Eliot thumped his chest. The coughing fit passed.

“‘Big Issue’?” he called to the people entering the station. Nobody looked at him.

Eliot was getting wet. The rain was falling heavier. He looked into the station, where it was dry. He could go in there and not get wet, or he could stay out here and maybe sell all the copies he had by mid-morning.

Eliot decided to stay and get wet.

“‘Big Issue’, ladies and gents,” he called out.

The station was always busiest at rush hour, but that was almost over. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Eliot knew. The kind of people who caught rush hour trains rarely had the time to stop. It was the people who came at a casual pace at a casual hour who bothered themselves with the lowly homeless guy selling magazines.

Another man walked past Eliot.

“Already got it,” he said abruptly.

Eliot doubted that.

A number fourteen bus stopped by the station. A dozen people got off into the rain. A woman with three children waddled toward the station. The three children squealed about the rain, but they were beaming brightly. She waved her hand dismissively at Eliot’s magazines as if they were the fourth course of a meal she looked like she didn’t need to eat to survive anyway.

Others flapped open their umbrellas, those that weren’t going into the station. Their route didn’t take them past Eliot, so he called out. “‘Big Issue’!”

Nobody seemed to hear.

The last man who got off the bus was about forty, dressed like he still thought he was thirty, in market imitation designer ware. He had a round face but wasn’t fat, and he had stubble all over his head as well as his chin. He walked with his mouth open.

“‘Big Issue’, sir?” said Eliot.

“Watch it,” said the man, brushing past.

“Watch it yourself, arsehole,” Eliot said under his breath and immediately regretted it.

The man looked round as he went into the station. He mouthed the word ‘fuck’, then said “off” aloud. He glared at Eliot, then went out of sight.

Eliot snorted and squeezed some water out of his hair. “‘Big Issue’, anyone?” he called.

A black man came and bought a copy and gave Eliot an extra 20p. “God bless,” said Eliot.

Eliot didn’t believe in God.

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

Eliot turned. Someone - a girl, almost - in an overly large railway uniform, had her arms crossed.

“‘Big Issue’?” Eliot said.

The girl untucked only one hand. “Look, I know you and me haven’t met before, but I know this isn’t the first time one of us has had to talk to you.”

“What?” Eliot threw up a free hand, trying to look innocent.

“We’ve had customers complain that you’re being obstructive and harassing them.”

“How many customers?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”

“Because of one dick-head?”

“Please.”

Eliot sighed. “Whatever, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

Eliot laughed. “I’ll be back.”

And then the heavens really opened.

Eliot found himself walking down the high street, which ran perpendicular to the road the station was on. Shops did best on days like these, when it was intermittently dry enough for people to come shopping, but sporadic showers sent them running into the nearest shop.

The high street wasn’t deserted. There were plenty of people with umbrellas who angled them toward Eliot as he walked past, like shy children who bury their faces in their mother’s arm and think nobody can see them, least of all a bum like Eliot.

“‘Big Issue’; help the homeless,” Eliot called.

By the time he got to Mark’s and Spencer’s, Eliot was ready to give up. He was soaking wet and he was thirsty. A tickle in his dry throat started another coughing fit, and that sent people off at wild tangents to avoid him like he had the plague. And maybe I do, Eliot thought.

Eliot turned down the side street behind M&S. Off the high street were all the shops that didn’t sell brand names, that didn’t give you pre-packaged food that had been lingering in a cupboard for a month, and that just weren’t trusted by anyone with enough money to shop elsewhere. Eliot stopped before he reached the first cafe and started removing his identity badge.

“How much?” someone said.

Eliot looked up. A middle-aged blond woman with creases around her eyes and mouth was reaching into her purse.

“Coupla quid, or whatever you can afford.”

She gave him an extra fifty pence then Eliot put the rest of his copies in his bag, along with the badge.

When he went into the cafe, nobody was any the wiser. He was scruffy, but he was clean, even if he saw in the mirrored walls that he looked as bedraggled as a drowned rat.

He wove between the tables - most of them occupied - and looked at the price board.

“What do you want?” said the woman behind the counter.

“Coffee, please,” said Eliot.

“Decaf? Latte? Mocha or cappuccino?”

