Chapter 3
Brok and the Man Under the Arches
Keane stared at his reflection in the stained glass of the mirror that hung opposite the writing desk.
The dark circles under his eyes were unsurprising, given that he hadn’t had a wink of sleep since the nightmare. His hair, though, was another matter altogether.
Normally a tousled mess anyway—with random locks that either fell from his scalp to his face, as if reaching for the floor, or rose skywards, as if sentient and trying to escape his head—today it was just one big, tangled heap that sat atop him. On any other day, he would have at least attempted to straighten an extruding strand or two, but not today. Today, he didn’t even feel like pretending that the mayhem was curable.
He wore a black T-shirt with an ‘Under Construction’ sign printed across the front, a pair of blue jeans with a bootcut fit, and Converse lookalikes. All three items were donations which had been a tad too big for him last year, but were now the only clothes he possessed that actually fit.
And he’d decided to wear them for that very reason; having already gotten out of bed in a foul mood, the last thing he needed was wardrobe-related aggravation.
He turned away from the mirror, now annoyed at his own reflection, and nearly bumped into Brok who was struggling to squeeze into shoes that were clearly a full size too small for him, if not two.
Keane watched Brok hop around adamantly for a good while, but when the boy refused to accept defeat after a solid three and a half minutes of effort, Keane finally snapped and dragged him out of the dorm room by the collar.
As he was pulled along, skipping on one foot, Brok complained loudly, but Keane was tired, sleep-deprived, and very much not in the mood, so he simply reminded Brok of the penalty that would be inflicted upon him if one of the other boys went to the Matron with a noise complaint.
The elderly Slavic lady who held the post of Matron at the orphanage was proud of two facts: firstly, that no one could pronounce her name, and, secondly, that no one had ever made the mistake of describing her as kind or gentle. She relished in taking away dessert privileges for even the most minor code infraction. So it was no surprise that the threat of a noise complaint instantly shut Brok up.
And, thankfully, he remained quiet as they commenced their usual walk to school.
Calling the single building that comprised the orphanage dilapidated would have been a severe understatement. The old concrete walls had succumbed to rot, a matter not helped by numerous shoddy repaints, each executed in a slightly different shade of beige, which had left the orphanage looking like a tacky piece of amateur patchwork.
In some places where the steel rods that held the structure together stuck out of the cracked concrete, great plumes of red rust had begun to spread, plumes which only crept farther and farther out with every passing year.
The surrounding buildings were just as bad, each and every one sporting a look of pending demolition. There was one in particular that looked like it had actually been bombed by enemy air raids. Another seemed to be crumbling under its own weight, and was particularly scary at night when its two smashed front windows started to look like hollow eyes that followed your every move.
The local church, which was little more than a block away from the orphanage, hadn’t escaped decay either. The exterior paint had chipped off years ago, and it was no secret that the city couldn’t afford to repaint. The entrance was through rusty iron gates under a tall, bricked arch. The name of the church, which once sat clearly painted on the metal signboard mounted above the gates, was no longer legible on account of rust, wear and tear, and what looked like impact craters formed by thrown rocks.
At first, Keane had thought it silly to build an orphanage so close to a church, since this made it inevitable that St. Martin’s would be burdened with every baby boy abandoned by every Catholic girl whose judgement had lapsed, and who had subsequently decided that she was unwilling or unable to fulfil her motherly duties. And there certainly seemed to be a lot of those around.
Then one day, he realized that the letters still visible on the church’s rusty old sign—‘S---AR-I-S’—were trying to spell out the same name as the orphanage’s, and it dawned on him that, of course the church had come first, and that it was the orphanage that was the unavoidable consequence.
As Keane idly contemplated the sign over the arches, his gaze briefly drifted lower, and he was greeted with a sight that caused him to stop dead in his tracks.
Brok kept on walking, as oblivious to the world around him as ever, while Keane remained unmoving, staring at the foot of the gates where sat a homeless man.
His hair was long and disheveled, and his beard even more so. He wore a moth-ridden jacket over threadbare clothes and shook his upturned cap at passerbys in a feeble attempt to draw their attention with rattling change.
Keane made a beeline for him.
Brok, unnerved when he finally noticed Keane’s absence, swiveled one way, then another, searching for him.
When he spotted his best friend casually walking toward what looked like a flea-infested vagabond, he let out a small yelp and urgently scampered after him.
“Keane? W-What are you doing?” he called.
But Keane ignored him and kept walking.
“Skinny!” said the homeless man to Keane. “Been a while now, ain’t it?” His voice was gruff, and he tended to chew his words down to a mumble.
Keane only half-nodded and half-smiled, though, because while he was pleased to see the man again, he was also very miffed at his long and unexplained disappearance.
“Where were you?” Keane asked, crouching down beside him. He stole a glance inside the cap and saw some change, barely enough for a cup of coffee, which he found appalling, not in the least because of where the man was sat.
“You know him?” said Brok, aghast. “You know him! How is it that you know him?” He was scanning the area, presumably checking if anyone they knew was in the vicinity and could see them talking to this filthy stranger.
“I looked everywhere for you,” continued Keane.
“Oh, I been here and there,” started the beggar, but the way the he averted his gaze was telling.
“Another binging spree, wasn’t it?” asked Keane.
