In this issue we celebrate London’s Underbelly, drawing your attention to the unseen, marginal places and people that exist alongside the wealth and prosperity.

This alternative, seedier world behind the glossy facia of the city has been brought to life by countless great authors – from Chaucer and Dickens to contemporary urban chroniclers such as Iain Sinclair, whose magnum opus Hackney, That Rose-Red Empire has just been published after many years’ gestation.

The real and the fantastical merge in Jonathan Pinnock’s story ‘The Birdman of Farringdon Road’ and Siddhartha Bose’s gruesome poem ‘Song’, whilst Guy Mankowski captures the pretention of the city’s indie elite in ‘The Insiders Party’.

Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle gets her archaeologist’s trowel (or is that scalpel) out to uncover the hidden history of Cross Bones Yard; and Salena Godden lifts us out of the underbelly – but only just – with her perfectly-pitched tale of love and loss in the city, ‘Oh, you should have been there’. ]]> http://www.litro.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/11/londons-underbelly-2/feed/ 0 http://www.litro.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/11/in-the-garden/ http://www.litro.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/11/in-the-garden/#comments Wed, 11 Mar 2009 14:26:19 +0000 webmaster http://www.litro.co.uk/?p=500 Note: The Cross Bones yard in Redcross Way was a dumping place for unwanted bodies for around 500 years. It is currently empty. London Underground would like to sell off the valuable land for use as office blocks.

“The …

Oh, you should have been there, as I rode the tube to Charing Cross, I was smiling to myself. You didn’t reply, you didn’t promise anything, but I saw you had read the invitation. I said to myself, oh you funny tease, how you keep me guessing, maybe you’ll just show up, what if you just show up. I planned to hold your hand down Villiers Street, to drink with you on the balcony of the Oxo Tower, walk with you along the Southbank. It was such a beautiful rose evening, it was the perfect night for losing your head and letting go of the side.

The train was hot with skin, stinking of sweat and grease. There was a gang of noisy and exuberant Dubliners. They stared hard at my cleavage and legs. They gaped at me, they made gestures and talked behind their hands. I found a pamphlet and studied the words so I could ignore their hungry gazes. Although funnily enough, there was one that looked like you, so I gave him the smallest of smiles. He grinned as though I looked good enough to eat. I briefly caught my reflection in the glass and thought that maybe you’d look at me like that too. That Irish boy had your twinkling eyes, when he smiled he had your dimples, the hairs on his tan freckled arms were pale as hay.

I raced up the escalators, I was wearing knee-high boots in case I might have to run away from you. You see, it had occurred to me you might be a murderer. I had flashes of fear picturing my assasination, how you’d shoot me like a sniper from the roof of The National Gallery. I imagined you slitting my throat. I imagined that in your home there was a dungeon wall-papered with pictures of me with the eyes scissored out. From that extreme to the next my head raced, until I settled on the notion that when we met it could be awkward, that perhaps we’d find we have nothing in common, but then again, imagine if we felt the same.

Imagine if we felt the same! I took the stairs two at a time in haste and started chuckling, I was out of breath and rushing as though I thought you’d be there. I laughed out loud at the ridiculous joke. Then I looked up at the time and I was seven minutes late. What if you had waited and left already?

I hurried towards Trafalgar Square and saw a handsome fellow in a crisp white shirt coming from the opposite direction. It was startling and compelling, I thought it was you, that maybe you really had waited and given up. When we passed each other, there was a moment in that glance, a sense of longing, something mutual and familiar. I was wearing sunglasses and wondered if you didn’t recognise me. For a good few seconds I turned back. The man had slowed right down, he was walking backwards and gazing back at me. My heart pounded for he was the same auburn and chestnut colouring as you. But surely you’d call out my name, take me in your arms and say, my love it’s me, have you forgotten me? No my love, I would beam up at you, how could I ever forget? Then we’d be sweet and quite shy, we’d laugh and embrace. I walked into the sunlight and crossed the road knowing we might not even recognise each other after all these years.

Oh you should have been there, to see me arrive in Trafalgar Square. I looked up at Nelson’s Column protruding into a June blue sky, there were scoops of vanilla and raspberry clouds. The lions teased me and said, look at the hapless romantic, the nostalgic, look at the believer in old flames! I lit a cigarette and walked among the pigeons.