Eliot tried to smile pleasantly. “Whatever comes to hand.”

The woman nodded curtly, filled an ivory-coloured mug that was covered in fine cracks with coffee from a steaming steel percolator, then slid it toward him.

“Eighty pence, please,” she said.

Eliot gave her four twenty pence pieces. “Cheers.”

She nodded. She gave him a funny look as he headed for a table by the door. He hoped she hadn’t seen him selling the ‘Big Issue’. There were a couple of guys who had bought it off him on more than one occasion. He recognised them and they recognised him. He didn’t ever remember selling this woman a copy though.

Eliot sat in the window, his fingers wrapped around the hot china, watching the rain fall. It was starting to ease off again now. Eliot thought he could see blue sky in the distance.

The door opened and a cold gust of air breezed in and Eliot realised how quickly he had become accustomed to the warmth.

A boy came in.

“Sorry. No,” said the woman behind the counter.

The boy kept going. “I just want to use the toilet.”

“Sorry. No,” the woman said more forcefully.

Eliot looked up. The boy was about thirteen or fourteen. He was very thin, and Eliot could tell, even though the wearing was wearing several jumpers, which almost hid the fact. His legs were almost non-existent inside his jeans, and his trousers weren’t even that baggy. His hair was wavy from being overlong, and curly at the ends. His eyes seemed all the more bigger because his face was drawn.

The boy stopped. “Please.”

“No. Out. Now,” said the woman.

Eliot lowered his mug as the boy walked past and as he opened the door, Eliot smelt him.

Eliot glanced over at the counter. The woman was rolling her eyes, muttering something to people sat at a nearby table, something Eliot couldn’t hear.

He looked into his mug, drained the last few drips into his mouth, then got up from the table.

Eliot continued along the side street. There was no sign of the boy, but suddenly Eliot caught sight of him coming out of another cafe on the other side of the road. He crossed over and quickly caught up.

“Hi,” he said.

The boy gave him a nervous look. “What do you want?”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No. I don’t want any. Thanks.” He sped up.

Eliot also sped up. “I wasn’t offering you any! I’d lose my license to do this.” He reached into his bag and took out his ‘Big Issue’ vendor identity badge.

The boy seemed to ease up when he saw it.

“Are you taking drugs?” Eliot asked.

The boy wiped his running nose and sniffed. “No. I don’t do drugs. Why do you keep asking?”

Eliot sighed. “How long have you been doing this? Living on the streets, I mean.”

The boy closed up again.

“Because,” Eliot continued, “when you go into a cafe looking like that and ask to use the toilet, they think you’re going in there to shoot up.”

The boy gave him a horrified look.

“Yeah.” Eliot nodded.

“I just wanted to use their toilet.”

Eliot laughed. “Seriously, how long have you been on the streets?”

The boy shrugged. “A while.”

“And you’ve never used the wanderer’s urinal?”

The boy was blank-faced.

“You’ve only ever used a proper toilet?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Eliot shook his head. “Nothing. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Max. What’s yours?”

Eliot laughed. “Is that your real name?”

The boy gave him a sheepish look. “Yeah.”

“Okay, Max it is, then. I’m Eliot.”

“Oh, right. Cool.”

He didn’t look like a Max, Eliot thought.

“How long have you been on the streets?” Max asked.

“I’m not on the streets,” Eliot replied.

“But you sell the ‘Big Issue’.”

Eliot nodded. “Because I’m homeless, and there’s very little places that will give you a proper job if you don’t have a proper address.”

“How can you be homeless and not live on the streets?” Max looked suspicious.

“Not all homeless people are tramps, Max. Sometimes I get put up in B&Bs, but most of the time I stay in hostels.” He paused. “You don’t have to stay on the streets.”

Max didn’t say anything. They reached another cafe. The boy looked up at him, as if Eliot could do something. Max went in and was promptly sent out again.

Eliot waited for him.

“They’d let me if I bought something,” Max said.

“If they even let you buy something to begin with.”

“Well, they used to, when I had money.”

“Just use a bush before you piss yourself.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Max started walking again. Eliot followed.

“Why do you keep following me?” Max said.

“Because you’re young and you’re going to get hurt.”

