I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to find out if Banks is all right. I need to know about Alec and the old man, and I realise now that if they’re not on the beach, or in The Mansion, I have no idea where to look. Finally, just before I give up and go to bed, I remember the Sally Army, and suddenly I’m excited. It takes only seconds to go online and find the number of the local branch, and now I can barely sleep. I want it to be tomorrow right now.
To my surprise, it’s only a short bus ride and I’m there. In the daylight, my trumpet woman looks much younger. She’s busy pouring tea from a giant teapot and laying out buns. The customers seem to be mostly homeless people, and from my place at the door, I scan their faces. Most of them take their tea and buns to a table and slump over. Some sit silent and some sleep huddled against radiators. The teacups give them a respectable air, but a closer look tells you they are strangers to an indoor life. Their beards are shaggy, their clothes a uniform colour as though whatever they used to be has been faded to grey by the wind and the salt air. One of them is talking to the wall, his mouth moving like an old puppet – gawp-gawp-gawp – out of sequence with the words. Mostly, though, they are quiet, like the survivors of some disaster waiting for a boat to come and take them to a new home.
An army woman comes over to me. She smiles and asks me in, but I can’t do that. I show her the newspaper with Banks’ photo in it, but she shakes her head. ‘I’m not aware of seeing him,’ she says, ‘but I could have. I’ll certainly look out for him, and ask the other centres if he’s known.’
I sigh. ‘I just want to know he’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘I want to say I’m sorry.’
The woman looks sympathetic, but she has no solutions, only her promise to look out. It’s something and nothing.
‘I hope you’ll come again,’ she says as she writes down my number. ‘It’s nice to see you. If we hear anything I’ll let you know.’
There’s nothing to do but go home. I just wish I knew Banks was okay. Right now he’s like the ocean at night – you know it’s there, but even though the lights are coming on you can’t see it and all you know of it is a washing sound somewhere down below, where the cooler air comes up at you with a smell of salt. It sounds like someone sighing in the back room of a house when they think no one is listening.