A Dish Best Served Cold - Chapter 1

No one notices the bedraggled old man sitting on the pavement, in the shadows of the building, with his back against the wall. His dirty ill-fitting trench coat covering equally dirty and ill-fitting army fatigues. He has old, scuffed Doctor Martin’s on his feet and a pair of fingerless gloves to keep his hands warm. His white hair is greasy and unkempt and falls across his face, making it nearly impossible to see his eyes, even if you were looking, which of course you’re not. Nobody does. And that’s why he’s there, why he’s dressed this way, and why no-one will be able to give a description of him if they’re asked, which he seriously doubts they will be.

He’s counting on it.

He’s been in the same place, off and on, for the last 4 weeks. No-one has approached him in all that time. No-one has asked if he needs anything, has offered a cup of tea, something to eat, money or advice. No-one has asked him what he is doing there, what he wants, where’s he come from or even ‘why doesn’t he move along and stop cluttering up the place!’ No one seems to be bothered in the slightest that another human being appears to be living in the street.

And that’s absolutely fine by him. It means he can carry out the surveillance without fear of being hassled. He has developed a good understanding of human nature over his years spent on the streets, so had decided on this approach knowing that if he could get through the first few days without incident, it would be plain sailing. He had been proven right.

Across the street the businesses carried out their daily routines oblivious to the man watching. People streamed into the bakery, collecting the famous Greggs produce for breakfast, lunch and tea. The betting shop was quiet compared with years past. Most people use ‘on-line’ accounts to place their bets these days. Still, the old stalwarts made their way to the shop, for the craic more than anything else. The hairdressing salon had a constant stream of patrons, middle aged and older, regular as clockwork. He counted two per hour between ten in the morning through to six in the evening and wondered how much each was paying. To his untrained eye they didn’t look that much different coming out as they did when they went in. ‘Probably just going for the craic’ he thought to himself. Funny how you can make connections between old men at the bookies and old women at the hairdressers without realising it. The little café on the end appeared to do a steady trade, from opening at eight to closing at two. It couldn’t have more than five tables but it appeared they did a good takeaway service.

‘Must be hard’, he thought, ‘competing against the Greggs of this world’.

Again he considered the types of people going in and came to the same conclusion, more about the craic than the food.

‘The human race is such a social animal’ he thought to himself, and gave a wry smile.

This is the same social animal that had so far ignored the rough sleeping hobo sitting across the road for the past six weeks.

Further along the street was the Victoria Arms, the epitome of a social environment. The pub opened for business at midday and didn’t close until the last paying punter had left. He kept a wary eye on the comings and goings as this was the one uncontrollable that could put a fly in the ointment. He didn’t want some drunk kid showing off to his mates by trying to beat up the down and out after a belly full of ale. He didn’t mind the alcoholics who would stop and chat. Most of them were already pretty far gone and wouldn’t remember him from Adam, and the ones who weren’t yet, would be soon enough. No, it was the young and stupid he was wary of, and he made sure that he had moved along way before they could become a problem.

To his left was the launderette. It amazed him in this day and age that people still took their clothes to one of these places. Why not have a washing machine at home? Was it the cost, lack of space or some other reason? He couldn’t imagine having to take his smalls to get washed in a public place, the thought was just ridiculous. It appeared to him that he wasn’t the only one who thought like that. Trade at the ‘Coin O Mat’ was slow, to the point of almost non-existent. He had watched for four weeks and could count the number of different people entering the premises on the fingers of one hand, with the thumb chopped off! That in itself was interesting, at least Archer thought so.

He smiled to himself as he watched, thinking about why he was there, in that specific place. It was, in his opinion, the ultimate joke. What better place to pass money through than a laundrette, the term money laundering had never been more apt. It wasn’t strictly laundering, but it was close enough for him. What made it even more amusing was the fact that they hadn’t even realised the joke!