Simon looked at the money.

“That’s enough for two, three meals at most,” Eliot went on. “Or it could be your key to a thousand more. It’s your choice.”

Simon nodded. “Thanks.” It was almost a squeak.

Eliot laughed, which turned into a sticky cough.

“I can’t take it,” Simon said.

Eliot shrugged. “Then give it away, just like I did.” He turned round.

Simon noticed a pronounced limp in his left leg, and the shoe on Eliot’s left foot didn’t match the one on his right. His right heel flapped open every time he lifted his foot. It squelched. Eliot had stepped in a puddle and now his foot was wet, Simon realised, but either he hadn’t noticed, or wasn’t letting on.

Eliot began to walk away.

“Where you going?” Simon called.

“To take a piss in a bush.” He glanced round with a ruddy-faced smile. “The station’s that way, Max.”

“I know. Aren’t you coming?”

Eliot looked round again. “No.”

He didn’t look back a third time.

Simon looked at the money in his hands, then quickly hid it in his pockets. When he was younger he used to dream about finding money, just pocket change, in the kinds of amounts that only mattered to little kids: like fifteen quid in pound coins and fifty pence pieces.

As Simon walked along the high street it finally stopped raining. People came out of shops and soon the high street was as busy as it had been the Saturday Simon had arrived in town. It seemed a lot longer than fourteen days.

When Simon reached the train station there was only one ticket window open and there was a long queue. Simon remembered the public toilet on the station; he had only used it that once and had been determined never to do so again. At least in the cafes they bothered to clean them and replace the toilet rolls.

Simon went past the newsagent’s and pushed lightly on the swing door to the gents. It didn’t move. He pushed harder. It still didn’t move.

“It’s out of order,” a voice called.

Simon turned and saw a man in glasses leaning over the ticket barrier.

“Flooded,” the man said.

Simon saw a yellow board in front of the ladies that said much the same thing and wondered if they had been flooded deliberately.

There was a bicycle paddock in an alcove behind the station. It was boxed in by brick walls on three sides and Simon had wandered down there by mistake on his first day because he didn’t know which way to go so had just followed someone else.

Simon left the station and looked around. He slipped behind the building. There were bikes in the cycle racks, their saddles and frames spotted with rainwater, but there was nobody else in the bicycle paddock. Simon went into the corner and unzipped his fly.

The wanderer’s urinal, Eliot had called it. It wasn’t a bush, but Simon could look up into the open sky. The sun was beginning to shine.

He had almost finished when an arm snaked around his neck and yanked him off his feet.

“Punch him!” said a voice.

Choking, Simon grabbed at the arm squeezing his throat. His legs flailed.

A boy of about sixteen or seventeen came into view. He had wide white eyes and a pale face. He swung a fist into Simon’s belly.

Simon squeezed his tummy muscles and braced for the pain, but he hadn’t been hit that hard.

“Hit him harder!” the guy garroting him said.

The pale-faced boy came back into view and thumped him in the belly with a backhand.

Simon crumpled to the ground. He clutched his midriff. He wanted to shout, but he could hardly breathe, so it came out as a plaintive moan.

He opened his eyes, but they were blurry with tears. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Then he felt a hand groping his leg, then both legs. They were going through his pockets. He squirmed on the ground, trapping their fingers. He couldn’t let them get the money. He couldn’t let them get the money.

NOTES:
No, you haven't missed out a chapter. Just because Simon told Eliot his name was Max in the last bit doesn't mean he was telling the truth. Something else I've noticed is that as well as going into shops and using public transports, a large number of protagonists take a leak in these vignettes, even when that has nothing to do with exchanging the pound coin. Though this wasn't planned, it fits with the 'slice of life' concept, and I think is also in contrast to all those other real-time stories that span an entire day, but in which nobody ever stops to answer nature's call. Like Simon, I also used to dream about finding lots of small change, and wake up miffed it hadn't been real.