Night Slayers

Today I am posting another extract from my book: Icons From the Mortal Void.

Back at Piccadilly Circus George looked at his watch: three hours exactly. George proceeded to McDonald's Leicester Square and queued for his tea, impatiently. His impatience was not caused by the rowdy Indian youths in front of him or the ridiculously undecided Italian girls who were being served. It was just that he had always hated wasting time in queues and had temporarily forgotten that killing time was now part of his struggle for survival. He was not confronting empty, prison like hours. It was time filled with cold, fatigue, pain and defeat. Already his nipples bled, grated by the vibrations of his new shirt while his feet felt as though they were resting on burning coals. He took his tea to one of the stools facing a long mirror which had little rectangular blots evenly spaced out to where faces would otherwise meet their own reflections. George looked at the contours of his face. It looked as though an obscenity was being censured or recognition being spared for shame-related reasons. The place was quite full and the rest of his view, good, so he began to scan for other homeless night slayers. Four definite ones and a ‘maybe’. They were only partly given away by their clothes, age, loneliness, and loads or such clues. What betrayed them most was a certain resigned expression capable cohabiting all others. He leaned sideways to see whether his face betrayed fellowship in the brotherhood. He could not decide. His face had become unfamiliar. He did not like it. He thanked the unknown designer for the patch on the mirror. He checked his watch. Hardly any time at all and his tea was already getting cold.