Lifeless - 5 by Mark Billingham

grey face, dimly glimpsed, floating behind the dusty screen, in the
    occasional, blessed moments of dark stil ness.
    Outside, it was cold enough for snow.
    Inside, Thorne sat staring at his own reflection. Wondering what Charlie Garner wanted for Christmas.
    1986
    Even later on, when winter came, he knew that he would prefer to be outdoors. On the street. There were bound to be a couple of days, he knew that, a couple of those real y bad days when the cold made your bal s ache, when he would need to get into a hostel for the night. He'd heard a couple of the real y old ones, the stupid old fuckers, the drunks, talking about nights when your trousers would freeze stiff and stick to your legs, and you'd have to piss in your pants just to thaw them out. Then, maybe, he might go back to the shelter, back for the hot soup and Jesus bit. Otherwise though, unless the snow was at least a foot thick, he'd be sleeping outdoors. I mean that was why they cal ed it 'rough' for fuck's sake.
    And he'd always been able to put up with plenty of pain.
    This place was genuinely unique. A maze of walkways and underpasses and tunnels. A smal city of concrete rat-runs for the human rats. It was only real y at night that Cardboard City sprang ful y formed to life. In order to appreciate the faces properly - the mad eyes, the running sores, the matted beards - you needed to see them lit by the glow from a fire burning in an oil drum. By day, the skateboarders had the run of the place, but when darkness fel they would pick up their boards and drift away, home for dinner, and then the vermin would come out.
    The vermin like him.
    He'd only arrived here recently. At first he'd been content with a doss-house and had usual y made enough each day for a night in the Endel Street Spike in Covent Garden, but he didn't believe in doing things by halves. Outdoors was best, and besides, it tickled him to live here, down below the South Bank, with the Royal Festival Hal and the National Theatre right above his head, in a city built from boxes and fuel ed by strong lager and despair.
    Begging would do for the moment. There was plenty of time to work out an angle, but for the time being, a couple of quid a day was doing him handsomely. Enough to buy a paper, and a can of something, and always the chocolate to give him energy.
    He firmly believed in never doing anything unless you were going to give it absolutely your best shot. He was a very good beggar. He'd picked it up very quickly. He didn't just stand there looking like a puppy who's pissed himself, holding out his hand like some Ethiopian. He made an effort. Yes, he was brighter than most of the others, and him being only sixteen didn't hurt, but it wasn't rocket science was it? It was al about making the punter think that they had no other choice. Not by being aggressive, no; that was stupid and a waste of energy. It just needed to be real, and looking like you had a sense of humour didn't hurt. If I can afford to laugh about this, mate, you can afford to put your hand in your pocket, and if al you've got in there is a pound
    coin then you might as wel toss it my way. Gawd bless you guv'nor... These yuppie cunts could afford it anyway.
    Leaving had been the best thing, he was certain of that now. Six months ago, chucking a few things in a bag, nicking the money he'd need to tide him over from his mum's purse. He'd not been a hundred
    per cent sure then, but he knew he didn't real y belong there.
    Had to go.
    He stil thought about Palmer and about Karen. Thought about them far more often than he thought about his mum. He dreamed about his dad, once, but tried not to think about him.
    It was stupid real y. He didn't exactly miss them, he missed the things he could do when they were there, and the feelings he got from doing those things. Palmer and Karen were just like his air pistol or his knives or his cricket bat. They were things he used.
    It was a warm night. He lay back, his head on his bag and stared up