Max glared at him, but not in anger.

“How old are you, Max?”

“Sixteen.”

“Bullshit. How old are you really?”

“Fifteen.”

“You don’t look fifteen.”

“Okay, I’m fourteen. Satisfied?”

“Really?” He looked at the boy.

“Yeah.” Max nodded guiltily.

Eliot sighed. “Well, I’m guessing here, but I’m reckoning you’re on the streets by choice. You ran away from home, and now you don’t think you can go back.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Well, let me be your guardian angel today. You still have a choice, Max. You can go home. And I recommend you do.”

“I can’t.”

“Honestly, it’ll only get worse for you, Max. Pissing in a bush is civilised compared to how low you can get.”

Max shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Where do you come from?”

“London.”

Eliot laughed. “What? Really?”

The boy nodded.

“What are you doing up here, then?”

Max shrugged. “Thought it’d be safer here.”

“What? Living on the streets?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not safe anywhere, Max.”

“Still safer here, though.”

“Then you really haven’t been doing this very long, have you?” Eliot said in a low voice.

Max shook his head.

“A month?”

Max shook his head again.

“Longer?”

“No.”

“Three weeks?”

“Two.”

Eliot looked at the boy, barely a waif. “Only a fortnight? And I bet you haven’t had a decent meal the entire time.”

“I have,” Max said, eventually adding, “before the money ran out.”

“It goes faster than you imagine when you’ve usually got someone else paying for you, doesn’t it?”

Max nodded. They reached another cafe. Max put his face up to the glass, and took a few seconds to realise that the girl looking back was sitting a till. She gave him a disapproving look.

Max made to continue along the street. Eliot stayed put, rubbing his hands together.

“There’s no more cafes down that way,” he said. “Might be a bush or two, though.”

Max came back again.

“Are you going to follow me all day?” he asked, as Eliot walked beside him toward M&S.

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“How long it takes to convince you.”

Max snorted.

“How long are you planning to live like this, Max?”

“Okay. I’ll go to a hostel. Satisfied?”

“Not what I meant.”

Max looked up at him. “I can, though. Can’t I?”

“What? Stay in a hostel?”

“Yeah.”

“No. You’re under sixteen, Max. They have to tell your parents. It’s the law.”

“Then I’ll stay on the streets, then.” Though he didn’t sound too happy about that prospect; good, thought Eliot.

“For how long? A year? Five years? Ten? Half your life? Or until you’re my age?” Eliot asked.

“I don’t know.”

“When you get to my age, there aren’t as many options. There’s no choice to go back home because there’s no home to go back to. And then all this becomes a trap, Max. No escape.”

Max didn’t respond, but Eliot knew he had heard. The boy looked in all the shop windows as they passed, but he wasn’t looking through them. Eliot watched the boy’s eye-line in the reflection: Max was looking at himself.

Eliot stopped and took Max’s arm. “Look,” he began.

Max recoiled from his touch.

“How much is a train ticket to London?”

“About fifteen quid. Why?” asked Max.

Eliot sighed. He’d been hoping it was less. “Here,” he said, and started counting pound coins in his hand.

Max shook his head. “No. No.”

“Take it. Go home.” He grabbed the boy’s hand, held his wrist firmly. It was so skinny his fingers almost coiled the entire way round.

“That’s your money,” said Max.

“Which I’m giving to you.” He began emptying his fistful of coins into Max’s open palm. “You can spend it on whatever you like, but if you don’t spend it on a train ticket, I guarantee you’ll have nothing left by this time tomorrow. And then your choices are gone. But I think you already know that. So don’t waste this opportunity.”

He finished handing over the cash.

NOTES:
The first properly developed story, in this one part alone twice as long as any of the preceding chapters. The kindly tramp figure is perhaps a bit of a cliche, particularly when up against a wide-eyed innocent runaway cherub, but I like their conversations in this bit, even if it smells a little preachy in retrospect. Even though the design of this town, with the train station at one end of the high street, and Marks and Spencers at the other end, with a parade of low shops and cafes behind it, is very much Southend, when Eliot refers to the town as "up here", that establishes it's elsewhere, though I hadn't decided where at this point.