Neither of us owns an alarm clock, but there was never a chance of us sleeping late. It is still dark outside when Sage comes through from his morning wash, drip-drying his newly cut hair on to the tiles of the floor. I need to click on the torch to brush the lint from his second-hand suit and straighten his Mozart tie. Then I set up the stove to make his porridge.
‘What d’you think they’ll ask you?’ I say.
‘The usual.’ He shrugs.
‘Like what?’
‘Have you never had a job interview, Rab?’
I go quiet, busying myself with measuring out a half-tinful of oats. The only time I’ve ever been interviewed was by Cesare, back when I was sixteen. He asked if I liked coffee, because if I did then he couldn’t employ me as a barista. In case I stole. I stuttered and swore a hatred for the stuff, not realising until my second or third shift that it was his attempt at humour. Somehow I don’t think Sage’s interview will be like that. Maybe it will be closer to my meetings with Bower: full of jargon and casting-couch promises.
‘They’ll ask about my teaching at university,’ Sage says. ‘And about what qualifies me to talk to those with what you might call vulnerabilities to alcohol and drugs. Or those with mental health issues.’
‘And what does qualify you?’
‘Experience,’ he says, simply.
The job is with a community centre up near Hollingdean, working with folk to try to increase their employability. Teaching CV-writing skills, interview techniques, time-management and the like. Basic stuff, far removed from Gandhi or the poetry of William Blake. That might be no bad thing, though. He won’t be telling people how to think, just how to get from nine to five.
I asked Sage, the other day, how the position was funded, and he replied that it was a mixture of gambling and begging – the Lottery and private donations – but Luke reckons that he’s just being cynical and that there might be a bit of city council funding as well. Especially down here, with the Green Party being such a strong presence.
The duplicitous dentist has really come through for us. Not only is he coming over to squat-sit this morning, to guard against unwanted visitors, but he’s also helped out with money towards the suit and haircut needed to get Sage from looking as if he’s been living underneath a hedge to just looking as if he’s been dragged through one backwards. Dishevelled is acceptable – look at the Mayor of London – but stained and shaggy is not.
In any case, Luke has his own fundraising to do, because he’s hoping to volunteer over in Tanzania for a year after he’s qualified, so it was good of him to donate his share of the money from the two gigs we played last week to what we dubbed the ‘suit and shave’ fund. He’s got plenty of time to make it back, he says, and he’s always got the option of taking out a loan. Sage’s need is more urgent.
The second gig, at a pub out Rottingdean way, wasn’t about the money, though. Not on my part, at least. It was all about the moment, right at the end of the set, when Luke stepped to the back of the stage and left me seated on my stool at the front. Alone. With my eyes closed, I trickled my fingers over the strings and let my voice falter and break over the opening lyrics. All the while, I knew that each note I picked out and every word I sang would build, until the sound filled the small bar. Then every conversation, every pint glass, every turning head and texting thumb would be stilled.
It’s called ‘Bethnal Green’. A new song, written on my borrowed guitar, about those days after I was thrown out of Pierce’s house. And not to sound arrogant, but it’s good. No one else has told me this, there have been no compliments; I just know. As I belted out the chorus, the words rose from deep inside and the guitar melody scaled my spine as a shiver. Out in the audience, I knew that toes were tapping and that if I opened my eyes I would see the eyes of others closed, with a smile spreading.
I know it’s good. Which made it all the more annoying when I fucked up. Right towards the end, as I came out of the last chorus. My fingers hovered over the strings. I reached for the F chord, the same one I’ve played a thousand times, and it slipped. Not for long – I quickly recovered – but the spell was broken.
Afterwards, I took a tenner from the fee and bought myself a whisky. It went down, without a grimace, in a single swallow. As Luke came over, I stalked away to the toilets at the back of the room. They were empty, but I caught sight of myself in the tarnished mirror above the sink. With a yell, I slung the loose change in my hand at my reflection. The coins pinged and cracked across the room like shrapnel. Instinctively, I ducked and raised an arm to cover my face, and it was in that crouched position that I remembered that the money was not mine to throw away. It was for Sage. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawled across the floor to pluck up the six pound coins and three twenty pences. I left the ten pence coin where it lay, in an ever-spreading puddle beneath the far-end urinal.
