Life Before
Liam
I guess the only time people think about injustice is when it happens to them - Charles Bukowski's quote pinned at the forefront of my mind. The psychology of choice is down to the individual: racial inequality, stereotyping, segregation, child exploitation and neglect are unjustifiable actions exercised daily by unprincipled people.
Immortality comes in different shades and numerous faces.
Which living entity is worse?
Heartless perpetrators or the ignorant, uneducated person who defends their honour?
Gillian is no better than Trevor.
Gillian condoned Trevor's wickedness.
Trevor, the drunken idiot.
Trevor, the wife-beater.
Trevor, the fucking kiddy fiddler.
People who disregard nefariousness are just as bad—if not worse—as the unhinged morons that commit crimes.
Enabler.
Facilitator.
Narcissistic malevolence.
Glaring at the computer screen, I browsed the internet in this squalid internet cafe to try and wrap my head around the last twenty-four hours.
Paedophile: someone who is sexually attracted to children.
Are teenagers still considered children?
I am twelve years old. Technically, I am not a teenager, but I do not feel like a child, either. I have aged quicker than most. I had to grow up, I guess.
What is the life of a typical teenager? I typed into the browser.
Troubled youngsters tend to be disillusioned, incandescent and subdued, which stem from nature and circumstances.
What does disillusioned mean?
According to the oxford dictionary, disillusioned means disappointed in someone or something that one discovers to be less good than one had believed.
I harrumphed.
Relatable. Except I cannot be disappointed in the people who brought me into this world because I have never met them. Plus, having high expectations for paid individuals that pretended to care is senseless. Life has proved time and time again that I cannot depend on anyone but myself. I am my own source of happiness. To be fearless and independent, I had to learn how to survive. Alone.
The dude to my right left his computer unattended for a bathroom break. His coat was draped on the back of the chair. Re-checking our surroundings, I pinched loose change from his pocket and inserted coins into the metre. Funds provided an extra thirty minutes on the net. I can continue to educate myself. I'd love snacks, though. Fuck, I am hungry. And thirsty. And I smelt like shit. I looked like shit. Hell, I felt like shit. I am also grouchy, tired.
Did I mention hungry?
My mind re-visited Gillian.
What if Trevor beat her because I left?
Gillian is guilty of delusion. Fool's paradise aside, she was kind to me. I did not care enough to miss her, but I worried for the battered wife. Rather, I hoped her good-for-nothing husband kept his hands to himself.
I still do not understand why nice people like Gillian supported shameless scum. Even though I have read countless articles online, I fell to the sword of bafflement.
I typed, "What is considered sexual assault of a minor?" Into the search bar. Disturbing news headlines clogged the screen. I am not a victim. I did not belong on these sites with abused children. No, I am just upset, angry. I wanted to know my options or if there was someone that I could talk to.
Well, if I returned to Briar House, I am sure the overly optimistic caseworker will help. She will also place me back in the system.
That's not happening.
An advert flashed on the screen.
"Stop Corruption!"
Interesting. I had a mind like a sponge. I soaked up everything and anything. Pointless and useful. Beneficial and unbeneficial.
I typed corruption into the search engine.
Corruption is dishonesty and illegal behaviour by people in positions of authority and power.
I scoffed.
And to think I wasted two hours of my life in this dump.
I exited the internet cafe at nightfall. Retrieving the stolen bike that I had dumped behind the pizza place on the corner, I slung the bag over one shoulder and peddled the dark streets until I found somewhere safe to sleep.
A prime bush.
A rancid skip.
A dark bridge.
What does it matter?
I'd rather sleep in the sewage pipe than have Trevor the nonce climb into my bed. I could rough-sleep, not in blatant visibleness, though. I pushed the bike through the side alleyway of the pub, ditched it behind the steel wheelie bin and, hankering to blind drunk fools indoors, hid from possible exposure.
***
My bike journey lasted eight days, with frequent pit stops to pilfer food from twenty-four-hour service stations or catch some shut-eye behind obscured overgrowth. I found the big city—London. I smelt worse than a flea-bitten, aid-ridden dead animal. Blisters pinched my toes. Hunger manifested. Yet, I stood in front of Westminster Abbey and knew I was home. Nothing else mattered. Not the stench. Not the pangs in my stomach or the pain in my feet. I climbed off the bike and, admiring Big Ben and the Thames, pushed my only source of transportation across the bridge.
