Remember that time that I was ill, a month after we’d started seeing each other? Some flu thing. I was sleeping in my car, and you arrived with a flask of tea, and honey and lemon, and baby wipes you’d kept in the fridge to make them cool. I remember it. It was the first time in my life I didn’t feel lonely. The first time I felt loved. It was a miracle, and it came from nowhere when I least expected it. If you’re lonely right now, remember two things: first, that I will always love you and Gracie, and we were lucky to have had each other, and her, no matter how briefly – some people go their whole lives without that kind of magic. And also – it is the kind of miracle that can come from nowhere when you least expect it. Don’t be lonely. Be hopeful.
I fold the card back into its pink nest, and remember that time. The way he didn’t want me to be there in case I caught his illness. The way I didn’t care. The way he looked at me, with those sad brown eyes, as I stroked his hair and helped him sip tea. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, the kindness he was receiving.
I wander through into the room that was his, still holding the note in my fingers.
I look down at the small, neatly made bed he used to sleep in. I know the sheets will have been washed dozens of times since he left. I know this bed has probably held Jamie, or his friends, or visitors. I know that Joe is long gone from this place.
But somehow, as I slide beneath cool cotton covers, his note beside me on the pillow, the window blinds open to a silver paint spill of moonlight, I can imagine he’s here with me after all. I hold onto the ghost, and hope that one day it will be made real – that I will find another miracle.
Chapter 23
The noticeboard in the office is crammed with pinned-up pictures of missing people. Some are family snapshots, some look like wanted posters. Every single one of them tells a sad story.
I gaze at the pictures while we wait, seeing faces of all ages and all colours look back at me, from Christmas party smiles to posed school photo-day portraits. Mute and trapped in time, lost in that one moment – a moment they were safe. At least on the surface.
I don’t know if any of them have had happy endings. I tell myself that some of them must – the alternative is unbearably tragic, and weighs down on my soul.
The door opens, and the manager of the hostel, Ewan, greets us. He is in his fifties, with shaggy brown hair and a smile but body language that says he’s ready for anything. I can only imagine what he’s seen during his lifetime, constantly on the periphery of other people’s pain.
We are here because this was the last place Geraldine knew Joe had been staying. He’d left Cornwall with little money, refusing her offers of help. He knew she couldn’t afford it, and insisted he’d be OK. He’d reassured her he had the luck of the Irish, and told her not to worry – it was just the next stage of his adventure. Rucksack packed, he waved her and Jamie goodbye at the train station. Off again, a traveller alone.
We called ahead and made this appointment, expecting to be fobbed off and surprised when we were told that Ewan would see us. I realise, as I turn away from that painfully compelling noticeboard, that this is a dedicated man who has probably hosted countless tearful meetings in this room.
‘So,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and glancing at us, ‘the first thing I have to say is that I wasn’t here back then, so I have no first-hand memory of the person you’re looking for. We don’t have any digitised records from then – and as you can imagine, a lot of the people who use this service don’t give us their real names. I’ve asked around, and one of our old-timers thinks he might remember him – though you have to filter the reliability of that memory against some serious alcoholism.’
I nod, and understand. The people we’d seen loitering in the foyer of this place, a grimy corner of the capital that feels a million miles from showbiz London but is in fact only a few miles from it, look like weather-beaten warriors. Joe had told Geraldine it was a youth hostel, probably to assuage her worries, but in fact it’s not – it’s a place for homeless people to lay their heads, where staff try and help them deal with the myriad problems in their lives, and where support groups for addicts live side by side with dealers.
Michael is still staring at the noticeboard, his face a picture of turmoil.
‘Why do they all end up here?’ he says, confused. ‘There must be better options than living on the streets in London.’
‘A lot of these people don’t have options,’ replies Ewan, kindly. ‘Or at least they don’t think they have. They might leave home for an adventure, thinking the streets are paved with gold, and are too embarrassed to go home when they’re not. They might be running from abusive families or relationships. In recent years we’ve seen more and more forced out of their homes for financial reasons. Some are kicked out, by parents who react badly to a pregnancy, or them being gay, or in some way breaching the moral code of the domestic environment. Going back isn’t always the right thing to do for them.’
Michael nods, and I know he will be weighing up the relative luxury of his own life – but also knowing that he most definitely breaches the moral code of his own family. Rosemary and Simon might not force him into a life on the streets if he came out to them, but neither would the news be welcomed.
‘Well, there but for the grace of God,’ he mutters sadly, folding his hands on his lap.
‘Do they ever find them?’ I ask, pointing at the noticeboard. ‘The people who come looking?’
‘Not often, but sometimes,’ he says. ‘Life out here can be tough. If they didn’t drink or do drugs when they arrived, they often soon do. Then there are other dangers – the weather, the health issues, the predators …’
His words makes me shudder. Joe, the Joe I knew, was a strong and capable man. He’d grown up amongst predators, and emerged not unscathed, but wholly himself. He had the kind of street-smarts that would keep him safe in the human jungle. At least I hoped so.
‘But just last week, actually,’ continues Ewan, his face breaking out into a grin, ‘we had a success story. Young girl called Prisha. She fell into the “streets paved with gold” category, and had a family that had been looking for her for two years. She was one of the lucky ones …’
‘That must feel good,’ replies Belinda, ‘seeing it work out.’
‘Yeah. It does. Few and far between, but it’s a boost – you need a win every now and then in this job. But there are other wins as well – family reunions aren’t the only happy endings. We help people into their own homes, help them find jobs, make a life. Sometimes it feels like a losing battle – but we do keep fighting it. But enough about that – is there anything else you can tell me about your Joe, so I can suggest your next port of call?’
‘Well, he doesn’t fit into any of your categories,’ I reply. ‘He liked a pint but didn’t have a drinking problems. No real drug use. He was clever, and kind, and useful. He was good with his hands, and our mutual friend mentioned that while he stayed here, he was kind of helping out – doing some maintenance work, fixing and sorting, some decorating.’
He raises his eyebrows, and frowns at the description.