We walk briskly, and I worry about the rattle-wheeze of Sage’s breathing, and about the sour-sweet smell of his body odour transferring itself to his suit. It’s mild out, even though we’re at the start of November. At St Peter’s Church I make a point of stopping and taking off my zip-up hoodie. I wait for Sage to remove his jacket, but he is pacing small circles on the pavement and muttering to himself.
‘Would you not like to keep your jacket nice?’ I ask.
‘What?’ He turns towards me.
‘It’s warm enough for just your shirt and – ’
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Fine. It’s this way.’
We turn on to the bottom of Ditchling Road, past the ornate balconies, leafy trees and bistro pubs. There’s graffiti on the walls, but it’s trendy – art rather than hatred.
As the road begins to pitch upwards into a slope, leaving the city centre behind, I find I can’t stop thinking about the suit jacket. It is difficult to keep anything decent when you’re squatting or sleeping rough. Everything you own – seems like everything you touch – takes on the seeping smell of either your skin or your surroundings. It only takes days, less than a week definitely, before you get to the stage of not having anything fit for the likes of a job interview. Then it takes money to buy new clothes. Money you don’t have unless you save and sacrifice. Or steal.
‘What if you don’t get the job, Sage?’
He frowns, but says nothing.
‘I’m not saying you won’t. But if you don’t get it then you’ll want to apply for other jobs, won’t you? And it would be good to have the jacket clean for that, no? So that it doesn’t need a dry-clean.’
He reaches up and wrenches the jacket from one shoulder, then the other. I want to tell him to be careful of the shape and the stitching, but I stay silent and wait for him to hand it off to me. I don’t point out that I was just in time, that the armpits are damp with perspiration and that the white fabric of his shirt is beginning to develop that telltale yellow tint at the collar. Instead, I fold the suit jacket over my arm and follow, a step or two behind, as Sage strides on.
The walk is long. We pass streets lined with disused shops and abandoned houses, with wooden boards across windows and tattered ‘To Let’ signs in overgrown lawns. As we continue climbing, I wonder whether Sage has carried on past Hollingdean and is making for the South Downs. That was his original plan, after all, before the squat: run for the hills.
As we begin to return to terraced streets, though, we take a turn to the right and make our way down into a dip in the road. Sage’s pace begins to slacken. He doesn’t stop, exactly, but he sways and begins to feel his way, hand over hand, with the help of a garden wall.
I grasp him by the elbow. ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘Why bother, Rab?’ He turns to me. His beard is neatly trimmed and his fringe no longer trails across his forehead, but there’s despair in his eyes. ‘Why fucking bother?’
‘They invited you for the interview,’ I say, shaking his elbow. ‘They think you’re suitable for the job, Sage. For fuck’s sake, you are suitable. You love teaching.’
‘I’m only on their list to fill some quota, tick some box…’ He trails off and looks at a clutch of shops further down the road. ‘Sure, we gave the homeless guy an interview, we even gave him a fucking bourbon biscuit, but he smelt of the gutter so we gave it to the young graduate who smells of the new car his daddy bought him.’
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It won’t be like that.’
‘You’re right: they won’t give it to the graduate either. It’ll go to the interviewer’s daughter or the board member’s son.’
‘You’ll get it, Sage.’
He doesn’t look convinced.
‘Is it one of those buildings there, then?’ I ask.
He nods and points. ‘The brown one, with the blinds in the windows.’
‘It doesn’t look so scary, mate.’
The shop front has no sign. Brown-painted wood cladding surrounds a display window with off-white blinds, shut. To one side is a newsagent, to the other, a fish and chip shop. There is no movement around them, but a couple of smokers stand outside a betting shop a couple of doors closer to us.
‘I should have had a drink,’ he says. ‘To take the edge off.’
I shake my head. ‘Fuck that.’
‘They’ll take one look at me, though, and…’
This is the main problem with rough sleeping. More than the crotch-rot, the cold and the constant threat of violence – this. You get to the stage where you can’t imagine anyone looking at you and seeing anything of value. Too used to glances sliding away, eyes flicker-skipping past. It’s the self-doubt that clings to you worse than any dirt. And fuck me, it’s difficult to clean off once it starts seeping into your skin.
