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Geoff Ryman

There was another one of them this morning, by Waterloo Station. He was a
young lad. About a month ago, he had asked me for money. He said it was to
feed his dog. He kept the animal inside his jacket and it poked its head out.
I remember thinking it looked too gentle a creature to live out on the street.
The dog leaned out and tried to lick my hand.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I only have 20 pence."
He had some sort of regional accent, rather pleasant actually. "Ach, I cannot
take a man's last 20 pee.

"Tough time, Grumps?" Gertrude bellows. It's like trying to hold a
conversation in the middle of a rugby pitch.
"You'll get marks on my sofa," I tell her.
"Not marks. Bloodstains, " said Brunnhilde going all bug-eyed like a horror
movie. Something else they don't have these days. Both girls are huge, vast,
like something out of the first issue of Superman, you know, lifting vehicles
single-handed. I, in the meantime, am getting into a wrestling match with my
coat and scarf. My coat and scarf are winning. Even my clothing is insolent
these days.
"Here, let me do it for you," says Gertrude and takes them from me. "Wossa
ma-ah, Grumps?" Her speech is interrupted by more glottal stops than a Morris
Minor in need of a service.
"I saw another one of those bodies," I said.
"You weren't down Wa'ahloo, again, were you?" she said.
"It's where I get my coffee from," I said. "Or rather, used to."
"Coffee," says Brunnhilde and makes a moue of disgust the size of a bagel.
"I'd rather drink paint stripper."
"Wa'ahloo is where all the dossers hang out, Grumps. Issa bloody wossa butcher
shop. "
Brunnhilde is rubbing her thighs in a way that I take to be sarcastic. "Maybe
he likes a bit of excitement."
Gertrude giggles at the idea, and smoothes down my coat. For her, it lies
still. I tell you the thing is alive and has it in for me. "Look, Grumps. Do
yourself a favor. Stay north of the river. You don't know where the safe
passages are."
"I refuse to accept that there are parts of this city where I must not walk."
"You don't go for a stroll down the middle of the motorway, do you? Come on,
sit down."
I do as I'm told, but I'm still upset. My hands are shaking. They are also
lumpy and blue and cold. "Why do they do it?" I say.
"Why do we do it, you mean," says Gertrude, plumping up a pillow.
"You do it?"
"Well, yeah. We all do it, Grumps. It's game. There's too many of them on the
streets. If you know what you're doing, you don't get hurt. You know. You're
out with your mates, you're in a gang, you see another gang. You leave each
other alone."
"And go for the defenseless. Well that is brave of you!"