The noticeboard in the office is crammed with pinned-up pictures of missing people. Some are family snapshots, some look like wanted posters. Every single one of them tells a sad story.
I gaze at the pictures while we wait, seeing faces of all ages and all colors look back at me, from Christmas party smiles to posed school photo-day portraits. Mute and trapped in time, lost in that one moment—a moment they were safe. At least on the surface.
I don’t know if any of them have had happy endings. I tell myself that some of them must—the alternative is unbearably tragic, and weighs down on my soul.
The door opens, and the manager of the hostel, Ewan, greets us. He is in his fifties, with shaggy brown hair and a smile but body language that says he’s ready for anything. I can only imagine what he’s seen during his lifetime, constantly on the periphery of other people’s pain.
We are here because this was the last place Geraldine knew Joe had been staying. He’d left Cornwall with little money, refusing her offers of help. He knew she couldn’t afford it, and insisted he’d be OK. He’d reassured her he had the luck of the Irish, and told her not to worry—it was just the next stage of his adventure. Rucksack packed, he waved her and Jamie goodbye at the train station. Off again, a traveler alone.
We called ahead and made this appointment, expecting to be fobbed off and surprised when we were told that Ewan would see us. I realize, as I turn away from that painfully compelling noticeboard, that this is a dedicated man who has probably hosted countless tearful meetings in this room.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair and glancing at us, “the first thing I have to say is that I wasn’t here back then, so I have no firsthand memory of the person you’re looking for. We don’t have any digitized records from then—and as you can imagine, a lot of the people who use this service don’t give us their real names. I’ve asked around, and one of our old-timers thinks he might remember him—though you have to filter the reliability of that memory against some serious alcoholism.”
I nod, and understand. The people we’d seen loitering in the foyer of this place, a grimy corner of the capital that feels a million miles from showbiz London but is in fact only a few miles from it, look like weather-beaten warriors. Joe had told Geraldine it was a youth hostel, probably to assuage her worries, but in fact it’s not—it’s a place for homeless people to lay their heads, where staff try to help them deal with the myriad problems in their lives, and where support groups for addicts live side by side with dealers.
Michael is still staring at the noticeboard, his face a picture of turmoil.
“Why do they all end up here?” he says, confused. “There must be better options than living on the streets in London.”
“A lot of these people don’t have options,” replies Ewan kindly. “Or at least they don’t think they have. They might leave home for an adventure, thinking the streets are paved with gold, and are too embarrassed to go home when they’re not. They might be running from abusive families or relationships. In recent years we’ve seen more and more forced out of their homes for financial reasons. Some are kicked out, by parents who react badly to a pregnancy, or them being gay, or in some way breaching the moral code of the domestic environment. Going back isn’t always the right thing to do for them.”
Michael nods, and I know he will be weighing up the relative luxury of his own life—but also knowing that he most definitely breaches the moral code of his own family. Rosemary and Simon might not force him into a life on the streets if he came out to them, but neither would the news be welcomed.
“Well, there but for the grace of God,” he mutters sadly, folding his hands on his lap.
“Do they ever find them?” I ask, pointing at the noticeboard. “The people who come looking?”
“Not often, but sometimes,” he says. “Life out here can be tough. If they didn’t drink or do drugs when they arrived, they often soon do. Then there are other dangers—the weather, the health issues, the predators . . .”
His words makes me shudder. Joe, the Joe I knew, was a strong and capable man. He’d grown up among predators, and emerged not unscathed, but wholly himself. He had the kind of street smarts that would keep him safe in the human jungle. At least I hoped so.
“But just last week, actually,” continues Ewan, his face breaking out into a grin, “we had a success story. Young girl called Prisha. She fell into the streets-paved-with-gold category, and had a family that had been looking for her for two years. She was one of the lucky ones . . .”
“That must feel good,” replies Belinda, “seeing it work out.”
“Yeah. It does. Few and far between, but it’s a boost—you need a win every now and then in this job. But there are other wins as well—family reunions aren’t the only happy endings. We help people into their own homes, help them find jobs, make a life. Sometimes it feels like a losing battle—but we do keep fighting it. But enough about that—is there anything else you can tell me about your Joe, so I can suggest your next port of call?”
“Well, he doesn’t fit into any of your categories,” I reply. “He liked a pint but didn’t have a drinking problem. No real drug use. He was clever, and kind, and useful. He was good with his hands, and our mutual friend mentioned that while he stayed here, he was kind of helping out—doing some maintenance work, fixing and sorting, some decorating.”
He raises his eyebrows, then frowns at the description.
