London

Friday 15
The Strand has food drops most nights of the week. Tonight the crowd is well over one hundred people. When the food arrives I am surprised by the neat and orderly queue that forms. Any shouting, pushing or shoving tends to come from people after they have collected their steaming polystyrene parcel.

James asks me for the names of other publications I have written for; I mention the New York Post.

“Is that the same as the Washington Post?” he asks.

“Not quite,” I tell him. “The Washington Post is more credible.”

“Would Noam Chomsky think it was credible?”

“Would Noam Chomsky think any newspaper was credible?”
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James laughs. I sit wondering, are we really discussing Noam Chomsky? If we are it’s going to be a short lived conversation, my knowledge of the bugger is very limited.

At this point a youngish guy, over weight with cropped hair and dark sunken eyes, who was also involved in the fight on Trafalgar Square, stops in front of me.

He points a finger at my face and screams as loud as he can, “YOU! What’s you’re fucking name?”

“Alan,” I tell him as he stands staring angrily down at me. “What’s yours?” I ask, trying to keep things chatty. I watch as pure rage spreads across his face. “I was only going to say hello,” I tell him, offering him my hand. He stares angrily for a while and then very daintily shakes my hand, or really just the finger tips and says, quite calmly, “Danny.”

Relief washes over me as Danny says, again calmly, “Give me a light.”

“Sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t smoke.”

“GIVE ME A FUCKING LIGHT!” he screams, bending into the shout.

Two of his friends come over. One, a girl I realise now and who I also (but thinking it was a boy) saw fighting earlier, turns and kicks the metal grill right next to James’ head. A nasty metallic crash fills the night. The girl keeps kicking.

James looks up between kicks and says, “Do you mind, I’m leaning against that.”

The girl bends into James’ face screaming, “I don’t fucking give a shit!” and goes back to kicking.

Danny is still shouting at me, though all I can hear is the crash of the metal grill.

James turns to me and with a slight grin asks rather loudly, “So have you read much Chomsky?”

I stare at him half frozen with fear; expecting any second to feel the full wrath of junky rage. But then I have another thought, James told me he’s been homeless for nine years, he must know better than me.

“I’ve read one of his books,” I tell him.

“I’ve read a few,” he tells me. “There’s a good web site you should look into, where you can read all his articles. I’ll give you the url.”

For the first minute of the conversation Danny continues to shout at me while his female doppelganger continues to kick the metal grill as hard as she can. She turns and says something to Danny, who screams back at her a torrent of expletives. She does the same back to Danny and very quickly they are in their own shouting match. A minute later they walk down the road, towards Trafalgar Square, not arm in arm, but peaceful at least.

I giggle nervously at James, “I thought that was going to turn into a fight then.”

“Nah, as long as you don’t say anything to them they soon get bored and move away. That’s the important thing, don’t say anything, But I said something, I couldn’t believe I was opening my mouth, I was so annoyed with myself when I heard my voice. Because these fuckers will stick a screwdriver in you without hesitation.”

“Really?” I ask.

“I’ve seen it happen!” James assures me.

Back in the doorway of the Theatre Royal, (currently showing the Producers) I wake up at 4am. I watch as a young skinny guy with a can of beer peers into the doorways. He comes up close and stares, first to the un-named man in the furthest door, then Richy (who has returned from Basingstoke but said it is okay for me to stay) then me (as I pretend to be asleep) and then on to Marijona and Michael. He then scurries off down the road suspiciously.

That’s one of them, I think in a moment of paranoia. Now they know where I’m sleeping. I lie awake and scared, until the sky starts to lighten.