Were you there hiding from me behind a tree? Were you photographing me? Were you laughing to yourself – Ah ha, look how I can make her wait, look what a fool! Can she not see she is far too old for giddy girlhood daydreams? Would you later email these photographs to me so I would know you were there? Then in these creul photographs would I see the sad portrait of a desperate woman chasing bubbles? I span around, I tried to have eyes in the back of my head to catch your lens. The lions taunted me, what an ego she has, they said, what vanity, does she think she is that interesting?

I was about to give up, but then I saw you on the other side of the Square. It was your walk, that swagger and you were wearing a baseball cap. I walked very slowly through the crowds. I was sure it was you this time, I wanted to approach you and put my hands over your eyes and say, guess who? But that boy was hugged by a pink and strawberry blonde. They kissed with a flourish of young heat and I realised he was like you, but when you were fifteen. I had to remind myself we are older now, I told myself to look for a man not a boy.

So, I continued searching for you among the older men, the bald, the fat or bearded men; there were freckled men, sunburnt men, crippled men, hairy men, tattooed men, drunk men, short men, gay men, homeless men, exotic men, sick men, men in hats and sunglasses, men hiding behind cameras…I studied all the men that seemed to be alone and waiting for something. A cross dresser on a park bench stared at me for a very long time and I even thought that might be you too.

There were couples, families on day trips, some with young children and babies which chased pigeons clapping their hands. Then I thought, are you married? I imagined your wife, and a chill ran through me with the image of a furious woman storming through the crowds towards me to scratch my eyes out having discovered and read our emails.

Silly sentimentalist, I must have made this date with myself to remind myself of something. I had set myself up. I sat on the edge of the water fountain, the spray was cool on my skin. I looked into the blue water and saw my refelection and I saw the truth, the reflection of time and the clouds above me. I saw I was alone and I looked into my eternal reflection in my sunglasses and in the surface of the water, mirror to mirror.

A yellow Puerto Rican boy sat beside me and asked me for a light. He told me my dress was pretty. He sat so close to me and for so long it was awkward. Then I wondered if he had been writing the emails. I searched his face to see if his eyes would give him away, to see if he was enjoying this trick. He asked me if I had a boyfriend. I nodded. I was thinking, I am waiting for love. He walked away, my eyes followed him to see if his shoulders were shaking with laughter. They didn’t and he walked alone circling the Square.

Big Ben was bronze, coppery with sunset. An hour had past and the bells tolled nine times and I knew you were not there. I walked back towards Charing Cross wondering if this lesson had been learnt. At home that same night, the curtains wafted in the perfume of night-blooming jasmine. I ran a bubble bath and wiped the steamed-up mirror and took a good long hard look at myself. The girl and the dreamer inside me grinned at a new womanly face, my dilating pupils were filled with stars and mischief. I wondered if you would believe that I waited for you in Trafalgar Square. I believe I met myself there, I will never tell you that I waited for you there, because, oh, you should have been there.

Salena Godden appears with Peter Coyte as Saltpeter (saltpeter.co.uk) and has performed in the Australian outback and to resistance fighters in East Timor. She has previously collaborated with Coldcut and Alabama 3. Her poetry and creative fiction has been published widely and her debut novel Springfield Road is released by Harper Collins in April 2009.

I’d all but abandoned any dreams of indie fame by the time it fell on my doorstep. I’d spent years playing the tortured front man in a string of bands that had failed to achieve stardom. I’d consoled myself with many excuses for this lack of success, blaming it variously on the rangy accomplices I employed and the haircut I hadn’t updated. Ultimately though, I knew the reason behind my failure was simple: lack of talent. I’d felt liberated by this realization, and quietly had retired from the music scene (with little column inches dedicated to my demise) to work as a hospital porter.

One day, a friend who worked at the local studio gave me a call. ‘I’ve got a band called The Charity Shop Pin Ups coming in this afternoon’ Martin had said. ‘They fall over too often to stay in time and I need someone, who knows his way round a tennis racket, to help knock their songs into shape. I’ll give you fifteen quid an hour if you’ll spend the afternoon with them’.

