Fragments Read Free

been tipped
head first into a sewer rat of a dumpster, for daring to ‘steal’
from someone who claimed to own the whole block. She’d lain there
in the stench and filth, whilst the person – she never knew if it
was a man or a woman, just an aged bundle of screeching rags – had
banged on the side and then weighted down the lid on her. It had
taken an hour of heaving, sweaty work to get out, and her clothes
were in slimy rags by the time she’d managed to get the lid up
enough to crawl out. She’d had visions of her body being noticed at
the dump, and the terror of a communal burial with the rest of the
rubbish had finally been strong enough to propel her out. She could
see her dead fingers being gnawed by rats and her eyes... yes, fear
had finally got that lid up and her out of her reluctant tomb.
Dumpsters could provide bounty but it wasn’t for the faint hearted
or weak stomached.
    One advantage
to snow and ice was that trawling for decent food was a lot easier:
nature’s fridge, she sometimes thought of it. But constant contact
with frozen metal wore the soul down and ate into any warmth you
might have. Her rucksack held a good supply of zip lock bags, so
she could salvage what she could safely when she could. Keeping
hands warm and dry was crucial and she’d learned to always use a
thick pair of rubber household gloves over her woolen ones. Useful
in pelting rain too, as it kept her hands dry no matter how much
the rest of her dripped.
    Wet days, or
days with thick snow, were spent on her regular route of thrift
stores and Goodwill. She was always searching for a warmer pair of
boots or a thicker coat. She never scrimped on ice grips: she could
not afford a fall. A sprain would be bad enough, a broken bone
would end her independence, she was sure. She’d be in the spiral
down to the shelters, and then the gutters, before you could
blink.
    Her driving
force, her mantra, was if that she got through one more winter and
kept on saving, she would one day be able to get on a bus and move
back down south. Then she’d be in clover, then she’d be able to
relax, and maybe get another dog once she’d found a decent place to
live. She’d almost done it four years back, then Bertie had got ill
on her and the bills on trying to keep him alive had wiped her out.
Every day, as she moved through the alleyways, the sight of another
unfortunate accompanied by their dog pierced her heart. Like the
Ice Queen she’d once read about as a child, she felt there was ice
in her eyes, moving into her bloodstream and freezing her soul.
Sometimes when she woke up in the night, she still reached for his
hairy hide to stroke and would wonder why he wasn’t there.
    One day, one
day, she’d be in the south and not have to worry, and she’d find
another mutt to love and keep safe.
    A really bad
day, a terrible day, was a day when it was too fierce outside to go
out at all. When no matter what she did, or where she might go,
she’d be returning colder, hungrier, than when the day started.
Those days would be spent in, aware that every moment the TV ran,
the light burned, for every zing of the microwave... she was using
up her precious electricity. She lived in terror of being stuck in
the room without any electricity at all. To be cold, and hungry,
unable to heat a cup of water to sip down whilst sucking on cheap
candy. To be sitting in the dark waiting for her next pension draw.
It had never happened yet: she forced herself to add extra to the
card all year round to get her through the winter. And she
maintained her routine at all costs, during the snow, when she
could. It was the stick she used to beat herself out into the
streets every day, while keeping her sights on the carrot in her
head: of one day getting on that bus south. And on days where the
cold had driven out that thought there was always the promise of
summer: it would come. It always came: just as it always left.
    Today was going
to be a bad day. All she had was some