For too long, I sat on the brick wall, the cold air in my hair, hearing trivial conversations as people walked on by. I am not opposed to eating out of dumpsters, but the guy behind me, the one on his phone, with the boxed takeout left on the bench, needed to be taught a lesson.
Yeah, I am wrong for stealing his late-night food and dashing into the night.
He'll think twice about taking his eye off the prize in the future, though.
Lining my stomach became straightforward and unproblematic. I am somewhat destitute, but mentally occupied security guards made shoplifting too easy. Shit, I even smiled at them when entering the store. I selected my favourite snacks, bottled water, and slipped everything in my pocket and exited without fuss.
Sure, I sat opposite restaurants on occasion and imagined how good those spaghetti dishes tasted, or I lingered near burger vans and inhaled the pleasant meat aromas permeating the air.
Nonetheless, life treated me well. Days rolled into weeks, and weeks rolled into months. I found shelter at night, avoided blue coats like the plague (I am not risking exposure to the authorities) to prevent falling back into the system.
I am a runaway child.
In the eyes of the law, I did not belong on the street. I belonged at Briar House or with another family who only wanted me for paychecks.
Taking care of myself provided a sense of fulfilment. I was happy, self-sufficient and carefree.
Well, that's what I thought until the dynamics changed.
It was the day I met Bill.
"If yuh listen carefully now, yuh will hear," a low, husky voice sounded, and I stopped in my tracks. "This could be the first trumpet. Might as well be the last. Many more will have to suffer. Many more will have to die."
I backtracked, towing the bike with me. I followed the sound of the guitarist, the vocalist, dodged pedestrians and turned the street corner. Outside Victoria Station, I spotted a freakishly tall man with bum length dreads that he unquestionably dyed blond. He stood proud, strumming his guitar as he covered the famous Bob Marley song. His brown leather-worn coat fell to the ankles. His gold tooth glimmered in the sun's rays, and long, silver chains dangled from his neck. He was the darkest shade of brown and, although he had an exceptional voice and the locals seemed to love him and his live entertainment, I could smell his stench from here. I eyed his split boots and belatedly realised the man was homeless—just like me.
Resting the pushbike by the railing, I sat on the wooden bench and tore into the stolen bag of chocolate-coated peanuts. And that's where I de-stressed for the rest of the day while the man poured his heart out to the streets of London.
Then he left.
Yet, I stayed.
At that moment, I did not want to be anywhere else. I'd heard music before (I am not entirely feral), but it's the first time I truly listened or paid attention.
Every day, I re-visited Victoria to escape reality.
He sang the same songs and cracked the same jokes.
Commuters, tourists and visitors dropped cash into his case.
"I can buy some lunch," he said, winking at the older female. "Maybe a pint."
Amused, I scarfed nuts.
His fingers strummed the guitar. His rough voice amazed me. I admired his work ethic and jubilance under distressing circumstances. It's his smile. Through any wind and weather, he smiled. He appreciated the simple things in life, the small pleasures, the sun on his face, the cold air at night, afternoon coffee, belly-laughing at the crowd, watching commuters and ice-cold water on a hot day. His music. He really loved his music.
I stole an old cassette player, headphones and disposable batteries from the charity shop. It took four days to get my hands on a particular cassette. I found it, nonetheless. "Don't let them fool you or even try to school you." Pedalling through Borough Market, I waded between hordes of tourists, shops, stalls and restaurants. "We've got a mind of our own. So, go to hell if what you're thinking is not right." Instrumentalists and vocalists blared in my ears. "Love would never leave us alone."
Dashing past the fruit and veg stall, I raised one hand and caught an avocado from the generous owner. "Nice one!"
The road of life is rocky, and you may stumble too. So, while you point your fingers, someone else is judging you.
Listening to Bob Marley, I rode for twenty-five minutes until I reached Victoria Station. Shit, I was sweating by the time I arrived. I dumped the bike on the floor, parked on the bench and pondered how to peel the avocado. I glimpsed across the street to see if the guitarist made an appearance. When I saw an empty spot, I bellied disappointment. I was fifteen minutes late, which means he was thirty minutes late. That's not good. I hope he hasn't relocated.
Anyway, avocado.
How to de-nut?
No, drupe.
Seed dispersal?
Whatever. I had to eat.
A shadow fell over me.
"What are yuh doin'?" someone asked, and I jumped out of my skin. "Yuh need a knife."
