For Everything a Reason Read Free Page B

and his slack right, he could have put Quasimodo to shame.
Yet, as Marianna looked down at his battered and distorted face, she thought it
was by far the most beautiful she had ever seen.

      
    Chapter
Three
     
     
    Ice-cold wind bit into exposed flesh
with the same conviction as cruel fangs. This, the coldest day of the month,
had sprouted vicious teeth and nails, which would have given any beast from the
Jurassic Age a run for its money. Winter held on with unsympathetic
malevolence. The branches of the trees that lined the streets and avenues were
burdened with frost – stark white limbs reaching desperately towards the
washed-out February sun. In some places, patches of grey snow lingered on
colourless swathes of frozen land, out of reach of the sun and children alike.
    The remnants
of snowmen lurked along sidewalks; obese sentinels watching the hub of New York City go about its business. Like
a superhuman heart, Manhattan Island pumped people into its core –
millions of corpuscles, each charged with enthusiasm – held them there
momentarily, and then sent them home, worn-out and defused. Wrapped in long
scarves, thick overcoats and insulated boots, the city’s inhabitants rushed
home in the early-evening twilight, eager to take refuge from the biting wind. 
    In stark
contrast to the freezing horrors of outside, indoors was a warm haven, which
offered sanctuary to both saints and sinners, irrespective of whether their
hearts were filled with innocence or murderous intent.
    The aroma of
the bowl of stew beneath Thomas Carter’s nose barely registered. Small, unidentifiable
pieces of god-knows-what floated on the surface and seemed to avoid Carter’s
spoon, no matter how hard he tried to scoop them up. A crusty bread roll lay
untouched beside the bowl. Carter eyed it with uncertainty. The roll looked
stale enough to have come from some recently unearthed Egyptian tomb. Dark
crumbs dotted the bread intermittently, reminding him of sand. He’d read
somewhere that ancient Egyptians had mixed fine sand with dough in an attempt
to make supplies of flour go further, before offering it to unsuspecting
slaves.
    “Are you gonna
eat that?” someone at his side asked.
    A dreadful
stench wafted towards Carter. He turned to his right and found a wrinkled old
face looking at him expectantly. The old man’s head bobbed towards the crust,
his hooked nose almost close enough to peck at it.
    “Gonna eat it,
or what?” the man asked. Blackened gums barely retained one or two yellowed
teeth, and the choking stench of rotten breath assaulted Carter’s nose.
    “Take it,”
Carter said.
    Fingers that
hadn’t seen soap or water in a long time scooped up the roll and then began to
tear it into more manageable pieces.
    Sandwiched
between two ragged tramps, Carter turned back to the bowl of stew in front of
him. He continued to trawl for the few lumpy bits on the surface
half-heartedly, his belly still full from the meal he’d eaten in the comfort of
his uptown apartment. Consciously aware that he had not started eating, he
raised a spoonful of the watery stew to his lips.
    Fire erupted
inside his mouth. Tongue, gums and throat screamed with the unexpected bite of
the clear liquid. It was then he realised that the dish before him was
basically hydrated pepper. He looked around the table, expecting others to be
fanning open mouths or grabbing for the jugs of cloudy water dotted around the
table. Everyone else was spooning mouthful after mouthful of this fiery broth
into gaping mouths without complaint. Carter shook his head, understanding why.
Most of the people in the room had the desperate look of chronic alcoholics. Bright
red bulbous noses, eyes that seemed incapable of focusing, no matter how hard
they tried, and that slight nervous tic that accompanied most hardened
drinkers, reminded him that his fellow diners were the unwanted, unseen
community of New York City ’s homeless.
People who lived day-by-day on a diet of