running away 3

When I woke up the next morning I was puzzled at first. I couldn’t work out where I was. Then I remembered. I turned slightly, and the man with the beard was lying next to me, still asleep. I lay there for while, thinking.

I was on a mattress on the floor in a squat in Stamford Street in Waterloo.
The lovely grey river was just outside the window. I’d run away from home, become a busker, smoked a joint, and finally I wasn’t a virgin anymore. I smiled to myself. I had never done so many thrilling things in one day before. I jumped out of bed – I was desperate to look in a mirror. How could you possibly achieve so much and not look completely different?

My bag was on the floor. I picked it up and took it into the bathroom so I wouldn’t disturb the man. I leant over the basin, peering at my face to see if I had changed at all. It was slightly disappointing. I looked a little strange perhaps, but it was hard to tell, because I hadn’t taken my makeup off before falling asleep, and so my eyes were smudged with black. Then I decided that it didn’t matter about outward appearances, it was how I felt inside that counted, and inside I felt brilliant, so I was happy.

I fished around in my bag, found my toothbrush, and cleaned my teeth. The beer hadn’t tasted all that good - not as nice as the wine I was allowed at home – but better than the bottle of dry martini I’d shared with my friends crouching behind a low wall at school not long before. I hadn’t been sick, like some of the others that day, but I had felt as if I might be.

That day, and all the rest of the time we spent there, followed more or less the same pattern, wandering around from place to place according to the time of day. The locations and times were chosen to catch the crowds. At lunchtimes we headed to places where the office workers would be, then we went on to more touristy areas for the rest of the afternoon.

All the money was pooled, and spent on food, drink, tobacco and dope. I couldn’t get over how lovely that was – the sharing. I wondered why everyone didn’t live that way – it seemed like such a good idea.

They were all such generous, friendly people. In the evenings, after we got back to the squat, we’d sit in the candlelight, drinking beer and singing along to the guitars.

I was still slightly puzzled about sex. It didn’t hurt after the first time, but I still couldn’t quite see why everyone went on about it so much. I was glad that it was something I could give back – they’d given me everything they had, and there wasn’t a lot else I could offer. Shaking a hat at people didn’t seem quite enough somehow.

On days when we didn’t make much money, they taught us how to gather cigarette butts off the pavement, open them up, and put them in a rizla. You made a little collection of butts until you had enough to make a roll-up.

We discovered there was a whole community of people who lived in the same way – we’d meet them on the streets. Not all of them were as nice as our buskers. Some had red faces and were drunk in the mornings. Some shouted a lot, and had missing teeth and seemed slightly mad. No one bothered us though. We felt protected and safe with the people from Stamford Street.

Others, besides us, came and went casually from that house. There was another girl – a little older than us. She left after an argument over a coat, shouting as she slammed the door. I was worried, but the buskers said she was always like that - it was no big deal.

Later that night, the man with the beard woke me up, shaking me gently.

“You have to get out for bit”

“What?”

“That girl. She split on you. The pigs are on their way."

I jumped out of bed and started dressing.

“Just for a bit. Make yourself scarce. Go down to the arches. We’ll come and find you when they’ve gone”

Imogen was waiting for me at the door. Her face looked white. I was still half asleep. It wasn’t far to go to the arches. They were part of Waterloo Station. I’m not sure if they were used during the day, but by night they were just gaping black holes in a black tunnel. It was very cold. I shivered. I’d swapped my afghan for a tapestry coat and it wasn’t as warm.

“Do you think we’ll have to be here long?”

“I don’t know. Don’t talk. They said to be quiet.”

Our voices echoed – even when we kept them low. It was so dark you couldn’t see what else was there. All you could hear was the drip drip of water from the ceiling of the tunnel. We waited anxiously – peering into the darkness. It wasn’t fun anymore. I felt scared.

I don’t remember how long it was before they fetched us. It seemed like hours. We went back, relieved – but it didn’t last long.

The police came again while it was still dark. They waited while we got back out of bed, said our hurried goodbyes, and then we were taken to a police station in a fast car.

I never saw Imogen again once we got out of the car. We were taken into separate rooms. I sat there shaking, still half asleep and two men harangued me for a while about how bad I’d been while they waited for my parents to arrive.

I didn’t say a word. I refused to explain, or apologise. I just kept my mouth shut and waited for them to stop. I’d already perfected my blank stare and I knew it annoyed people. It was perfect for the occasion, and for all the endless lectures to come in the months ahead. I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t ashamed. I didn’t care, and I couldn’t wait to be off again.