aloneness and severed even the most tenuous connections of his life.
It was growing dark when Billy finally rose from the bench. Despite his state of anxiety he was hungry, which was probably the cause of his dizziness so he decided to make his way to the food van in Martin Place.
It was only an eight-minute walk from the Art Gallery to Martin Place and Billy arrived before the van had drawn up for the evening meal. A number of people had already gathered and were waiting in the fronts of shops and banks, most of them male. He recognised one or two faces but, apart from a brief nod, there was no contact, which was the accepted convention. The young blokes who came in for a free feed were usually pretty aggro and it wasn’t a good idea to look them in the eyes. Anonymity was the unspoken code among the homeless.
Billy found a seat and, placing his briefcase on his lap, kept his eyes on the ground. A young bloke came up to him and asked for a light.
‘Don’t smoke,’ Billy said, not looking up.
‘What’s with the handcuffs?’ the teenager asked, pointing to the briefcase.
Billy put his finger up to his lips. ‘Shush!’ He looked left, then right, and in a loud whisper said, ‘Blueprints, mate. Atomic bomb.’ Tucking his head into his shoulder, he repeated the look to each side. ‘You haven’t seen any Chinese, have you?’ He lowered his voice even further, ‘They want them urgent, they’re going to blow up the White House.’ Billy pulled the briefcase tightly to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. ‘You won’t tell them, will ya?’
The young bloke turned his head to one side and, pursing his lips, made as if to spit at the ground near his feet. ‘Fuckin’ schizo!’ he said, moving away.
The food van had arrived and people were starting to walk up towards it. The Just Enough Faith van was one of several around the city, most of which were run by religious organisations, although not this one.
Just Enough Faith was run personally by Jeff Gambin and his wife Alina, who came about as close to being modern-day saints as was possible in today’s iconoclastic world. They financed the van and bought and prepared its daily fare from their own resources and, in addition, worked to rehabilitate and help the homeless and the destitute. No one needing food or help was ever turned away and they would feed around six hundred people a night. When asked what sort of people came to the van they would tell how their youngest client was just four months old and their oldest ninety-five. The food dispensed free from the van was well prepared with a wide choice and was generally regarded as better than that placed on most tables at home. Not all homeless people were alcoholics and food was an important factor in their lives and so the vans, just like restaurants, were given a rating: Just Enough Faith being the best and the so-called restaurant for the homeless, Our Lady of Snows, near Central Station, regularly voted the worst. Billy not only used Just Enough Faith because of its convenience and the quality of its food, but because Martin Place was well lit and therefore less dangerous.
After the incident with the teenager, Billy’s knees were shaking so violently that he dared not rise. He sat a while longer until his beating heart had slowed and most of the street people had been served. The ruse he’d used with the young bloke always worked, because, apart from the drunks, the addicts, pensioners and street kids, the square on any given evening would contain its fair share of schizophrenics and mentally disturbed who’d been freed from government institutions and allowed to re-enter the community to swell the ranks of the hopeless and homeless.
People moved quietly up to the queue, where the unspoken aggression in the air seemed to dissipate. There was no pecking order as might be expected, with young blokes asserting themselves and pushing to the front. It was first come, first served, everyone acting
It was growing dark when Billy finally rose from the bench. Despite his state of anxiety he was hungry, which was probably the cause of his dizziness so he decided to make his way to the food van in Martin Place.
It was only an eight-minute walk from the Art Gallery to Martin Place and Billy arrived before the van had drawn up for the evening meal. A number of people had already gathered and were waiting in the fronts of shops and banks, most of them male. He recognised one or two faces but, apart from a brief nod, there was no contact, which was the accepted convention. The young blokes who came in for a free feed were usually pretty aggro and it wasn’t a good idea to look them in the eyes. Anonymity was the unspoken code among the homeless.
Billy found a seat and, placing his briefcase on his lap, kept his eyes on the ground. A young bloke came up to him and asked for a light.
‘Don’t smoke,’ Billy said, not looking up.
‘What’s with the handcuffs?’ the teenager asked, pointing to the briefcase.
Billy put his finger up to his lips. ‘Shush!’ He looked left, then right, and in a loud whisper said, ‘Blueprints, mate. Atomic bomb.’ Tucking his head into his shoulder, he repeated the look to each side. ‘You haven’t seen any Chinese, have you?’ He lowered his voice even further, ‘They want them urgent, they’re going to blow up the White House.’ Billy pulled the briefcase tightly to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. ‘You won’t tell them, will ya?’
The young bloke turned his head to one side and, pursing his lips, made as if to spit at the ground near his feet. ‘Fuckin’ schizo!’ he said, moving away.
The food van had arrived and people were starting to walk up towards it. The Just Enough Faith van was one of several around the city, most of which were run by religious organisations, although not this one.
Just Enough Faith was run personally by Jeff Gambin and his wife Alina, who came about as close to being modern-day saints as was possible in today’s iconoclastic world. They financed the van and bought and prepared its daily fare from their own resources and, in addition, worked to rehabilitate and help the homeless and the destitute. No one needing food or help was ever turned away and they would feed around six hundred people a night. When asked what sort of people came to the van they would tell how their youngest client was just four months old and their oldest ninety-five. The food dispensed free from the van was well prepared with a wide choice and was generally regarded as better than that placed on most tables at home. Not all homeless people were alcoholics and food was an important factor in their lives and so the vans, just like restaurants, were given a rating: Just Enough Faith being the best and the so-called restaurant for the homeless, Our Lady of Snows, near Central Station, regularly voted the worst. Billy not only used Just Enough Faith because of its convenience and the quality of its food, but because Martin Place was well lit and therefore less dangerous.
After the incident with the teenager, Billy’s knees were shaking so violently that he dared not rise. He sat a while longer until his beating heart had slowed and most of the street people had been served. The ruse he’d used with the young bloke always worked, because, apart from the drunks, the addicts, pensioners and street kids, the square on any given evening would contain its fair share of schizophrenics and mentally disturbed who’d been freed from government institutions and allowed to re-enter the community to swell the ranks of the hopeless and homeless.
People moved quietly up to the queue, where the unspoken aggression in the air seemed to dissipate. There was no pecking order as might be expected, with young blokes asserting themselves and pushing to the front. It was first come, first served, everyone acting
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