To The Stars

“You keep your mouth shut unless I tell you it’s OK, gov. One word from you and they’ll all know who you are. Time now for a half liter, thirsty work this. Just drink what you’re given and say naught.”

“What if someone talks to me?”

“They won’t. It’s not that kind of pub.”

A blast of warm, noisome air blew over them when they pushed through the heavy front door. Men, only men, sitting at tables and standing at the bar. Some were eating plates of food served through a hatch in one wall. Stew of some kind, Jan saw when they squeezed past a crowded table, along with chunks of dark bread. There was room at the scarred, damp bar and they stood there while Fryer signaled one of the barmen.

“Two halfs of skrumpy,” he said, then confided in Jan, “mild’s like swill here, better the cider.”

Jan grunted assent and buried his face in the glass when it came. Acid and terrible. What could the beer possibly be like!

Fryer was right; this was not a sociable bar. Men were talking together who had obviously arrived together. Those who were alone stayed alone, seeking communion only with their drink. An air of depression hung over the dark room unchallenged by the stained brewery posters on the walls, the only decoration of any kind. The drinkers were obviously seeking oblivion not relaxation. Jan drank deep when Fryer moved away in the crowd. He returned in a moment with another man, appearing no different from the others in his rumpled dark clothes.

“We’ll go now,” Fryer said, making no attempt to introduce the man. Once outside they tramped through the snow, now beginning to drift over the curbs, their footsteps silent in its softness.

“My mate here knows a lot of people,” Fryer said, nodding his head in the direction of their new acquaintance. “Knows everyone. Knows everything going on here in Islington.”

“Been inside too,” the man said, his words very liquid and lisping. He appeared to have very few teeth in his head. “Caught using the stuff. Hard work cutting them trees in Scotland. Cured the habit though. The hard way. This old woman now, you’ll see how she lives. Not much of a life but she’ll be well out of it soon.”

They turned in through the gates of a brooding rank of tall council flats, crossing the open area between them. It could have been grassed or paved, impossible to tell now. Spotlights high up on the building lit the area like a prison yard, spilling brightly over the children who were building a giant snowman. An altercation broke out and they fell to shouting and beating one small boy who finally broke from them and ran away crying loudly, leaving a trail of red drops in the snow behind him. Neither of Jan’s companions seemed aware of the scene so Jan put it from his mind as well.

“Lifts not working. Usual thing,” Fryer said as they followed their guide up the steps. Up five filthy flights, the walls daubed all the way with graffiti. Warm enough though, as it should be with unlimited electric power. The door was locked but the man had a key. They followed him into a single warm, brightly lit room that smelled of death.

“She don’t look good, do she?” he said, gesturing toward the woman on the bed.

She was pale as parchment, her skin lighter than the stained covers of the bed. One clawlike hand held them clutched under her chin and her unconscious breathing was slow, scratchy.

“You can talk if you want,” Fryer said. “All friends here.”

“She’s ill?” Jan said.

“Ill to death, your honor,” the toothless man said. “Saw doctor in the autumn, got some medicine, nothing since.”

“She should be in hospital.”

“Hospital only for dying on the dole.”

“A doctor then.”

“Can’t go to him. Won’t come here without no money.”

“But there must be funds available from… our people”

“There are,” Fryer said. “More than enough to at least help our mates. We don’t dare, gov. Go on her record, the Security will want to know where did she get the crumble on the dole, investigation, find out who her friends are. Do more harm than good. So we don’t do it.”

“So she just dies?”

“We all die sooner or later. Just sooner on the dole. Let’s go get some scoff.”

They did not say good-bye to the toothless man who had drawn up a chair and was sitting next to the bed. Jan looked at the box of a room, the decrepit furniture, the sanitary fittings on the wall, barely concealed by a battered screen. A prison cell would be better.

“He’ll be with us after a bit,” Fryer said. “Wants to sit awhile with his mam.”

“The woman — his mother?”

“Indeed. Happens to all of us.”

They descended to the basement, to a communal dining room. The dole obviously did not extend to the luxury of private cooking. People of all ages were sitting at the rough tables, eating, or queuing at the steaming counter.

“Pit this in the slot when you take your tray,” Fryer said, handing Jan a red plastic token.