I’d been reluctant to spend that long with five malnourished boys desperate to inevitably appear on reality TV, but perhaps my indie dreams hadn’t died completely. I soon found myself in the studio, my unfaithful mistress of a guitar under my arm, slightly too keen to impress anyone nearby with a wonky haircut. The band was even more dreadful than I’d imagined; all spray on black jeans, panda-eyed ennui and bad posture. Every member was accompanied by a gum-chewing, hairspray-drenched girlfriend permanently glued to her mobile phone.

But having coaxed them through that afternoon, two months later I found the barrage of noise I’d negotiated from them smeared all over the radio. I blanched at those lyrics about Lady Diana and Maxine Carr, hollered over a mass of detuned guitars. I wasn’t surprised I’d never made it.

‘Is that an invite for The Insiders Party?’ Beverley asked, pinching it from my hands. The towel swathed around her head made her appear an odd combination of Cheltenham receptionist and tribal queen. ‘We’re going’ she instantly decided, the circles of makeup round her eyes widening as she clasped it to her chest. I knew that look. It was a look I’d imagine a call centre operative perhaps having if two of her lottery numbers appeared on screen, leaning forward with a false sense of inevitability, convinced she’ll soon be away from touchtone handsets forever.

I’d met Beverly when she was working on the reception at the local health spa. I used to cut through there to get to the practice rooms upstairs for free. Beverley seemed to understand the unrealistic dreams that fester in us, while being kindly dismissive of them coming to anything. One day, as I’d lugged my amplifier past her desk again, she’d offered me the spare room in her flat. I soon moved in and we became friends. Though she had little time for unrealistic ambitions, perhaps due to a reluctance to entirely accept her own life she was eager to be in the company of those she saw as glamorous. I’d see a look of ruthless ambition well up in her usually calm eyes. ‘No, no, you’re really good’ she’d say at the Dog and Parrot, when forty minutes of my bands songs had pushed every punter into the pool room. Once I moved in, I found her reassuring tone started to become a curiously addictive comfort.

A week later, despite my reservations, I felt a distinct sense of excitement as the taxi pulled up outside The Insiders Party. The drivers open disdain about the place only made Beverly and I feel privy to some secret pleasure. ‘This is it, I’m afraid’ he said, pulling up outside a grim-looking Catholic Working Men’s Club.

‘Ah, it’s incognito’ Beverley hissed, struggling with the vernacular. She pressed a note into the driver’s hand as a small mob of boys in badly applied makeup gathered round the entrance. ‘I’m going to get myself such a husband tonight’ she whispered, gathering up her Babydoll dress and splashing into the puddles outside.

I’d not expected lavish décor in a club keen to be cutting edge, but I was nonetheless surprised as we walked in to see the enormous contrast it housed. Haircuts and faces I’d only ever seen in digitally enhanced photos clutched cocktails and teetered about to Belle and Sebastian. They stood out against cheap tinsel that appeared left over from an office party. I’d always believed, ridiculously, that famous people lived in an enclosure separated from humanity by velvet rope. That they would never had to contend with standing in freezing rain for the number 29 bus, or dropping your groceries in the queue at the Co-op. But the contrast between their famous faces and the cheapness of the decor destroyed such misconceptions. The obscure film projected against the back wall, a mesh of soft-focus colors, seemed the room’s only concession to credibility.

We waited at the bar for overpriced gins. Beverly laughed infectiously at the barmaids’ needlessly fascistic queuing system. Kate Bush trilled out of the speakers, prompting a flurry of plastic handbags to be thrown down onto the dance floor, like synthetic campfires to be danced around by peroxide-haired Red Indians.

I’d seen this room so many times in pictures. I’d even studied them, hoping one day to be permitted access off the back of my own artistic merit. I’d somehow thought that being amongst these people would make me like them: influential, relevant, considered. As the dance floor filled, I got to know the internal lunge you feel when you see someone you recognize having never met them. They continue to stagger through their lives, but their proximity means more than you’d like to admit. It seems unfair that they are there existing in front of you, while the importance of it remains unacknowledged. Whenever I saw someone I recognized from a weekly glossy, I felt a ridiculous urge to approach them and say ‘is it really you? It’s just- I thought you lived in another world. Stop carrying on as though it’s not a big deal you’re here. I’m validated by being in a room with you.’ And then there’s that ridiculous desire to collect some sort of souvenir from them. An autograph, or an anecdote which includes ruffling their hair perhaps. Is that strange compulsion to transcend formality a symptom of the modern age, where anyone can be famous, yet it still feels that no one can?