‘Let me tell you this,’ I say. ‘In the centre of London, in pubs and restaurants, there’s a steady stream of young graduates. Fucking leaders of the future, these folk. And, when they meet, they reminisce about that one lecturer who spoke about contemporary politics and took the time to bloody talk to them about the world outside the walls of the university. And at the end of the table this woman with red hair blushes, because she had a massive crush on that lecturer. Then someone raises a glass, and they all toast to – ’
‘What’s your point, Rab?’
‘That you’ve never valued yourself by quotas or tick-boxes. Or money, for that matter. You value yourself by the difference you can make, the impact you can have.’
‘And you think that they’ll do the same?’ he snorts.
‘Why not?’
Sage stands, slumped, with one hand still on the garden wall. His Mozart tie is askew, showing the missing button halfway down his shirt-front. Shaking out the suit jacket, I hold it out for him. Putting it on, one arm at a time, forces him to stand upright.
‘The job is to help people, right?’ I say. ‘It’s to give them the confidence and the skills for them to survive on their own. It’s basically about making them feel human again, instead of dog-shit on the sole of a shoe, yes?’
‘Well, you’ve done all that for me, mate. All that and more.’ I try to meet his eye, but find that I can’t. ‘These past few months, Sage. Without you I’d be nowhere. In fact…’ I falter. ‘In fact, remember where I was. When you first met me. Remember where I was. If you can take these folk half as far – ’
‘We’re both still homeless, Rab; we’re no further along – ’
‘Fuck that.’ There’s venom to my words. ‘I’ve grown up a huge fucking amount in these past few months. And yes, I might not have as much money – as much credit, maybe – but, mate, I understand more. Am I better equipped to face the world? Damn right. Is that because of you? Fuck, yes.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Rab.’ He speaks softly.
‘Say that you’re ready.’
He looks up. ‘What?’
‘Say that you’re ready for the interview. Less of this self-pity shite.’
‘It’s a two-way street, Rab,’ he says. ‘We all need somebody to talk to and – ’
‘Just say you’re ready,’ I interrupt.
‘Yes.’ He smiles. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Fuck, yes,’ I say. ‘Damn right.’
We walk on to the brown building. To the side of the window is a simple metal plaque: ‘The Commons’. I reach forward to push open the door. Inside, there is a wooden reception desk with partitions around it to hide the rest of the room. Behind the desk is a middle-aged woman with blonde hair that, scraped back into a ponytail, shows its brown roots at the front. She has damp eyes and a smile that she struggles to keep in place.
‘Hi, there,’ she says. ‘You here for the benefits advice session?’
I shake my head and wave Sage forward. He shuffles up to the desk, with his hands clasped in front of himself. In a whisper, he gives his name to the receptionist and then half-turns, as if preparing to leave.
‘Ah. So you’re the new employability tutor, are you? Excellent, excellent,’ she says, and I pick up a hint of the familiar Glaswegian accent. She looks at her watch. ‘You’re a touch early, but I think they might be ready for you. I’ll take you through. Your friend can take a seat here in reception if he wants to wait?’
She turns to me with a raised eyebrow. I nod and take two steps backwards, until a chair nudges at the back of my knees. Sitting, I flick through the leaflets on the table beside me. They’re all about temporary housing in hostels and B&Bs, about getting on the waiting list for social housing. They use the phrases like ‘priority need’ and ‘first-stage’ or ‘secondstage accommodation’ that I recognise from my visit to the day centre in London. I search for the words they used to describe me that day: ‘intentionally homeless’. As if it was all part of a plan, all leading up to that proud moment. When I grow up, I want to be –
‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything while you wait, honey?’
The receptionist has come back through. She stands, behind her desk, smiling at me. And I find it difficult to answer. When I open my mouth, it feels tacky and the words won’t form themselves. Even after I clear my throat, loudly, the best I can do is shake my head and offer up an apologetic smile. She gives a single nod in response, and sits down to busy herself on the computer. The opening for conversation is passing; the social situation is slipping into silence.
‘Are you from Glasgow?’ I ask. It comes out loud. Abrupt.
