The Filthy Knight

The man lay down by the kerb, blood seeping from the wound in his stomach. His face, which glistened from the spattering rain, contorted with pain and took on an eerie orange glow from the street lamp.

Lizzy looked at her knight in filthy armour. She recognised him as the homeless guy who busked in Soho square, shouting his way through old punk songs, songs that her mum listened to when she wanted to relive the old days.

‘I...I can’t thank you enough, that bastard...’ she could not finish the words. She felt cold, numb. Her blouse was ripped, her skirt torn. Her cheek still burned from the slap that had sent her sprawling to the floor. It was then that her hero had emerged from the shadows.

She had been on her way to Tottenham court road to catch the night bus. In Soho square she took the short cut through Sutton row. A vague sense of someone following her was dismissed as big city paranoia: seven years in London and still she feared the streets after dark.

It was in Sutton row, with its solitary street light and cavernous shadows, that the footsteps behind quickened to a run. She was dragged backwards by her hair and forced against the wall. She cried and screamed, kicked and clawed at her attacker. He tore her clothes and with one blow she fell to the cold, cobblestoned street. The stench of a million strains of piss engulfed her.

As her attacker stood over her she saw the strangest thing over his shoulder: an acoustic guitar, seemingly floating in mid air. Before she had a chance to process this information the instrument came crashing down, splintering on her assailants head. He stumbled, revealing a bearded, dreadlocked man holding the smashed guitar.

Gathering his senses, her attacker withdrew a knife from his pocket. The dreadlocked man leapt at him, arms and broken guitar flailing. The fight was over in seconds: a knife to the stomach. Her attacker fled, into the anonymity of a London night.

‘Are you okay? You’re bleeding pretty badly, I’ll call an ambulance.’ She fumbled in her handbag, her shaking hands made the three numbers difficult to key in.

She knelt over him. The blood was flowing freely, like a burst water pipe. It soaked into his dirt encrusted woollen coat. The smell of the man overwhelmed her. Her head felt light, her stomach churned; she fought hard not to retch.

She applied pressure to the wound, trying desperately to stem the flow. He screamed in agony and pushed her away. ‘You must let me, you’ll bleed to death,’ she pleaded.

‘Just leave it.’

‘But the ambulance will be here soon, if we can just stop...’

‘I said leave it.’ He put his hand to the wound, applying a small amount of pressure: a token gesture. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lizzy’

‘Nice to meet you, I’m Chuck.’

He offered her his hand to shake. She took it and held on, not wanting to let go.

‘That guy a friend of yours, was he?’

She stared vacantly ahead, pulling herself together. She realised that she had been crying only when the tears stopped rolling down her cheeks. Her nose ran with snot, she wiped it with her hand, smearing blood onto her face.

‘Talk to me, Tell me about yourself,’ said Chuck.

She did not know what to say, what did it matter? Who she was, where she had been; it all seemed so irrelevant.

Lizzy patted his hand, ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’ She checked her phone: four minutes.

Chuck repeated his request. ‘Tell me about yourself, really, I’d like to know.’

She tucked her hair behind her ear, as she often did when she was nervous or lost for words. ‘Okay. Err... I’m from Essex but not the chavvy bit; I’m from a nice bit, a little village called Tillingham.’ She wondered if this wounded, possibly dying, homeless man cared whether Essex had nice and not-so-nice bits but defending her home county happened instinctively. We’re not all like those tarts on TV, she thought to herself.

He nodded at her to carry on. ‘I work for a media production company, here in Soho, on Brewers street. We do lots of daytime telly crap, game shows and... Look, this is ridiculous, let me help you; we’ve got to stop the flow of blood.’

She let go of his hand and went to reapply pressure to his wound, he pushed her away, grunting painfully; ‘I said leave it, alright.’

She sat sullenly at his side, checked her phone: seven minutes.

‘I’ve got a little girl, ‘bout your age. Not so little anymore, I guess.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled old photograph. ‘Her name’s Suzi.’

He handed the photograph over to Lizzy. It showed a girl, aged about five or six. She wore ripped T-shirt with DESTROY and a swastika printed on it. She flicked a V-sign and sneered at the camera. Despite its tired appearance it was obviously treasured. Where it had torn over the years it had been carefully repaired with sellotape.

‘That’s about the time I saw her last.’

‘She’s very, er, pretty; do you know where she is now?’

‘No idea.’

She handed him the photo back. He held it to his chest, sighed and stole a quick glance, wincing with pain as he did so.

‘Her mother chucked me out, chucked out Chuck, heh!’ He laughed at his own joke. The laugh ended in a rattling cough, causing him further pain. ‘That’s all I got, one bloody photo; just one bloody photo.’

‘Have you tried looking for her?’

He laughed again, this time it seemed darker, resigned. ‘How the fuck would I do that, huh?’

She felt foolish. What did she know of this man’s life, of the events that had led him to the situation he now found himself? And then it struck her.

‘I could help you.’

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Sure, you do that.’

‘No seriously, I could. We could use the internet, all kinds of stuff, to trace her. Look I owe you, that bastard was going to do God knows what and you saved me. I could help; I could.’

Chuck tried to sit up, raising himself on an elbow. As he got a few inches off the ground his face twisted in agony and he collapsed backwards. ‘Fuck it,’ he conceded to the night sky drizzle and cloud covered stars.

She checked her phone again: eleven minutes. What the fuck was taking so long? He started singing quietly to himself. She took hold of his hand and repeated the mantra: ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

She listened closely to his mumbles, picking up the odd word. Something about Delroy Wilson, smooth operator and Ken Boothe, UK pop reggae.

‘What’s that song? I think I know it.’

He stopped singing, ‘I doubt it girl, that’s The Clash, bit before your time.’

‘No I do, I do. My mum loves all that stuff, Dad not so much, he’s an old hippy but my mum was a punk. She played the records to us when we were kids, “that’s proper music” she would say, “got to educate you.”’

He smiled, ‘Your old mum sounds alright; reckon you can remember how it goes?’

‘I’ll give it a go.’

He started the song again, louder and clearer this time. Lizzy tried her best, when she forgot the words she hummed instead. He smiled when she sang the “ooh-ee-ooh” backing vocals.

As the song wore on, Chuck’s delivery took on a more wistful tone. His face was set in a permanent mask of pain. She let go of his hand and again tried to apply pressure to his wound. He was now too weak to fend her off. She tried in vain to stem the flow of blood but it continued to ooze, squirting through her fingers as she pressed both hands down on the opening.

As he reached the final verse he raised one wavering fist in the air.

‘I’m the all night, drug-prowling wolf,
Who looks so sick in the sun,
I’m the white man, in the palais,
And I just go, looking for fun.’

With that his arm dropped and he slipped into unconsciousness.

She heard sirens approaching and then came the flashing lights, illuminating the gloomy Soho side street. Before the paramedics set about their task she took the photo from Chuck’s hand and slipped it in her handbag, swearing to repay her debt.

She watched as they loaded her filthy knight into the ambulance. She wanted desperately to go with him, to be there if he woke up but two policemen were also in attendance and made known their intention to speak to her.

Reluctantly, she went with them.