Something childlike about these peculiar stars fascinated me. The dance floor was now filled with beta males in frilly shirts, po-going to Pulp with a dramatic lack of self-awareness. At school these charming, awkward misfits would have been bullied for their dreamy natures, but here their oddness was celebrated. For some reason I felt as if I was one of them. That their strangely sincere, spasmodic movements championed my own sense of isolation. Yes, I’d become a hospital porter instead of a celebrated synth-player, but even so I was here off the back of a reasonably good theremin solo I’d written. Even if I no longer lived my life in a wilderness of artistic misunderstanding, that sense of apartness hadn’t left me. And now these prophets of our particular triumphs, these malformed mediums of empathy, had joined The Insiders Party. The freak on the sidelines, unable to play on the left-wing at school due to asthma, was now centre-stage flinging gladioli and being considered.

It seemed they had paid their dues through years of standing sulkily at the side of the crowd. Now they were being lauded for the very characteristics that had separated them. There seemed something insincere about those who didn’t fit that description though. Who now applauded misfit behavior as inspired, but who’d have thrown chips at them on the bus a few years ago.

A group of petite women clutching fake fur stoles stood pigeon-toed at the side, waiting for their underfed heroes to leave their stage. I recognized in their faces expressions I’d seen before. It was the glare of the girl slightly ahead of the fashion at school. The one who’d turn her nose up at someone for wearing Doc Martins that were the wrong colour. But once a record deal validated your gawkiness, you became beyond reproach to such people. They seemed to only celebrate awkwardness when it became sanctioned by proper adults. Or perhaps after their teenage years they’d decided that such misfits represented the only possibility of escape from the mundane. The lack of self-consciousness amongst the famous ones, next to the acute self-awareness of the ex chip-throwers, made for an interesting contrast.

Beverly seized my arm. ‘Is that the singer from Loaded Lawn?’ she stage-whispered, pushing herself onto her toes. I looked around to see an unshaven man in his late twenties picking glitter off his shoulder, surrounded by a coterie of admirers. His features were obscured in the shadow cast by his baseball cap. I was struck by the way he composed himself. It seemed to immediately confirm his fame. The people around him were arranged in a strange hierarchy mediated by attention. Whoever he deemed worthy of listening to immediately smiled manically, as though they’d become special in the light of his reflected glory.

He held court like a medieval king, dismissing people for not being entertaining enough with ease. As a king might have ordered execution with a wave of his hand, he removed people by feigning acute boredom the instant they grew tiresome. Sometimes, more dramatically, he turned his head away from them mid-sentence, as if discarding them suddenly like a sweet wrapper. Amongst that group the greatest reward seemed to be his attention, or smile. I watched them for a minute, each flailing to catch his eye. What made him more important than anyone else? The medium he’d chosen had a ready-made platform for elevation, but who else in the room had similar ability, given the right chance? What separated him from the other unshaven men seemed to be merely implicit arrogance. It seemed a sudden dose of self-awareness might be indie kryptonite. Carry yourself like a star, it appeared, and the world soon acquiesced. The presumptuousness of such confident dishonesty then perpetuated itself.

Beverly was chatted up by a messy-haired bassist, eventually yielding to the details of his half-truths. The singer from The Charity Shop Pin Ups seemed pleased to catch my eye as his hand was stamped at the door. He appeared reluctant to greet me directly though, even if I had re-written his entire oeuvre in one afternoon. He carried himself with a careful shyness that courted attention, along with his handmade ‘I Hate The Kings of Leon’ t-shirt. Despite the warmth of my cynicism, I slipped into a fawning manner as we spoke, his shifting eyes passing over my face and shoulder. He didn’t mention that my efforts may have contributed to his success, or acknowledge that I had done anything for him. Our stilted, unbalanced, conversation faltered as a woman in black-rimmed glasses and a puffy dress stopped in front of him. ‘My god, it’s you!’ she hissed. ‘The singer from The Charity Shop Pin Ups.’ His reaction to her interested me. His first instinct was to be appalled by her sycophancy. But his second was to clearly wish she’d greeted him louder.

