Gone in the Night. Mary-Jane Riley

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       DAY TWO: MORNING

      Alex had walked through the underpass many times before, lowering her gaze so as not to attract the attention of the winos and the druggies, always feeling slightly apprehensive. But with Cora they became individuals. The woman knew them by name, laughed with them, told them off for their filthy language. And Alex thought she was doing something for society by buying the Big Issue and occasionally giving to Crisis at Christmas. But it was Cora who was doing the right thing, seeing the homeless as people, with names and personalities and lives.

      ‘Still not found ’im then, Cora?’ A man with badly discoloured teeth and wearing a tatty flat cap waved a bottle of cheap cider at her.

      Cora shook her head. ‘’Fraid not Tiger.’

      ‘Perhaps he’s got himself a girlfriend. A bed for the week, you know?’ He leered at her.

      She took no notice of the leer. ‘Maybe. But I’m worried about him. When was the last time you saw him?’

      Tiger shrugged. Pursed his lips. ‘Well, it ain’t changed since the other day. Coulda been last month. Or three weeks ago.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘My memory’s not so good these days.’

      ‘Has anybody spoken to you recently?’ asked Alex.

      ‘Besides the cops?’ There was general laughter. He stared at her. ‘And who are you anyways? Are you a copper? Or a do-gooder?’

      Alex tried to smile as easily as Cora, though her heart was thudding in her chest. ‘Neither. I’m a journalist.’

      ‘You can write about me then,’ said another man, swaggering up to her. ‘Tell my life story. How I got here. You’d never believe I was an accountant in a past life, would you?’ His sour alcoholic breath wreathed around her.

      He was right, she wouldn’t have believed it, but she knew perfectly well that anyone could become homeless – most people were only a couple of missed rent or mortgage payments away from it.

      ‘Gambling,’ he said, before hawking and spitting to the left of her. She didn’t move a muscle. ‘Lost everything. Had a good life once, everything going for me. Now look at me. No house. No wife. No kids. No life.’

      Alex looked him straight in his rheumy eyes. ‘I would like to write your life story,’ she said firmly. She lifted her voice. ‘All of your stories.’ Her words echoed around the underpass. ‘I mean it. If you want me to. But first we want to find Rick.’

      ‘What about the coppers? Maybe they’ve picked him up.’ A challenge.

      Alex shook her head. ‘Not as far as we know.’ Alex had rung Detective Inspector Sam Slater on the way to the underpass and he’d checked for her. No one had been taken off the streets early that morning or late last night, with or without any injuries.

      A girl – who could have been aged anywhere between twenty and fifty – peeled herself off the wall. ‘Have you talked to Boney?’

      ‘We were going to go and see Martin. He was the last person to see Rick.’

      Alex couldn’t help but notice the glances that went around the group. ‘What?’ she said.

      ‘Haven’t seen Martin since yesterday,’ said the girl. ‘Din’t turn up for the soup round last night. He allus turns up for the Sally Army soup round. Greedy bugger. Wasn’t there today neither. Ethel was tied up to the lamppost. Guess she’s gone to the dog pound. He could’ve moved on, I suppose. Back to Yarmouth.’

      Cora shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t like the place.’

      The girl shrugged. ‘Boney’d know. He knows everything.’

      ‘Where do we find Boney?’

      Cora tugged at her sleeve. ‘I know where he is. Come on.’

      Half an hour later and Alex found herself in the corner of a car park on the outskirts of central Norwich helping Cora pull at a sheet of corrugated iron.

      ‘If we just push this along like so—’ panted Cora. ‘We can shimmy—’ She squeezed her small frame through a narrow gap in the fence she had made. ‘Voila! Easy-peasy.’

      Taking a deep breath, Alex followed.

      ‘Is this what I think it is?’ said Alex, looking around at the lichen-covered gravestones that sat, higgledy-piggledy in a small area of waterlogged grass. Some were leaning so precariously it would give a health and safety inspector nightmares. In between the overgrown graves and forgotten chipped weeping angels was long grass dotted with molehills.

      ‘It’s an old Jewish cemetery,’ said Cora as they made their way through the wet grass. ‘Years old I’m told. It’s forgotten by almost everyone except Boney and his crew. I think some historians want to make it some sort of protected area, restore it and all that. Put in a visitor’s centre I shouldn’t wonder. But there’s no money, apparently. So for now, it’s home to Boney. And his, er, mates.’ Her mouth was set in a line.

      ‘So who exactly is Boney?’ Alex was curious.

      Cora sighed. ‘He helps the homeless people in the city. Finds places in hostels for them, gets the soup run out to them. Takes a small cut, but, hey, he’s got to earn a living, I guess. Gets them good pitches, makes sure they’re not turfed off them by someone new to the area – he even has a couple of coppers in his pocket who turn a blind eye to some of the people on the streets. Some might say they’re not doing their job; I think they’re СКАЧАТЬ