Running Home

Oh God, please don't let him come over here.

We're on a train, Eastbourne to Brighton. No beds in Eastbourne. No hostels. No soup kitchen. Clearly, the homeless don't exist. Brighton will be better, Brighton's where it's at.
I look at Brian, he's seen him too. He's glaring down the carriage, guarded, wary. He looks like he's about to start growling.
The guy down the carriage slugs back another mouthful from the murky green bottle in his hand and sways over toward his next victims: A couple, nice looking, clean shaven man in sweater and a girl with a pink scrunchied pony-tail. He's not going to get anything out of them. The train jolts. He manages to hold onto his wine but looses his footing and almost lands on the lap of an elderly man.
'Well it weren't my fuckin' fault were it? 'Twere the poxy train!' A list of obscenities is hurled at the old man and the drunk stumbles further up in our direction.

Just don't look at him and he'll leave us alone.

I stare out of the window. Trees, cars, houses, graffiti, office blocks slide past.
I feel Brian tense next to me.
'Ya wanna bit o' me wine?'
I look up. Brian takes the bottle from the outstretched arm of the guy and takes a swig. His eyes never leave the guys face. He hands the bottle over to me without breaking eye contact. I take a swig and grimace, the wine is like vinegar. I hand it back to the guy and look at Brian, mildly curious as to what he'll do next, having accepted the peace offering.
'I'm Jamie,' says the guy.
'Brian,' says Brian, and holds out his hand. They clasp hands arm-wrestling fashion and then touch their fists together. The bonding ritual is complete. I roll my eyes and look back out of the window. The bottle does another round and I start breathing normally again. Only Brian is still on guard, fists clenched ready in his lap. He has trust issues at the best of times.
'Can I sleep on your sofa?' Jamie's voice is whining and pathetic, obviously his best attempt at cute and adorable.
Brian shrugs, 'We ain't got no sofa mate, we're just turnin' up.'

I have never been so happy not to have a sofa.

Jamie's fiddling with something round his neck, under layers of t-shirts and stained jumpers. He's a lot skinnier than he looks. He scratches at his hair through the beanie he's wearing before giving a final yank to whatever's around his neck. A long silver chain comes free followed by a key, attached to the end.
'You can sleep on my floor,' he says.
Brian's brow furrows.
Jamie gets a tattered piece of paper out of one of his pockets and puts it on the white plastic table in front of Brian. He points at the scrawled ink that covers it, 'That's me squat,' he slurs, 'gimme a fiver an' you can stay there too.'

There's an enormous clatter as my bag bursts open and my belongings spew out over the platform.

Shit, shit, shit... What I did not want was for Jamie to see how much jewellery I own.

I'm there on my hands and knees, scrabbling around grabbing fists full of necklaces, a CD, underwear. Jamie hands me an escaped sandal as I shove it all back in the bag. I can feel the heat coming out of my face and stare at the ground as we walk down Trafalgar Street and head into the North Laine.
When I asked why he suggested we come here, Brian had simply said 'Brighton's cool,' and I took him at his word; one place would be as good as another, anywhere, as long as it wasn't where we came from. What I hadn't expected was to fall in love with the place on first sight. I want to stop and stare into every window, I want to explore every alley-way, speak to everyone we pass.
Jamie is swaying awkwardly across the road, he's saying how tomorrow we'll go to the day centre, he'll show us where to get food, give us the tour. When winter comes he'll teach us how to break into beach huts. It's lucky we met him.
'We'll find somewhere to live by then,' I say.
'No,' says Jamie, 'there's no beds around here, it's hard to get housed.' We should stick with him. He knows how it all works. He gesticulates wildly as he speaks, narrowly misses a collision with a dustbin. I ignore him and concentrate on absorbing as much of the town as possible, try to look in every window as we mission past.

Jamie's squat turns out to be a derelict shop, four storeys high, converted attic and small back garden. As far as he knows, his is the only key. A guy gave it to him along with the address at Victoria Station. I'm actually impressed.
Jamie takes a large second storey bedroom, we take the attic. I'm worried about not locking the door to our bedroom, but Jamie is just a hive of paranoia; his eyes flit from us to his bag, the window, the door. He gets all his stuff together and spends a good few minutes figuring out how to arrange as much of it as possible so it will be covered by his sleeping body. We leave him to it and retire to the attic. Brian always sleeps with one eye open and I sleep soundly on the beige carpet, curled up in the corner where the roof beams slope lowest.

I awake to the sound of 'Champagne Supernova' floating up through the thin glass of the window pane. I open the window and stick my head into the late February air. Brighton is no less beautiful in daylight. Heads with hair of every colour bimble through the narrow streets below me, some giving money to the buskers - the source of the music. To me, this is the sound of a past life: A boy I left behind. It sounds strange as a backdrop to my potential future. For a moment the guitar strings pluck at something inside me, but I'm disturbed by a series of crashes and bangs and the floor below me shudders. I run down the stairs.
Brian and Jamie have somehow acquired an axe, and are currently using it as an instrument of torture on the brickwork surrounding the ornamental fireplace in the second storey bedroom.
'What the fuck are you doing?' I yell, as another lump of plaster crashes to the ground.
'Jamie reckons we can flog this to the guy that owns the antique shop down the road.' Brian's voice is gruff from lack of sleep and too many cigarettes.
'But you're wrecking the place... This is your home, and you're destroying it!' I just can't believe their stupidity. Who in their right mind will buy anything off these two?