‘How are Alvin, Simon and Theodore?’ I asked as she shimmied away.

‘We’ve split up’ he replied. ‘We toured both sides of the Pennines, and then our bassist quit with nervous exhaustion’.

‘Is he checking into The Priory?’ I asked, tongue in cheek.

He nodded at a frail-looking woman in a satin skirt. ‘No. His parents live in the Cotswolds. They’re nursing him better.’

He continued talking, in a secretive whisper which thrilled me, describing his new plans. I was appalled to hear my words came out lacquered with effusiveness. I became horribly eager to laugh at the slightest humorous intonation in what he said. It had been few months since his flush of success, but despite having musicians queuing up to work with him he’d been unable to keep a new lineup together for a week. ‘I’ve had to start working at The Cash and Carry’ he said. ‘Though if anyone in music finds out, I’m finished’.

I wondered if brief fame had convinced him that he could be successful on a whim, that his catalogue of recent failure was meaningless. Or if he was sabotaging his efforts somehow to avoid the realization that his lucky break had passed. I wondered how he had the audacity to achieve success, but not the wherewithal to manage three people long enough to replicate it. The conversation stalled, having only ever been comfortable when focused on him, as a doll-like woman approached us. She wore an oversized pink dress, its sleeves burgeoning from her shoulders. She snaked her arm around his neck. ‘Fancy a little snifter darling?’ she asked, squeezing his shoulder. I noticed that the foundation on her face was an entirely different shade to that on her exposed cleavage. ‘They have unisex toilets here for a reason’ she whispered to him. A smug smile passed onto his face as he mouthed ‘what can you do?’ to me, before allowing himself to be pulled towards the cubicle.

A hand seized my elbow. I was relieved to see Martin with Beverly at his side, her lipstick a little smeared. ‘I hope you didn’t spend too long allowing him talk about him’ he said. ‘I can’t stand these musicians of limited talent, who vacuum cocaine at the first sign of success’.

‘Me neither’ I replied. As he removed his hand from my shoulder, I noticed at his side a slight girl with long eyelashes and a sequin on her cheek. It seemed she’d expected more glamour from the evening too. ‘This is Rebecca’ Martin said, pushing us closer. ‘And Rebecca, meet the man who turns useless latchkey kids into superstars.’ She smiled, and placed her hand on my elbow. It was twenty minutes later when I realized that I hadn’t stopped talking entirely about me to her. ‘Fancy a little snifter?’ she asked, pointing in the direction of the toilets. Martin had disappeared with Beverley. She took the glass out of my hand and I let her lead me away.


Guy Mankowski was raised on the Isle of Wight. After being educated at Durham and Newcastle Universities, he formed a ‘Dickensian pop band’ with a group of ex-jazz chanteuses and multi-instrumentalists, toured many of England’s most disreputable music venues and signed a record deal on a Soho roof garden. Alba Nova released one EP, which brought some critical acclaim but no money. Guy now works as a psychologist in Newcastle.

I keep her at home, feeding
Chewed bits—massacres—of
Lamb gut,
Fox eyes,
Duck fat.

My last lover
Belched me songs of fidelity.
We raised the child of our gut in a
Fog of streets—rainy days, garter belts, cigarette smoke,
Cholera.

The mother left me for my brother,
Eventually.
I went on to eat our produce, our lilac from dead loins,
Impeccably.
With knife and fork.

Now, I am beyond guilt.

I have taken
Skull of dream,
Gut of sleep,
Hide of fear.

Fashioned a lyre whose strings
Stink.

I take—when I’m ready to sing—my
Toy to a Stepney bar, where they serve me absinthe
Green as my liver.

A one-eyed jack with
Needles in his lip
Schools me in women:

“Know the man you are—
Lover of bird or flock, one or many…
You young and me old and
Blind…
For you, they lay a carpet of threaded time…”

And marriage?

“Five times—
Me grave splayed out, me heart spiked, me brain
Spun like vine!
Not one cried… ”

Five times! And your last wife?

“Killed her.”


