Man Of Few Words

Chapter 36

I nearly gave up trying to wake him. It took a few minutes. I mean, I guess he might have woken up quite quickly but been refusing to show it. Whatever, it was a few minutes before he spoke.

He said, "Wur-huh?"

"Hey," I said gently. "Have you got a minute?"

I confess I then looked away and stifled a laugh.

"Hur-wuh?" he said, and looked up at me. It was hard to tell from his dirty, bloodshot, straggly face how old he was, but I'd guess about my age. He looked a lot older though, even taking into consideration my cancerously aged state.

"I just want someone to talk to," I pleaded, feeling slightly ridiculous.

"You got a fag?" he asked, predictably.

"No. I have cancer."

"Urh..." he said, sounding saddened. I'm not sure whether he was saddened by my having cancer, or by his hopes of getting a smoke having been dashed.

"I've got cash," I said, trying to sound bright and breezy. "Do you want some money?"

"Yeah, that'll d..." he started to say, then, "'Ere... you ain't a lifter, are ya?"

I had to think about what he meant.

"Oh... no. No, not at all. But I really do have cancer, and I won't live long enough to spend all my money. So just have some. It's fine."

I pulled out my wallet and held two notes, a 20 and a 10, in his face. He looked me in the eye, long and hard.

"All I ask for in return is conversation. I'm... I'm lonely, mate. I'm dying and I'm lonely."

"You must be," he said as he reached a grubby hand out from inside the sleeping bag and took the notes. "I ain't much of a conversationist. But fire away, mate. Fire away."

The hand and the money disappeared back into the sleeping bag and he turned his head back the way it had been when I woke him. Facing away from me. I sat down next to him, leaning my back and head against the cold brick wall. It was a little while before I spoke.

"I'm going to see my parents soon." I just left that hanging there.

After a long pause, the wino made a muffled "Mmm." I was just glad he was still awake.

"I have a lot of difficulty dealing with my parents."

This time there was no pause. His immediate reaction was to exhale sharply through the nose, by way of a sort of derisive laugh.

"I suppose you..."

I was interrupted by the eruption of a sudden coughing fit from the sleeping bag. It subsided, he shuddered, wheezed, then whispered, "Fuck's sake..." to himself. I tried again.

"I suppose you do too. You have trouble with your parents, I mean."

He wheezed inwardly and slowly, then said, "Yeah."

"What's your name?" I didn't really know what I wanted to say about parents.

"Bully," he said. Then, after a little more wheezing, "Because my name's Bull. Not 'cause I'm a bully."

"Right. I'm David. Nice to..." I hesitated. "This isn't very nice, is it?" I admitted, looking out over the dark, rain-soaked park.

"Could be worse," Bully sighed. "I've got furty quid in me pants. Tha'll keep me in piss for a while."

"How did you get here, Bully?" I asked. "Sleeping rough, I mean."

"Yeah... I know what you mean," he said, then let out a long, rasping breath. Then I think he laughed quietly to himself. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain.

"Do you really give a fuck?" he asked.

I opened my eyes, turned my head, and looked at Bully. There was a split at one soggy end of the sleeping bag and the lining, turned grey by dirt, was spilling out. Further up there was a large, brownish, watermark stain. All I could see of Bully himself was a few greasy clumps of brown hair sticking haphazardly out from under a chunky, but badly worn, knitted woolen hat. The hat was colourfully striped. This added no cheer to the situation.

"No," I replied, finally.

"Fair enough, then," said Bully. "I'll tell ya anyway."

I waited. Bully wheezed. The wheezing was gradually getting quieter.

"Summink bad 'appened," he said, speaking a little more loudly. His voice had a tone of finality about it, but I decided to persist anyway.

"What happened?"

"Nah... fuck off," Bully rasped, more dismissively than aggressively. "Your turn. What the fuck you doin' in a park in the middle've the night, in the rain? You ain't jus' come t'see me, 'ave ya?"

"I didn't know you'd be here," I answered, starting to feel ridiculous again. "I just... I just had to go for a walk. That's all."

"Well," he was louder again, "Le's jus' say that's what I done an' all. I went for a fuckin' walk. An' then I went for a fuckin' lie down in the fuckin' park. An' 'ere I fuckin' am."

"I believe you," I said.

I shut my eyes again. Tightly this time. Slowly, tears edged their way out between my eyelids, and I dipped my head forward in silence.

The rain kept beating down. Bully coughed. I sniffed.

"Why did you go for a walk, Bully?"

He turned around and half sat up.

"Listen!" he spat. "Di'nt you wanna talk abou' your mum 'n' dad? Eh?"

He saw that I was crying, shook his head slightly, then lay back down again.

"Fuckin' 'ell, man. Fuckin' 'ell..." he said to himself.

"I don't care about people," I said quietly, sniffing. "I don't know how."

"Nah, you don'," said Bully. "But don' worry 'bout it. You ain't alone."

I knew what he meant, but took it the wrong way anyway.

"I am alone." I shook my head, sobbed, repeated, "I am alone."

"An' I don' give a fuck abou' you eiver, mate."

Bully was starting to sound weary now. Noticeably even more weary than he'd started out.

I sat a while longer, almost motionless, silent. I started to shiver.

When I couldn't take the cold any longer, I got stiffly to my feet. I took a big sniff of cold, damp air and snot, then set out across the park.

"See ya."

I stopped almost as soon as I started, and looked back at Bully. He wasn't looking at me.

"Fanks f'the dosh."

Without saying anything, I turned away and left him there.