‘I am indeed,’ she says. ‘Or close by, at least. Cambuslang. Why, where are you from?’
‘The West End, just… Broomhill.’
‘Lovely.’ She smiles. ‘So what brings you down this way?’
It used to be, in pubs and at parties, that I fished for this question. It’s been a while, though, since anyone has seen me as anything other than homeless. Even with my guitar, I’d not be described as a singer, but as a busker. Or, worse, a beggar.
‘I was a singer,’ I try. ‘And guitarist.’
‘Is that right? Well, Brighton’s good for the music scene – or so my nieces tell me. What kind of thing do you play?’
‘Folky stuff. Acoustic mainly.’
She nods and then looks back at her computer screen. She shakes her head at something, then reaches for a pen and a piece of paper. All the while, though, the index finger of her left hand points at me, over in my chair, as if to remind her that our conversation is not over.
I hold my breath through the seconds of silence. Maybe she’s thinking of forming a band and needs a guitarist. Or she might be thinking of setting me up with one of her nieces. Neither is likely, granted, but you never know.
‘So,’ she says, finally, ‘you must need somewhere to practise? Are you sleeping rough at the moment, or…?’
‘Squatting,’ I reply, taken aback by the directness of the question.
‘Yes, must be difficult to get peace. Definitely. But we have rooms upstairs here that are free most days.’ She points to the ceiling. ‘If you want somewhere quiet to practise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘All these government directives and incentive-linked benefits are about getting people into offices or labs or…’ She waves a hand vaguely in the air. ‘But it makes precious little provision for artists or musicians or writers.’
She goes silent. I’m nodding, but she doesn’t look up.
‘Those professions with little or no stability but plenty of value, you know?’ she continues. ‘Because we’ve got a culture to be proud of here, and in most countries they’d be celebrating it.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, in a whisper she probably doesn’t hear.
‘And it’s not that artists or musicians want money, in my experience,’ she says. ‘They don’t want a handout, you know? All they’re looking for is time and space.’
I’m back to the dry throat, the words that won’t come. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to engage in a conversation without the lubrication of pills or alcohol. Just an everyday exchange. Next up on the list is the joke I’ve just thought up. It’s fully formed, ready to go. Fuck it, it’s even funny. But my mouth gapes open, gulping in the air, and the seconds tick past.
‘We’re like physicists that way,’ I breathe. It’s quieter than the inhale before it or the exhale afterwards, but the words are still there.
She looks up, surprised, and smiles. ‘What was that?’
‘I said, musicians are like physicists that way: only looking for time and space.’
‘Very clever.’ She chuckles. ‘Very good indeed.’
I sit back in my chair, pleased with myself.
‘Aye,’ the receptionist says. ‘It would be nice to have some music about the place – good for the soul. And if your friend is up this way anyway, most days, then it would make sense to tag along and pay us a visit, you know?’
‘I’d like that, yes,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Just say that Sandra said it was OK. That’s me.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Rab.’
She nods, takes a note.
‘So…’ I hesitate. ‘Is he likely to get the job, then?’
‘Your friend?’
I nod. Can an unemployed man teach employability? Can a homeless man teach stability? He’s either the most or the least qualified candidate imaginable. I just can’t decide which.
‘He’s got a teaching qualification,’ Sandra says. ‘He’s worked with university leavers on employability, and he’s got an understanding of the limitations and issues these people are dealing with. So, honestly – ’ she looks across at me ‘ – we’d be lucky to have him.’
‘All he needs is an opportunity, definitely,’ I say.
From somewhere behind the partition, Sage and his interviewer start to talk. It drifts through to us as a bass note, from Sage, with the occasional melody of a question from the woman interviewing him. In the hard plastic seat I close my eyes and listen, remembering those nights down at the shore when his stories would distract me from wakefulness. Like when he told me the origin of the word ‘sabotage’ – how French workers would throw their wooden clogs, or sabots, into the gears of the looms to protect their jobs from the new machines. Or the time he tried, with his tongue twisted by alcohol, to explain that the word ‘assassin’ came from hashish-influenced murderers at the time of the Crusades: ha-sha… ha-sha-shin… hash-ah-shin. And I smile, even though I know that the memory shouldn’t be a happy one.