Siddhartha Bose was born in 1979, raised in Bombay and Calcutta, and lived for seven years in the United States. A trained actor and filmmaker, his poetry has appeared in The Wolf, Tears in the Fence, Fulcrum, Eclectica and Alhamra Literary Review, and is anthologized in Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (Bloodaxe, 2009). He currently lives in London and is completing a PhD on the Grotesque at Queen Mary, University of London.

“You’re a bird,” he said to me. The voice was quiet, steady and educated, with no discernible accent. He held my gaze for several more seconds before nodding slightly and releasing me. I didn’t really know what to say, so I simply nodded back and moved away, putting the feather in the inside pocket of my jacket.
Far from being discomfited by the morning’s strange encounter, I felt elated for the rest of the day. A bird! Yes! That’s what I was! I was an eagle, soaring with wings outstretched above the mundane pettiness of everyday working life, just waiting for the moment to strike. At last my destiny had been revealed to me.
Curiously enough, it turned out to be a rather good day all round. I shafted two of my least favourite colleagues in our Monday morning progress meeting, closed a half-million deal just before lunch and booked myself a few rounds of golf with the MD for the end of the month. The run of success continued for the rest of the week, and by Friday morning, I had installed a rather magnificent framed picture of an eagle over my desk to remind me of what I had become.
It was raining that evening, but when I got to the tube station, the tramp was still there, sitting behind his bucket, which now had more water in it than money. It seemed churlish not to offer to buy him a drink, and he readily accepted.

“So what … I mean … how …” It’s not always easy to open the conversation with a beggar. But he understood what I was asking.
“You may not believe it looking at me now,” he began, “But I went to university once. Studied zoology.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah. But after I flunked out, the only job I could get was as a zookeeper.”
“Well, at least you still managed to work with animals,” I said, trying to sound positive.
“Hah. Have you ever considered how much shit they produce?”
“No,” I replied, truthfully. “Rather a lot, I imagine.”
“Rather a lot,” he said, “Rather a lot.” He was silent for a few seconds before continuing. “Anyway, it all finished after the accident.”
“Accident?”
“Bleedin’ hippo fell on me. Damn nearly killed me. As it is, I’ll never work again, but I did acquire this ability.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“Yeah. See those tarts up at the bar. Which one would you choose for a one-night stand?”
“You what?”
“I said, which one would you choose?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe the blonde one on the left. She’s pretty fit.”
He snorted. “Ha! No. You’re wasting your time with her. Nah. I’d go for the dark one in the middle.”
“But why?” I was genuinely fascinated.
“Y’see,” he was continuing, oblivious to my interruption, “If I look around this bar, this whole place is like a bleedin’ menagerie to me. See that guy over there?”
“The Asian guy with the newspaper under his arm?”
“Yeah, him. Penguin.” He started to scan the room. “Ooh, there’s an interesting
one. See that chap over in the corner? The one with the half-pint of shandy?”
“Where?” I said. “Oh, him?” He was looking at a weedy-looking middle-aged man with thick glasses.
“Yeah. Manatee. Don’t see many of them in this part of town.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. Anyway, it’s my round …” he waved his empty glass at me.
“Oh, thanks, I’ll have …”
“… only as you are no doubt aware, I’m skint.” He was still waving the glass.
“Another pint, I think.”
I went off for the next round. He spent the next quarter of an hour identifying a bizarre array of animals who were apparently sharing the bar with us. Finally, I drained my glass, and made to leave.
“Er … your round, I think?” he said.
“Well, I was just leaving.”
“I’m not. And whilst you’re at the bar, have another look at that dark one. Trust me, she’s red hot.”
“But what’s so special about her? I still like the look of that blonde.”
“Nah. She’s a rabbit.”
“Sorry? Excuse me, but isn’t that …”

He leaned in close, and whispered in my ear. “The one in the middle is an octopus.” He tapped his nose in a meaningful manner, nodding slightly.
Curiously, he turned out to be right about her. It was quite an exhausting weekend.

The upward trend continued for the next week. The new project was getting ready to start, and I was invited to recruit my own team. I was new to this, and the idea of selecting staff was more than a little frightening, but it occurred to me that I might be able to use my new friend. So next Monday morning, I stopped by to have a word with him.

