Notes from ‘A Cruel Healing’ Rattling

I made my way through London’s evening’s wintry mist to the grocers shop at the corner of Dean St and Old Compton St. I used this shop often and was known to all the members of the family who ran it. I pushed the door open. The shop was bright. By the number of beads of sweat on my forehead the shopkeeper could tell how many cans of lager I wanted. I was rattling, withdrawing. If ever the shopkeeper seen me physically shaking while entering his shop he already had 4 cans on the counter by the time I reached it. If the sweating and the shakes I displayed signified a worse state of wear then a 1 litre bottle of French cider was added by the shop assistant without any acknowledgment. Banter, tittle tattle, pithy exchanges, the nod of a head, a rye wink, a benign smile, signs of human communication that exude the warmth, compassion, and fellowship were absent completely. He knew I was not up for discussing the weather; I hadn’t been motivated by this type of social cohesion for many years. My money was in change clenched in both of my hands. I poured the money onto the counter. The coins swarmed like bees angrily around each other shaking fervently from them the sweaty filth they had collected from me. The shop assistant tidal waved the money with one hand into the open drawer beneath the counter. It was a big fat chunky dark wooden drawer, one of those Victoriana numbers with the big brass handles. The change thumped its way against each other down into the cavernous drawer. As the money was being incarcerated separated from the respectable money filling the till my whole body shook, cold shivers echoed around my face, my neck and my hands trembled as I opened the first can of lager.

Notes from ‘A Cruel Healing’ Homeless in West End

I slept rough in ‘bashes’, a term describing an area in the street put aside by homeless people to sleep in and kitted out with cardboard and blankets.

I saw homeless people fight viciously over a begging space on the street,

I saw the rent boys in Piccadilly being abused by punters,

I saw deaths from drugs and alcohol misuse,

I overdosed several times myself. One Time in the cubicle of the Tottenham Court Rd public toilets opposite Astoria theatre, I had had a good day grafting (shoplifting) and had a few quid, I set down on the floor my bags of stolen goods and had injected a lot of heroin. With me in the cubicle were another Glaswegian and an Italian guy. As I overdosed my eyes closing and my body slowly falling over, I heard an Italian voice saying ‘The money is in his sock’, and a jubilant Glaswegian shouting ‘Ya dancer’. So they got a result, were happy and left me to die.

I came round later, only by the skill of paramedics. I had no money, no stolen goods, no shoes or socks and my main concern was not my well being but where can I get my next hit.

The West End and Kings Cross were the stomping grounds of the homeless, prostitutes and drug dealers. I realised I was living in an unmerciful world. This period of time, 1998 to 2003, I assert being the most dangerous in the history of the city’s homeless.

In the whole time I was homeless I never met anyone who could offer me a house, a real sustainable accommodation. I met police a lot and met outreach workers 3 times in over 4 years. I had become suspicious of authorities giving up on them totally and not trusting them at all. This included hospitals, doctors, police and Social Security workers.   

My experience with agency workers was that there was a blatant power imbalance between us, lack of empathy and of simple respect, and no consistent follow up on proposals or agreements. So it was difficult for me to engage with hostel workers even when I had an opportunity to be among them, and by the time I had achieved the merest trust with any of them, I had been nicked, in prison or had moved on. 

My friend Dree developed cellulitis on both arms. He had a high fever, headaches, chills, sweats, very ill. The skin on his arms had hardened becoming flaming red and swollen, like lobsters claws. He bedded down under the arches on Remnant St off Kingsway leading into St Lincoln’s Inn Fields while I scoured among the Soho prostitutes for anti-biotics, I also shoplifted health remedies from a famous health shop on Oxford St. I returned to Dree with arms full of medication and after two days he fully recovered from that condition courtesy of Holland & Barret and the naked girls of Rupert Street.