The Loner continued.  By noon they had enough for a drink apiece from the nearest off-licence. Thud and Geronimo shared a bottle of cider; Percy: a bottle of 'real ale', or the nearest that area of Dublin, Swithwicks, had to offer. A litre bottle of moonshine Hungarian vodka, from under the counter, was procured as a treat for all. They wandered back to the green, their regular lunch-venue. Lying among the suited office-workers, Thud's observation, of 'guano among the gold', was understood and appreciated - no offence was taken, the other two thought it appropriate and made them feel different: being dirty didn't matter and helped business. 'He was such a beautiful boy,' Percy started, to the groans of his friends: 'chocolate-brown eyes, his mother's café-au-lait colouring, straw-coloured hair, a strong mouth, a man's nose and a healthy physique, the pride of any young couple'. His voice had a despairing, forlorn air to it. 'How long's it been?' Thud asked, knowing the answer. 'Fifteen years, James'll be a young man now. So many years.' The reference to time was strung out. 'Didn't have a family myself,' Thud's said, 'too involved in ‘the Troubles',' Nods of understanding all round. After consuming half the vodka they lay on the grass and snored a chorus once asleep. Evening found Geronimo and Percy in the Salvation Army mission, watery soup and a tepid beef-stew, while not up to Percy's discriminating palate, were still welcome. Looking up as his surroundings, the same thoughts recurred each time he entered the place, the building rankled him: the school-room blandness of gloss paint, chipped, varnished benches: too low for the average guy, the smell of sadness, sour smoke, smelly socks, cheap booze; destitution and desolation. And the curt staff: no tact or commiseration. It didn't normally matter when they were on the street; in here, he was reminded he was one of them: the penniless and homeless. He hated it: stunk of a backward slide. The food and day's libations made Geronimo sleepy; he snoozed on a dormitory cot, a spirit at peace. Percy sat in a darkened corner and took out a battered EPNS cigarette case, from his breast pocket. 'FMD', in elaborate gothic script, could clearly be seen on the heart-shaped, plain panel, in the centre. Opening it gently, he took out a faded photograph, showing a tall, elegant man with a small boy on his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb over the young figure. Underneath, a copy of his last pay receipt, the thousands showing for the month's work making him draw breath: the pride at being a senior manager in one of Ireland's most prestigious engineering firms was still there. The past life, voluntarily left behind, caused some regret but mostly relief. The rat-race would have killed him, he knew, although his intent to work for voluntary agencies for orphaned boys hadn't worked: he'd tried but they wanted teacher-types, or health service people. Silly really, how people refused help from the obviously willing, who didn't have any financial motivation; a rarity in today's mercenary world. His bitter divorce had taken most of his savings and five years of 'philosophy' the rest. He didn't care as long as James was OK - the only thing he'd asked for from his ex. Not too much to ask, he hoped. Custody was a non-starter. He got up and walked out of the building. He was wound up, sleep wasn't possible, a walk would be worthwhile. His place in the mission would be quickly filled: homeless again. He walked out onto O'Connell St, the wind, blasting across the bridge, carried above the black pool, the Liffey a more pleasant name. The illuminated hoardings along Bachelor's Walk implied seediness, EEC funding hadn't found a home there yet. He turned along the riverbank, before the bridge, and made for the Ha'penny, his favourite crossing. He loved the intricacy and fineness of the structure and delicate lighting. Standing on the apex, he let the bitter wind cut through him, the first inkling of an inner chill felt like, well - black; unknown, cold, ruthless. He was ignored by weekend revellers from the financial houses: striped shirts, loud ties and skimpy skirts their trademark. A non-person to them, humanity-absent. The pathetic look was sincere. Carrying on over, he found an alcove in an old boarded-up nightclub, formerly owned by a disgraced PM. He didn't want to stay here but he felt so cold, so – vulnerable: new to him. He huddled down, the black was still there, and his extremities tingled. Sleep followed grogginess and an odd, inner peace. Eight a.m. found the industrious foot patrols: the nine-to-fivers, striding along Bachelor's Walk; the pile of rags in the doorway non-existent. A young, bright-eyed man, their brownness striking, immaculate in crisp business suit and carrying a leather travel-bag, stopped, curious, at the doorway. A dirty photo fluttered among the rags. He bent down and picked it up, his straw blond hair re-arranged by the icy wind. The boy in the faded picture, was familiar. He looked down again. Shaking the rags he felt bone. A search found a face, again familiar. The colour said death and a wince beckoned a retreat. He rose slowly, looked down again at the pile of rags and walked on. The End Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

David Daniels can be contacted at proteus@group95.freeserve.co.uk