“Well, like I said, it was before my time, but I do remember when I took over from the last manager that there’d been some refurbishments around that time. If Joe was capable, they might have given him the chance to do that—created some kind of training program maybe? Again, I can ask around. I know we had some partnerships back then, with various businesses, and we recommended people we thought suitable. It sounds like Joe might have fallen into that category instead?”
I nod encouragingly, and add: “We also have some photos. Would it be possible to show them to the man you mentioned? Just to see if he does remember him?”
“That should be fine. He’s here now. I would ask you not to give him money, though, if you don’t mind—it’ll result in a mad dash to the liquor store and an all-night rendition of ‘Oh My Darling Clementine.’ And I really can’t take another all-night rendition of ‘Oh My Darling Clementine.’”
We follow Ewan out into the hallway, where there is a mishmash of noise: music of several different styles with competing bass lines, laughter, shouts, footsteps. It all seems bizarrely festive.
I grab the stack of pictures from my bag, and put the most recent one near the top. Belinda’s last shots of Joe had been taken during his birthday drinks at the pub in 2004. He’s singing into a pool cue—a very bad version of “Wonderwall,” she says. He’s surrounded by his pals, apparently his backup singers.
Geraldine has added some to the stockpile, and these are more interesting, to me at least. These show Joe a bit older, a bit more mature. He’s usually wearing his work gear, sometimes jeans and a hoodie, captured in a moment that I never shared with him. He’s smiling, but still looks sad. I stroke his face absently as we make our way to a communal dining hall that smells of toast and jam.
The man we’ve come to talk to is called Big Steve. He’s about five feet tall and built like a sparrow on hunger strike. His head is dominated by a wild gray tangle of hair and beard that reveals very little of his face other than shining blue eyes. He could be anything between forty and eighty.
Ewan introduces us, and in response Big Steve shows us his fungal nail infection. I see Michael’s look of horror, and stifle a laugh. I don’t think we’re going to get much sense from Big Steve.
He takes a photo from my hands—one of Joe drinking a mug of tea on the steps of the trailer—and stares at it, gnashing his teeth.
“Don’t know, love. Have you got any others?”
I pass him the one from the pub, and he stares again. I hold my breath, until he says: “Not really sure. A drink might jog my memory?”
He looks up hopefully, and Ewan steps in to defuse the situation, explaining to Big Steve that he should know the rules by now.
“Can’t blame a bloke for trying . . .” he mutters, looking at the picture again.
“It might be him, missus, but I can’t say for definite. Long time ago. There was a lad here, thought maybe he was Irish, or Scottish, or summat like that. Maybe just northern, but definitely not from round here. Dab hand with the tools. I had a trolley at the time, cost me a whole pound from Tesco it did. Wheels weren’t right. The lad I remember fixed it for me, put some of that WD-40 on and everything. Best trolley around, that was. Lost it one night on a date with Jane Fonda.”
He winks at me, and adds: “She was quite a goer, that one, but I think she was only after me for my money.”
We thank him for his help, and I am swamped with disappointment as we say our goodbyes. Just as we reach the door, under the watchful eye of the residents, Big Steve shouts out: “He always had bananas! And big juicy oranges!”
It seems like a random comment, but it sparks a look on Ewan’s face that might be indicative of a lightbulb moment.
“What is it?” I say. “Have you thought of something?”
“Maybe,” he says, rubbing his chin. “Maybe . . . one of the businesses we worked with back then, I do remember, was a fruit and veg merchant. They did deliveries to the markets. I can’t recall their name, it had all stopped by the time I took over . . . Something and Sons. Something Irish and Sons.”
He strains his memory for a few moments longer, then shakes his head in disgust.
“I’m sorry,” he says sadly. “It’s not going to come back to me. I can ask around and see if anyone else knows, if you leave me your number.”
I write it down for him at reception, and hand him a small clump of notes from my purse. There’s not a lot, less than £50, but I tell him to put it in their donation box. He doesn’t argue, the place obviously needs the money, and he asks me to check in on their website when I have time, where I can apparently find out all about Gift Aid and legacies.
Outside, the balmy summer’s evening is cooling, and the smell of kebab shops and an Indian restaurant and bus fumes envelops us. The thrumming beat of dance music booms from a car stuck in a snarl of traffic, and a flock of scraggly-feathered pigeons fights over an abandoned sausage roll. We’re definitely not in Cornwall anymore.
“Jane Fonda,” says Michael, screwing his eyes up. “Who on earth is that?”
Belinda pulls a “give me strength” face, and strides off to the car.
“Come on,” she says over her shoulder. “We’re going. I couldn’t face another night in a hotel, so we’re staying at Andrew’s.”