I Wasn't Expecting Visitors

I catch a glimpse on my way to the Tube. A doorway framing a tiny
hall, made tinier by boxes and bags pressing in from both sides, with
barely room for a little old lady to squeeze through.

The little old lady stands outside in low evening sun, talking. She is
leaning on her walking frame, face angled up, squinting at the men from
the Council. As she speaks, occasional teeth dance in a wet mouth,
ringed by sharp red lipstick and set in a face saturation-bombed with
rouge.

The men stand, feet planted, arms crossed, saying little, occasionally
throwing collusive glances at each other.

***

That evening, when I come home, she is still in the street, sitting on
her doorstep, her legs straight out in front of her, like a schoolgirl.
Her feet are wrapped in dirty bandages, and black lines of dried blood
rim her toenails, which jut like talons through her stockings. She is
talking slowly to herself and punctuating her discourse with chops and
stabs in the air.

I ask her if she is OK and she says, 'Fine, dear, fine' - as if it were
a stupid question - and looks at my suit for a long time, weighing the
buttons and lapels. 'But if you could get me a ham sandwich, I would be
very grateful,' and she smiles again blinking up at me, 'On white. I'll
pay you'.

I say 'No problem,' and walk back the way I came, towards the High
Street. Black kids on BMX bikes are riding three-up, whooping and
sucking on lollipops, and I dodge them and step into the deli. As the
doorbell clangs, I jump.

With sandwich and Styrofoam cup of tea in hand, I weave back through
the crowds. She hasn't moved and smiles when she sees me; 'Bless you.
Would you mind getting me a plate?' I pause and say, 'Of course. May
I?' as I walk past her into the house.

The smell is unbearable. In the darkness, flies hum and hurl themselves
against windows and, as my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I make
out half-eaten meals on plates and rubbish on every surface. The
kitchen sink is filled with dishes floating in a brown pool, capped
with a carpet of mould except for where the tap drips into it. The
cupboards overhead are bare, so I take the lid from a tin of biscuits
and unwrap the sandwich onto it.

I emerge blinking into daylight, 'Room service!' She looks up and says,
'Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting visitors'. I smile and put
the sandwich down. Even before I can take the lid off the tea, she has
got the sandwich in her bony hands and is tearing off small scraps and
cramming them into her mouth, swallowing quickly.

I squat next to her and glare at passers-by as they stare at her while
she finishes her meal.

When I look back at her, she's crying.

THE END