© 1995 Linda Moore

Nor did he want to. His days were long enough without rushing.

The arches enclosed him, sweeping up above with their brick-and-grime shelter. Somewhere dripping water echoed and his hob-nailed boots scraped the cobbles underfoot, adding their own rhythm to the song of the underground. Coming down here was like stepping back a hundred grey years.

During the day, the shoppers would teem here; sometimes it could be a lucrative place to stay and beg. But sooner or later, every time he did come here to watch them spending on little ethnic bits and hand-crafted glitz, the police would move him on. He wasn't wanted. Nobody could spare him a penny here.

But he loved the near-dark, the dim lamps barely serving their purpose, lights that cast more shadows than anything else, lights that let the demons through. And the demons talked to him. They were the only ones who loved him. And he loved them back, when he was able to feel anything at all.

He was on the bridge now, past the sign that somebody had changed with aerosol wit to "Slow TRamp". He was that tramp, and he had travelled the transformed ramp more times than he needed to count. It had reached the stage when he was too foggy to count so many numbers.

You could hear the thunder of the river from the entrance to the arches. It was all-consuming, an echoing and hollow sound that grew louder and louder as if a storm had once wandered down here and was furiously trying to climb out. He stared along the arches through which it flowed; in the distance there were other dark tunnels, leading to hell or to heaven, he had never had enough Dutch courage to find out which. The dark and turbulent water spat and rolled beneath him and his dim eyes picked out faces in the foam. Cold air stirred his greasy hair and his white knuckles shone as he gripped the barrier. Cold metal on his hands.

Was that the demons calling to him? He could almost discern words. They were faint over the crashing of the river that cut the city in half and was full of shopping trolleys and muddy swans. And there, at the far end, was that a light?

He finished off his bottle in one immense swig and tossed it into the water. The cheapest wine money could buy stained his lips like blood. He waited until the belch came out and then shuffled further. No demons tonight. The fog was settling in for the night.

He leaned further and further over the barrier until the policeman who had been creeping up on him told him that he had to go somewhere else. The policeman didn't want to deal with a suicide tonight.

Once upon a time there was a man who had a wife and a child and even a job. The job had folded along with the company and the wife had started to snipe at him. The man had failed to find a job because there were hundreds of others looking for work from the same company and it was true; it had been pretty specialised work. Then the man had started drinking his dole money and the wife had divorced him and now the man doubted the child would recognise him. He hadn't had a beard back then and he hadn't smelt like somebody who often found his dinner in a dustbin.

He'd started off in hostels and ended up on the streets. It was a downward spiral. Once upon a time the man had been called James. But that had been a long time ago; three years. Now, they called him Hawk on account of his habits.

Hawk waited until the policeman had echoed his way out of the arches and slipped quietly back through. He resolutely refused to look at the river or listen out for the voices. He didn't know he wanted them tonight.

He found his stack of papers where he'd hidden them earlier that day and settled them on the ground. He knew where the even patches of ground were, where it was possible to rest without feeling like a princess sleeping on peas. Late workers were coming out of the craft centre at the far end of the arches. Hawk never dared to go there; too much risk of being stared at or reported.

Somebody tossed a coin to him without looking him in the eye. A creeping hand swept in the prize. He did not bother to nod. The donor was not looking. There might be enough for tomorrow's bottle, there might just.

He pulled a half-eaten and dusty Mars bar from his pocket and ate it. Then, pulling up the collar of his long and greasy coat, he lay down and let the darkness descend.

The other tramps were snoring tonight. Through their noise and the thunder of the river, a constant and echoing companion, the man was restless.

Somebody else who could not sleep kicked out and swore at him to keep still. In a half-doze he heard them calling again. The demons. Oh, and tonight he loved them after all. How he loved them. Their voices were sibilant and caressed what little conscious mind he had left.

We want you tonight. It is your time. Come to us.

Real, or dreamed? That thunder would have penetrated any dream. And now there was silence. He stood up and began to move away. At least someone wanted him.

The street man who'd kicked him opened a bloodshot eye which shone in the twilight. "Don't listen to them," he said.

Hawk tripped over the man's foot as he passed over and was cursed for his efforts. Of course he was cursed. He had always been cursed.

He stared at the thundering water again. He leaned right over the edge, wondering how far he would have to stretch to touch the grey. He wondered what it would feel like. He wondered if he would drown first or dissolve.

And now there was a shining light in the water, a brightness, cold white but shining as if the moon had somehow got lost. It spread out before him, shimmering, pulsating, but he could not tell if it were real. The voices, too, were there: but he did not know whether they were simply in his head. They told him to let his powers come through, to let himself go. He almost knew what they were talking about. He shook his head and abruptly the fog cleared.

It was incredible. For the first time in years he could think straight. The fog was gone. Everything was bright. His world was shining. He felt the surge in his bones. He reeled before the immensity of this half-remembered clarity. It was as if somebody had slammed their fist into his face to wake him up.

Then he jumped, his triumphant and terrified call drowned in the thunder of the warning cry behind.

The policeman cursed. He would have to deal with a suicide after all.

He was drowning. Or dissolving. The water was heavy and pulling him down but the strangeness was setting into his bones and he felt them liquefy. It did not hurt. He was a flowing thing, a part of the river. The sibilant voices sang him through it all and guided him down. The moon really was down there, bright and within reach, gurgling. He sank lower, accepted the roaring, deep down now. Cold. Cold. In the clarity of mind he had been given, he felt the filth of years sweeping away and touched the moon.

The light enveloped him, swept him into a tunnel. The dreamer's thunder filled him to the core. It was his life, his reality.

He emerged into the moon and saw shadowy figures reaching out to help him through. From the darkness above they were making a power. There was so much dark, the power was strong. He'd become dark enough for them to call him.

Standing on the bank of the river, he looked back and saw the world of the policeman fading away. The voices welcomed him home.