No Money, No Job, No Home

The bathroom contained neither bath nor shower, and the ancient soap had refused to lather under the cold tap, but Peter felt better for having stuck his head in the sink until he could hold his breath no longer. It would do until he could get back to his digs and have a shower and change his clothes. While he still had digs to go to, that was. Monday evening was rent day, and Monday night would see him fighting for a cardboard box to call his home. But that was tomorrow. Today he faced the glorious aspect of no money, no food and enforced sobriety.

They treated their dogs better than this. They found a dog on the streets, they put it up in Battersea Dog's Home. They had better rooms for stray pets than any Peter had stayed in since he'd reached this God-forsaken island. And he couldn't go back to Ireland, not after the church declared their pogrom against the gentle folk. Oh, they said they hadn't, but Peter knew the message that came from the pulpit, no matter what their spokesman said on the telly.

Was he even sober right now? It normally took a few beers to get this maudlin. Peter pulled at his jacket. No point whining. So life had kicked him in the shins. He'd punch life right back, and he had no choice but to punch below the belt.

He tried to look in the mirror above the sink, but all he could see was the top of his head. No matter. Dignity in death and all that shite. He'd go down kicking. He sacrificed some of his dignity by straining to drink direct from the tap, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Right! Now he would be dignified.

He returned to the bedroom. It was, as far as he could tell, empty. A little more light filtered into the room through the open door, so he left it wide.

"Hello?"

"Hello," said George, from behind the door.

"Jesus!" Peter had been expecting the voice, but had steeled himself for it to come from under the bed. To hear it suddenly behind him caused him to clutch at his chest. "You'll be the death of me, creeping about like that."

"Sorry."

"No, no, you're right enough. I was just startled, that was all. Sorry. No offence meant. This is your place, after all. Creep away, sir, creep away." He stared at the door and wondered what George looked like, but he was a guest in his home and there were rules as ancient as civilization. He'd just have to carry on wondering.

"So, I'm guessing you're awfully shy?"

"I guess."

"And is it just yourself?" Peter glanced at the bed. It was a single, but he had no idea how big George might be. Was there a Mrs. George under there, even shyer than her husband? Little Georges?

"I don't know. Sometimes I think there might be others. Not sure, just a feeling sometimes. We don't like to stand out."

"No, I can see that. It must be awfully lonely."

"Lately."

"Only lately? What happened? Did you lose somebody?"

"No. It's just, I never thought about it. Not till I came here anyway. No families here, see? No children, not human children. Not here in the city. And fae children, they're not the same."

Peter felt the blush rise. This wasn't the sort of conversation he'd like to have with a good friend, let alone an acquaintance he barely knew and never seen. He felt awkward and embarrassed, but George had picked him off the streets and given him a bed for the night. That counted for something.

"Yeah, well, that's humans for you. Tell us how wonderful we all are then stick us all into this cess pit."

"You don't have any money."

"Sorry?"

"Last night. You said you had spent everything."

"Did I? For all I know I might have told you I was the fairy king. Sorry. I was a wee bit worse for wear last night." Peter dug into his pocket and produced the contents. A till receipt from an off-licence, a plastic bead he had no knowledge of and the grand sum of fourteen pence in copper. "Hey, look at that. I was telling the truth. Except the bit about being the fairy king. Oh, wait." He looked around at the room, bare of anything except two sticks of furniture and a digital clock. "Oh Jeez. No, look, I'm sorry. If I had any money, sure, it would be yours. You were a true friend in need, and I will be grateful to you until my dying day, but sorry, pal. I can't recompense you beyond a few pennies. Like, literally pennies." He held out his hand as proof.

"I wasn't asking for money. You are my guest."

"In that case I apologise for my faux pas. No insult was intended. Nevertheless, either way, I'm gan. Broke. Brassic. Without a penny to my name. Well, without fifteen pence, and that's the truth. No crock of gold from this poor specimen. But you have my undying thanks, and in the unlikely event that I can ever do something for you, you have but to ask it."

"No job."

"That is the main cause of my current fiscal straits, yes. You are a man of perception, I can see that."

"No home."

Peter frowned. Had he told him that? Probably. He had made some passing remark earlier, hadn't he?

"No home after tomorrow, unless the gods cause their countenances to shine down upon me and grant me a miracle of some cash, or failing that, an offer of work. You know, if you're trying to cheer me up, you are doing a grand job."

"Thank you."

"No, I meant -- never mind. Listen, it grieves me to press on your hospitality further, but you wouldn't happen to have a kettle, would you? I would kill for a cup of tea."

"Stay here."

"Um, okay." Peter wondered how George would make his way to a kitchen somewhere, unless he had a kettle stashed behind the door.

"I have a bed," said George.

"And a mighty comfortable bed it was, too. But do you also have a kettle?"

"Then stay."

A suspicion started to creep up on Peter. "Stay?"

"The bed is comfortable."

"Yes, yes, I can't deny that. It was certainly preferable to any pavement I have slept on, and I've slept on many a pavement. But stay? You mean, like stay? Move in?"

"Yes."

"But we have already established my funds have been pissed down your toilet. I can't afford rent, unless it's a penny a day, and even then I can only pay for a fortnight."

"Stay."

Peter placed his hands on his head and wondered how to explain. "Look, George, friend. I'm grateful, truly I am. Listen, can I sit down for a moment?" He turned his back on the door, walked over to the bed and sat.

"It's just, well, a bit strange, don't you think? The pair of us?"

"No," said George, from under the bed.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Peter hauled his feet off the floor. "How the hell did you get under there?"

"I'm quick."

"You're telling me." Peter gingerly placed his feet back on the floor. "George, you've done me a solid favour, we both know that, but I can't."

"Why?"

"Well, there's only one bed for a start." George remained silent. Peter thought it through. "Well, okay, technically there only needs to be one bed, yes, I see that. But, like, wouldn't you prefer a bed of your own?"

There was a long pause, and then in a voice so low Peter hardly caught it, George said, "No."

"Look, I'm flattered and all, but I'm really not sure what you're asking."

"I sleep under beds."

"Yes, we've established that."

"I've always slept under beds. Children's beds. Then I got here. And now they won't let me. Just an empty bed. So quiet. - So... lonely."

"Jesus, George." Peter gave a large sigh. It was weird. He'd shared digs before, when he was working his way across the country. Was this so different? Okay, they were sharing a bed, but there was a mattress between them. And the room was underground. He could definitely sleep here if he got used to George being so close. But after all, was it any different to a bunk bed? And, when push came to shove, did he really have any choice?

"Why children's beds?" he asked.

"Smaller. Cosier. And adults are dangerous. It's just what we do."

"Do you do anything? To the kids, I mean."

"No! Why would I? They're my home. Were, I mean."

"Okay, George, here's the deal. No funny business. No murdering me in my sleep. No going through my stuff. And I swear to Almighty God Himself, if you snore I'm going to take my chances on the street."