I recognised those fit-for-the-bin boots.
My eyes raised.
"Give me that." Man with dreads snatched the avocado out of my hand. "If yuh ain't got a knife?" He utilised the gold cross on his chain to slice through the green skin. "Improvise. Yuh lucky it's ripe." He separated the fruit, scowling at the large seed. "Yuh will have to eat around that."
My jaw slackened in veneration.
"Where did yuh come from? Yuh sit alone out here. Yuh nyam nuts." He lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head. "Why?"
My brow arched.
I had no idea what he just said.
"Well?" He probed. "Wah mek duh yuh stare at people?"
I blinked rapidly. "Do you think, like, you could, I don't know, like, speak a different language?"
"What?" He looked offended. "Mi speak English. Yuh damn bubu."
I cleared my throat. "What's a bubu?"
He stared deadpan at me. "A foolish person."
I took umbrage at his insult. "I ain't no fool."
"Tell mi otherwise."
"I just did!"
"What do yuh want?"
"Nothing from you."
"Yuh stalk mi."
"I do not."
He glared.
I glared harder.
"Ansah di question."
"I struggle to understand you."
His cheeks puffed. "Answer," he said slowly, "the question."
I smirked. "I understood the first time."
"Yuh ave no brothupsy!"
I genuinely got lost. "See!"
"Wah duh, mi, see?"
"You do it on purpose," I argued.
He grinned. "Guilty as charged."
"Seriously, dude. Give me a break."
He scratched his chin. "What do yuh want?"
"How did you even notice me?" I glanced across the street. "I ain't that visible."
"Why did I notice the lad watchin' mi play every day for the last eight weeks?" He toned down the accent. "Let mi consider the question for a moment to see if I can point out the obvious."
Even with the tuned pronunciation, he still had a strong accent. It made me smile. "I like your music."
"Yah," he agreed, nodding. "I like mi music, too."
I opened my tight fist, offering him peanuts. "Do you want some?"
His eyes lingered on my dirty palm. "Wah 'bout yuh momma?"
"I got no mother." My heart hurt. "Look, do you want to eat or not?"
"Wah 'bout a father, then? Do yuh got one of those?"
Embarrassment heated my cheeks. "I don't know."
"Yuh don't know?" he repeated, flabbergasted. "I guess some bastard just shit yuh out, huh?"
"Something like that," I half-agreed, not quite comprehending his logic. "I never met him before."
"What is yuh name?" He inched in, trying extra hard to pronounce words. "I assume yuh got one of those?"
"Liam," I whispered, blocking the cider stench on his breath. "Liam Warren."
"Warren." His eyebrows curled into a stern frown. "The name is Bill. Now, tell Bill. Why are yuh alone?"
I studied him intently. "I got dealt shit cards, I guess."
Hiking the guitar strap over one shoulder, he breathed out a tired sigh. "Well, I think yuh need to come with mi. Wah duh, yuh say?" He walked off, believing I'd follow. "I am hungry, Liam."
Decidedly nonplussed, I seized the bike and did the inconceivable; I followed Bill.
Bill was Jamaican, which explained his accent, but he moved to the United Kingdom to join the royal navy at just eighteen years old. "Bill studied at the Naval College," he told me. "Boarded mi first warfare ship at twenty-two. Bill travelled all around the world." Ambling the street corner, he led me toward an old, derelict building where squatters rested with their carrier bags and unkempt dogs. "Everyone is harmless, especially with mi keepin' an eye on yuh."
Pushing through the unlocked door, he traipsed across the dark, vast space with me in his footsteps. Graffitied concrete encompassed the walls. Second-hand furniture strewed the floor. Alcoholics gathered by the boarded-up windows.
Shirking away from the watchfulness of others, I sat on an alcohol-stained green sofa.
Bill dragged a steel bin to the furthest end of the room. Gathering dispersed newspaper on the ground, he tore articles into clumps, chucked them in the bin and generated a small fire. "Yuh should sleep, Liam. Bill will find us somewhere better tomorrow."
I nodded.
Removing his leather gloves, Bill sat on the metal crane.
Tucking my hands under my cheek, I stretched out on the sofa and watched the flames cast shadows on the wall.
Bill balanced the guitar on his knees. He swept his thumb across the strings. "Emancipate yuhself from mental slavery. None but ourselves can free our minds," he rasped, and I was too fascinated to look away. "Have no fear for atomic energy. 'Cause none of them can stop the time." His throat cleared. "Redemption songs."
