Toy

1. The Village

The door used to belong to a Datsun Cherry, according to the faded peeling transfer on the bare metal panel, that would once have been hidden behind glossy interior vinyl. In its former life, it kept drivers safe, warm and dry. But now it had a new role, tethered to a toppled shopping trolley with cable ties. It formed part of the best shelter that Callie had ever built, and it would almost certainly help to keep the foxes, pigeons and rain at bay. She wished that she could say the same for the mice and rats.

Rodents can get in wherever rodents want to get in. They say that the best way to avoid attracting them is to store your food in airtight containers, but when you eat a lot of fast food, your clothes soon start to smell of it. And vermin just can't get enough of cheap hamburgers.  She'd woken up with them clambering over her almost as many times as she had been roused by the passing police cars deliberately switching on their sirens for a two second blast, in a bid to ensure that she didn't become a permanent resident on the benches of the Embankment. But those days were behind her, and there were no police passing by the hidden quadrant. 

The tiny paved area behind South Bank Car Park had no footpath leading in or out. It could only be accessed by vaulting over a waist height wall that kept the small cluster of tents and shelters below the sight line of motorists, as they parked their vehicles and filed in and out during the day. The windows of the towering air conditioned office buildings that surrounded the space, could never be opened far enough for anyone to look down on the camp. It was a ridiculous oversight on the part of an over-paid building contractor, but its inaccessibility helped to make it the perfect secret hideaway.

Callie admired her handiwork. As a child, she was always the best at building dens, and she still had a natural gift for constructing something out of nothing. There was no glass left in the window when she had dragged the discarded brown door back up the flight of stone steps, away from the muddy river bank, and through the semi-deserted streets at first light. But now a perfectly cut piece of cardboard filled the empty space, and she had even taken the opportunity to draw a beach scene on it with her paint pens. Bright yellow bottle crates, swiftly lifted from the rear yard of a nearby pub, made up the third wall. And the large tarpaulin that they stole from the DIY store was not only keeping the drizzle away, but it seemed to be lending an extra layer of insulation. She was glad of the extra warmth having read the daily news.

Her stomach cavity gurgled a unique rendition of whale song about its current state of emptiness. There was no sign of Scarlett yet, but Callie knew that she'd be elated when she returned with her food haul to find such a palatial construction made from junk. 

It was only through good fortune, and a lot of grovelling, that they were invited to move into 'The Village'. She knew full well that her companion's age and diminutive appearance helped to secure them the pitch, and for that she would be eternally grateful. 

It was actually Scarlett who named the camp, much to the amusement of the older residents. She was bubbly and bright, always smiling, and everybody seemed to like having her around. Not only that, but she was the best thief among them. She had an ability to cry on demand, which got them out of a few scrapes in the previous few months, and she always came back with a bag of goodies bursting at the seams.

Callie certainly felt safer there, despite the fact that being hidden away in London, when you are already deemed invisible to society, is probably the most dangerous place to be. She often laughed at the idea of being invisible, knowing that the vivid murals that she painted on walls, doorways and hoardings were very visible to those who encountered them.

She reclined on her new bed of polystyrene crates, newspaper and blankets. It was still harder than she would have liked, but it was infinitely better than a riverside bench. Her arms ached, from the day of material gathering and construction work, but she felt good about her resilience to her predicament. She knew that she was better off there than she ever was in Leeds. And who cares about art college anyway. Screw them all, and screw their grades. She could be anything that she wanted to be, and she knew that she would find her way back into a proper bed of her own one day. A mattress with springs, and foam. A dry duvet, and fresh clean sheets.