The man looked like he was about to protest, but then his shoulders rolled forward as he dropped the façade. He raised his eyes to meet Keane’s.
“Well, Skinny, seems like you just ’bout got the measure on me.”
“What happened?”
“Well, there I lay, half seas over, full as a tick. Don’t remember how I got there. Was a darn good man, cleaned me up. Can’t say I remember how I got back neither. Just remember sweat’n a lot.”
The man chuckled, as if all of this was one big joke to him. Keane considered telling him off, but knew just how little effect this would have. So, instead, with a sympathetic sigh, he put a hand on the guy’s shoulder.
“As long as you made it back,” he said. “Are you, er… okay?”
“Oh, never better!” exclaimed the man. “New hat…” He flashed the boys his severely moth-holed headwear. “New shoes…” He thrust his ripped footwear at them, complete with a big toe sticking out. “Fine as cream gravy!” He put thumb and forefinger together, holding up three fingers.
And while the accompanying toothy grin failed to impress Keane, it downright horrified Brok.
Keane knew how uncomfortable beggars and homeless people made his best friend. It was one of the reasons he had never spoken of his days as a street urchin.
He also knew that what he was about to do would earn him an earful later, but it was important to him that he do it.
As he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bills that made up the entirety of his weekly allowance, he didn’t have to look at Brok to know exactly what horrified expression adorned his face right about now.
The homeless man, on the other hand, laughed and shook his head. “Whoa there, little man.
Can’t take that from yah.” He poked at Keane’s ribs with his bony fingers. “’Specially seein’ as you’ll be need’n all the lunch money you can get.”
“Yes, yes,” urged Brok, grabbing Keane’s arm and trying to drag him away. “Listen to the sensible hobo-man-with-the-big-toe-sticky-outtie-thingy.”
“Brok, let go!” Keane pulled free of the boy’s grip, but Brok just grabbed onto a sleeve and started yanking on that instead. Keane ignored this and pressed the money into the homeless man’s hand.
“I was five, you know…” he started, but then hesitated, stealing a glance at Brok.
If giving the homeless man money had earned him an earful, the thing he was about to say next could well jeopardize their entire friendship.
But he couldn’t hide the truth forever. It was about time Brok knew.
“I was only five,” said Keane, “the first time I slept outside. It’s hard. People don't really understand how tough it is to be homeless.”
It was Keane who now avoided eye contact with Brok, although he couldn’t help but notice that Brok’s tugs on his sleeve were getting progressively less urgent.
“Yep,” said the homeless man with a wink and a smile, somehow onto Keane’s oblique confession. “Ain’t got no place you can call your own. Nowhere to stay safe…”
“Or warm…” added Keane.
“You’re just…”
“Outside…”
“Out-outside?” croaked Brok. Keane heard him whimper.
“Don’t you worry ’bout nuthin’, Skinny,” said the man. “You got a home now. Things is diff’rint for yah. Y’ain’t no street rat now. ’N’ don’choo let no one tell you otherwise, y’hear? You’s gon-be-alright.”
The man’s words made Keane smile, something he hadn’t done since the abhorrent dream had awoken him the night before. And then they made him nod—a full nod this time—because, for the umpteenth time, the man’s diagnosis was spot on; his past was not a thing to worry about or be ashamed of, and if Brok was really his friend, he would understand.
Keane and the man both jumped with a start when Brok unexpectedly exploded into tears.
They watched in stunned silence as the blubbering wreck thrust his hands into his pockets to grab his own allowance money and give it to the homeless man.
For a moment, Keane beamed with pride at his friend. Then, his eyes widened as he remembered that Brok kept all of his cash strictly in coin form (since it added weight which helped deter both pickpockets and bullies).
He jerked forward to stop the metal from raining down on the man. But he was a tad too late.
“I’m an idiot!” cried Brok, drawing endless fistfuls of coins from his pockets and hurling them at the homeless man. “Take it! Take it all!”
As Keane went to gather the wayward coins and place them in the upturned hat, the homeless man flashed him another smile and wink, his meaning obvious: Keane had divulged a part of his past and Brok hadn’t disowned him.
Keane had to admit that he was relieved. He even suspected that, since talking feelings and emotions and such ‘wishy-washy airy-fairy stuff’ was such a big, fat nope, Brok’s present uncharacteristic spurt of generosity was actually his way of showing that he was fine with his best friend’s marred past.
What Keane did wonder, though, was why Brok was only just meeting the man, especially considering how big a role they both played in Keane’s life. Then he remembered how often the homeless man went missing, and decided to split the blame between the frequent disappearances and Brok’s (now apparently former) aversion to all things street-related.
The homeless man, meanwhile, was contemplating Brok in a strangely respectful way.
“My, you’re a special one ain’t-cha?” he said, but Brok was a little too busy wiping tears out of his eyes to respond, so, with a chuckle and a shake of his head, the man turned back to Keane.
“Can’t imagine you get much outta them lot there…” He poked a thumb in the direction of the orphanage.
“Ah, it’s enough,” Keane lied. “Besides, I’d rather you have it than Randy.”
Brok ceased bawling at mere mention of the name. “The w-who? The w-where now?” His head was darting around like a pigeon’s as he checked the surrounding area.
The beggar seemed displeased. “Randy? That dang blowhard still on your case?”
Keane sighed. “You have no idea…”