The day centre Jamie was talking about is called Halo and is in the Brighthelm Centre off Queens Road. The gruff, balding man behind the desk has a patch covering his left eye. He welcomes us so enthusiastically that I'm sure we must have met before.
'Always nice to see a bit o' leather in 'ere,' he says, and winks with the eye that isn't covered. Brian and I are both wearing leather jackets which I guess makes us part of some gang or something. Actually, Brian comes from a family of Angels so he may not be far wrong. At least we have somebody who wants to help us out, I'm glad of the thought.
Lunch here is at 12:20pm, it seems so ridiculous that even as we hurried here, I was convinced Jamie had got it wrong. He hadn't, and at 12:20 prompt we're herded into a large hall of fold-up tables and chairs and dished up with a plate of slop which proclaims to be shepherds' pie, but in fact consists of at least 60% baked beans mixed up with gravy and topped with lumpy potato and a fleck of cheese. I'm hungry enough to wolf this down and try to ignore a familiar tingling on my lips and tongue as my baked bean allergy kicks in.
After lunch we're herded out again and most people hang around smoking, playing pool and arguing. The others want to hang around too so I take the opportunity to slope off alone.
Walking down London Road, I see a YMCA charity shop. Not a hostel, but obviously run by one and the nearest thing I can find. Inside sits a nice old lady in cardigan and floral skirt, brandishing teacup. Her eyes widen as I explain my predicament. She doesn't say it, but I know what she's thinking: 'Too young'.
This is clearly not something she's been asked before but she hurriedly stammers out directions to the Brighton YMCA.

The YMCA is full, but the man inside tells me about another hostel: Direct Access. This one is first come first served, no waiting list. The first to call or turn up gets the room. I take down the address and phone number and head out to a phone box.
'Full,' comes the reply, but I'm encouraged to keep trying. I still don't feel like I'm getting anywhere. The thought of staying in the same building as Jamie 'til winter comes round and we can break into a beach hut is more than I can bear. I trudge back to the squat with my head down.
I think about keeping my hostel-finding mission a secret but end up recounting the whole story to Brian.
Jamie's not having any of it. 'Nah, there's never any beds in that place, been tryin' fer months. It's shit in there anyway, jus' stay 'ere an' we can go down the Peace Centre, claim squatter's right on the place.'
I nod and smile and privately decide to try calling Direct Access three times a day from now on. Maybe I should just go sleep on their doorstep.

As it happens, my first call on day two yields a result. They think there's a guy leaving soon, maybe in a couple of hours time. I can't believe my luck. Part of me is certain that I'll be too late and somebody else will get the room. It takes over half an hour for me to run down there and find the it.
From the outside you'd never guess this was a hostel. The shops on one side of the road suddenly pause and a driveway opens up into what looks like a short, squat retirement home. I check and then double check the address before ringing the bell.
The man behind the desk has a really large nose-ring that I can't stop staring at. He tells me I have good timing, there's a guy just leaving now.
The staff are warm and friendly but without being condescending or patronising, a pleasant change from some of the hostels I have stayed in before. I realise it's been a while since I had a normal interaction with a human being.

Back at the squat I start collecting my belongings and stuff them back into my bag.
'Been trying for months have you?' I say, struggling with a zip, 'Didn't take me too long, did it? Only took two phone calls!'
Jamie is sulking. It's not my problem any more. He mutters something about owing him a fiver and stumbles out of the room. Brian helps with my bags. His ego is a little wounded by the fact it's me and not him who's sorting things out but it shouldn't be hard to get him in too, if I keep my ears open. I only feel bad that he'll have to put up with Jamie's whining 'til then.
Unpacking and allocating each of my belonging to it's own little space, I can't help thinking that this has all been rather simple, like jumping off a cliff, only to discover that it wasn't a cliff at all but a slightly over-sized doorstep.
Dinner is at 7pm. The dining room is big and resembles a school canteen. We queue up with trays and pick what we would like from the day's meal. A girl with matted red dreadlocks announces herself a vegan, and even she is catered for without any fuss. I sit on my own and munch happily on chicken and chips, thinking how great it is that the chicken hasn't been stuffed with baked beans, as it probably would have been at the day centre.

Later, I'm alone in my own room for the first time in weeks. Thinking is an activity I find I do very differently in public. Now, in private, can I really relax and let the corners of my mind fill the room. I lock the door and sit on the bed with a stupidly big grin on my face. The room is small and square. It has curtains at the window and, apart from the bed, covered by a green duvet, contains: one wardrobe, one chest of drawers, one small dresser, one mirror, one vase of flowers.
I open the window and hear the cry of the seagulls. I breathe in the salty air.
'I live in Brighton,' I say, and smile.