“D’you fancy a bit of work this week?” I said.
“Like what?”
“I need some advice picking a team.”
He rolled his eyes, as if he’d seen it all before. “OK, I’ll do it,” he said eventually, as if he was doing me a great favour. “£500 a day.”
“Huh? That’s outrageous,” I said. “You’re a beggar!”
“£500 or nothing,” he said. “If you really believe I can help you, you’ll pay that.”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “OK,” I said. “Deal. When can you start?”
He looked from side to side, then down at his bucket. “Well,” he shrugged, “I can fit you in tomorrow.”

The next day I picked him up outside the station and took him along with me to the offices. The receptionist eyed him up suspiciously before relenting and giving him a badge to wear. Then the MD walked in, provoking an odd response from the beggar. He burst out laughing and started pointing at him.

“A pig!” he said. “Your boss is a bleedin’ pig!”
This did not go down well, and my planned golf session was mysteriously cancelled not long afterwards. I made a mental note to keep my friend out of sight for the remainder of his employment.

We spent the next few days going through the various applicants. The routine was the same every time. I would go through the motions of a formal interview accompanied by a stooge from personnel, and then I would take them on a tour of the office, during which the beggar would observe them covertly before giving his assessment once they had gone. I had already decided that my ideal team would consist of a fox (for cunning), a dog (for loyalty) and a cat (for stealth and speed), so all we had to do was identify one of each. As you may imagine, I had been thinking all this through in some detail, and I was beginning to see a whole new career opening up for me. I could see the title of my slim management treatise now: “Who’s in Your Zoo?” – available from all good airport bookshops.
Unfortunately, we ran into problems on the very first day, as one potential recruit who had interviewed extremely well turned out to be an elephant, and thus completely inappropriate. I had an extremely tough job explaining to personnel why I didn’t want her for the job, and it got worse when I also had to turn down a puffin, two sloths and an aardvaak the same day, all of whom had otherwise excellent attributes.

However, on the second day of interviewing, we struck gold, in the shape of a cat, a dog and a fox in rapid succession. To be honest, all three had turned in rather lacklustre performances, but I insisted that they were just what I was looking for, and eventually got my way. I arranged for my friend to get paid a grand in cash for his efforts and he went on his way a happy man. I was happy too. I really felt that I had learned something important.

Three months later, the project and my immediate career were both in ruins. My fox had turned out to be a thief, and had succeeding in embezzling an impressive amount of the company’s funds. My dog was indeed loyal to me, but then he was loyal to anyone and everyone who made the mistake of giving him the time of day. He was probably the neediest person that I have ever met, and he also turned out have appalling personal hygiene, to the extent that our customer had specifically asked that he should no longer visit their offices.

The dog was also making life difficult for the cat, although she was as useless as him, given as she was to spending most of her time preening herself and falling asleep in the corner of the office. Even when she was working, she tended to wander off on her own projects, ignoring the interests of the rest of the team altogether. She had also developed a habit of making unpleasant personal attacks on me, which didn’t exactly help with our working relationship.

As I walked back to the station for the last time, clutching my P45 in one hand and my framed eagle picture in the other, I was surprised to see the beggar again. I hadn’t seen him for a while, and I had assumed that he had used the money to find something better to do with his life. He did seem to have acquired a tan, however, and he was looking slightly fuller in the face.

“Fat load of use you were, mate.” I said to him, brandishing my P45.
“Didn’t work out, then, did it?” he said, as if he’d been expecting this all along.
“No, it bloody didn’t,” I said. He smiled, and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a handful of birdseed and held it out in his palm. A pigeon flew down from the roof of the station and started eating.

“Nice picture you’ve got there, Mr Birdman,” said the beggar, examining my eagle.
“Hah,” I said. “Well, that’s a bit of a sick joke now, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Did you ever take a proper look at that feather of yours?”

I put down the picture and reached into my inside pocket where I kept the feather. I took it out and held it in front of me. Now that I studied it closely, it was actually a rather dull, unexciting greyish colour. I looked at the feather and then I looked at the pigeon, still eating out of the beggar’s hand. As I watched, the pigeon stopped eating and looked back at me. It cocked its head on one side and appeared to smile, as if to say: do I know you from somewhere?


Jonathan Pinnock lives in Hertfordshire. He is married with two children, several cats and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue.
www.jonathanpinnock.com