I fell asleep to Bill's voice.
***
Bill took me under his wing. He demonstrated the tricks of the trade. He taught me how to survive on more than stolen peanuts and unripe fruit. "Yuh never get too greedy." He tossed me a premade sandwich. "Only rob essentials. And don't steal from the decent folk, Liam. They don't deserve it. Target the big chains. Money grabbers. Yuh know?"
"Sure, Bill." I bit into chicken and mayo. "I hear you."
"Yuh can rob any store when it's busy," he continued. "People don't notice. Yuh survived on plant food for long enough. Yuh need to get some carbs inside yuh."
I wolfed down the sandwich.
"Bill should make more money." He maintained his spot at Victoria to earn money for his cider fix. "Why didn't child services help yuh out?"
My Adam's apple jived. "Where do you think I've been?" I asked, licking seasoning from my lips. "They don't help kids like me. They chuck us with all these different families that decide they don't want you anymore. I ran from the last place." I omitted the part where Trevor sneaked into my bed. "I was tired. If I went back, it'd start all over again. I wanted freedom."
He nodded in reflective thought. "Well, it's a good job yuh found mi, then. Yuh can be free with Bill, Liam."
According to Bill, homelessness was dangerous, especially for kids. For two weeks, he combed through abandoned properties with unsold placards on the metal gates, and eventually, he found an old shed at the back of an unrented property. The timber walls were unprepossessing but accommodating. Previous tenants left old paint tins, garden tools, smashed gnomes and forgotten memorabilia inside. We managed to operate around them. And the bugs. Hell, we outlived those crawling fuckers. I am not against whacking an eight-legged spider if it crawled on my chest at night.
It's them or me, right?
I liked the shed. It's much better than rough-sleeping under the bridge. It should have been temporary. We should have moved on. But with the unsold house collecting dust and the overgrown garden lost to mother nature, we staked our flag and claimed the land.
Bill planted fruit and vegetables in the garden. Most died to slugs. Tomatoes prevailed. Peppers ripened. Strawberries are my favourite.
"Yuh gettin' tall," Bill said one afternoon. "Got some hair on yuh, too."
Yeah, soft facial hair fringed my upper lip and bewhiskered my jaw. It's patchy, though. I had to fix that. "I might start shaving."
"Why would yuh do that?"
"It looks like bum fluff."
"And what does bum fluff look like?"
I pointed to my face. "That."
"If yuh shave, it'll grow back thicker." He sipped cider. "Yuh ain't ready."
I laid on the sleeping bag on the floor. "Then, I will wait."
"Good."
"Good."
"Fine," he clipped.
"Fine," I joshed.
"Go to sleep, Liam!"
Grinning into the pillow, I said, "Goodnight, Bill."
A pause. "Goodnight, mi boy."
I always woke up alone in the shed. Bill left early for work. Well, to sing in Victoria. He might be a homeless drunk, but he grafted for pennies, and I respected him for that.
Tired, I rolled onto my side and extracted the book from under my pillow.
William Kennedy, Ironweed.
I nabbed it from the store last week.
Yawning into my shoulder, I shifted for comfort and read passages.
I want to take a break from everything to find out if I am still alive.
Well-lit streets discourage sin but don't overdo it.
It's quite uncanny what one sets in motion by being oneself.
But fear is a cheap emotion, however full of wisdom. And, emotionally speaking, I've always thought of myself as a man of expensive taste.
And what If I drink too much? Whose business is that? Who knows how much I didn't drink?
Only a bet on the impossible makes sense. It is an act of faith and courage requiring an irrational leap over reason. A man wins simply by making such a bet.
Love is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shit of my soul. Stupid, love. Silly, love.
I closed the book.
It's surreal how certain books can provide new perspectives. I am not a fan of fictitious tales. I want the raw realities of life and the tragedies of relatability.
I rolled up the makeshift bed and stuffed it on the wooden shelf for later. Uncapping bottled water, I squirted toothpaste onto a brush and scrubbed my teeth. Cracking open the wooden door to bask in the morning sun, I stood on the concrete slab, swished water in my mouth and spat foam in the flowerbed of dead plants. Bill won't be home until later. I changed into an old tracksuit, jumped on the bike and peddled into central London to swipe shelves.
Two years later, I still rode Trevor's bike to swipe goods.
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