The Secret Prophecy by Herbie Brennan

spout.
    “You get to appreciate strong tea,” the old man remarked. “Milk’s over there in the big blue jug. And there’s sugar in the packet. Makes the tea almost drinkable if you put in enough sugar. Not like the coffee. Nothing makes the coffee drinkable. I’d keep away from the coffee, I were you. Have a sandwich. Cheese and Branston—very tasty.”
    “Thank you,” Em said. He added milk and sugar to his tea, sipped it experimentally. The taste wasn’t too bad. He reached for a sandwich. “You wouldn’t be Victor, would you?”
    The old man’s face started a suspicious smile. “How did you happen to know that, young man?”
    “Lucky guess,” Em told him. He finished the sandwich, grabbed another, and took it with his mug of tea to inspect the sleeping accommodation. With food in his stomach he was beginning to feel a little more cheerful and a lot more confident. Maybe he could stay here for just one night. He could sleep under a bridge tomorrow when the rain had stopped. When hopefully the rain had stopped.
    But the sleeping accommodation wasn’t the series of rooms he had pictured. It was one large room, much the same size as the canteen, with cots squeezed in everywhere. There must have been forty of them at least, maybe even fifty. Although it was still relatively early, almost half of them were occupied by fully dressed men curled up, apparently asleep.
    “It’s not the Ritz,” Victor’s voice came from behind him, “but it’s warm and dry, and they change the sheets before they allocate you a bed. Usually. You staying the night?”
    “Thinking of it,” Em admitted. He had to sleep in a dormitory at school, and this wasn’t really so very much different.
    “Better talk to Jeff then. Before it fills up. You’ll find it fills up fast when it’s raining.”
    Em hesitated. There was still the business about Social Services. One phone call and he could have bartered a warm dry bed for his freedom. At the moment, nobody knew who he was; and while anybody could guess he was underage, he still hadn’t admitted it officially. He could walk away now and no one would be any wiser.
    But walking away now meant walking into a wet night.
    Em stared into the dormitory room. He’d never seen cots look more appealing. “Victor . . . ?” It would be okay to ask Victor. He’d never make the phone call. But would he know the answers?
    “Yeah?”
    “What happens if you’re under eighteen? Do they have to tell anybody?”
    “You mean like your parents?”
    Victor thought he was a runaway. “Yes,” Em said quickly. Then hesitated and added, “Or anybody?”
    Victor shrugged. “They would if you were younger, like seven or something. But you could pass for older.”
    “Won’t he ask my name and where I live?”
    “Anybody asked your name yet?”
    “No, but . . .”
    “And where you live is the streets, Sunshine. You don’t have a home; you don’t have some permanent address ”—he spat the words as if they were distasteful—“otherwise you wouldn’t be in need of shelter, would you? Say anything you like. Don’t you understand? Nobody checks up on you.”
    Em finished the last of his sandwich and brushed a crumb off his jacket lapel. “I think I’ll go talk to Jeff.”

Chapter 17
    L ike Victor said, it wasn’t the Ritz. Em’s clothes had dried out in the heat of the shelter, and he was now curled under a blanket in one of the cots. Victor, by accident or design, was stretched out on another bed beside him, already asleep. It was far from dark. Light bled in through the windows from the street outside, through the open door, from the now-quiet common room. A surprising number of the men seemed to be reading by the dim glow of battery-operated night-lights.
    The dormitory wasn’t quiet either. All around Em, like the sounds of the sea, was a gentle dissonance of snoring, grunting, heavy breathing, punctuated by an occasional belch, fart, sigh, or moan. It should have been