I am typing this from the laptops at the local community centre. It’s the first time I am using them, because why would I need them before? But I realised there’s a lot of interest in Stabby (that’s the stupid name the local media gave him by the way, I don’t know what his name is and would not presume to name him), and just rumours about what happened the night that the killer of the homeless people in our area was finally caught. It wasn’t thanks to the fucking pigs, that’s for sure.
I was there, with Stabby and the others, and I need to set the record straight.
Earlier that day, I had gone to find my mate Henry, I knew he was camping in a tiny tent by the water. It was a chilly winter morning.
He was lying just across the entrance flap of the tent. I called and went closer, thinking he had passed out and worried he might be frozen.
He was still. I turned him over. He was dead. Frozen blood covered his chest and face. He must have been dead several hours.
Fear hit me in a wave of nausea. I promptly barfed up my foraged meal of restaurant leftovers from the night before, and legged it. As fond as I was of Henry, I had no intention of being caught loitering there or talking to the pigs about it. Fuck that noise. What would they do about a dead homeless man anyway?
Back in my own nest behind the concrete slabs of a city bridge, I settled my stomach with a few swigs of emergency alcohol and an extra dose of pills, while petting the two stray cats who hung out with me. Several crows also hopped close- they knew me. Not to brag, but I am an expert forager, and I often had nice restaurant food. They were mildly disappointed when I produced nothing for them. But they didn’t leave me alone- they knew something up, they knew more than I did, then.
If I had listened to the local news, or joined the clusters of homeless people huddled outside any of the city shelters I would have known there was a killer on the loose, targeting the homeless. But I don’t like the company of other people - just because I’m homeless doesn’t mean I want to hang out with other homeless people all the time. And the news doesn’t interest me. I had only sought out Henry that morning because he owed me fags. Generally, I far more prefer the company of cats and crows to my fellow humans. And I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t want to know. Henry could have been on the receiving end of some petty deal for food or alcohol or street drugs gone wrong, I assumed. I had no idea the threat existing for all of us.
And now, the comforting warm purr of the cats and the friendly knowing sideways glint in the crows’ eyes gave me solace, and with the alcohol and drugs warming my blood, I fell asleep in my nest of rags, hidden from view by the heavy concrete slabs.
I slept through most of the daylight hours, an uneasy sleep haunted by poor Henry’s bloody frozen body and slashed face, and it was already dark when I woke. It must have been later than when I usually got up, as it was quite silent- the usual noises of early evening, of cars and humans having faded away. I was alone, no cats or crows in sight. I wondered where they had gone, and whether it was worth the effort to visit my usual restaurant bins.
The wind rustled through the nearby buildings and bridge, and then I heard footsteps.
The footsteps were coming towards me. I remembered Henry’s body, and for the first time realised the danger might be more than just for him. I picked up my bottle and smashed it against the concrete slab. Fortunately it was empty.
Holding my makeshift weapon before me, I called out.
“Hello?”
The footsteps stopped. I felt dizzy and leaned against the slab to steady myself. I thought to make a run for it but I already knew it would be useless, I could not outrun whatever was hunting me. I tried to steady the fear that was making my stomach leap around, out of my mouth.
The steps started up again, and the dark figure came into sight, stepping behind the slab, into my fucking home. I gripped my smashed bottle uselessly- I would go down fighting.
And then, it happened. The same moment the figure leapt towards me, drawn knife in hand, the cats and crows attacked. I don’t know where they had been. But I knew that was my opportunity, I tried to move fast, pushing past the melee of man, cats and crow and dash out from behind the slabs.
The assailant, meanwhile, had cried out in surprise. But he hadn’t dropped his knife- I didn’t realise that at the time. It flashed in the dark. One of the cats fell to the ground, bleeding and howling.
I paused for a split second, then turned back, scooped up the wounded cat and then ran for my motherfucking life. And Stabby’s.
Behind me, the shrieks of human pain mingled with the harsh cawing of crows and yowling of cats pierced the night. I was sure the rest of my friends would be fine.
I ran all the way to the cat hospital which had attendants 24/7- I had been there several times before- you’d be surprised how many wounded animals I come across in the city- I swear so many fuckers go out of their way to hurt them.
I pushed the bleeding but quiet Stabby into the arms of the on-call nurse, and told her to call 911 and report the altercation under the bridge.
Then I vanished.
I made myself as invisible as I could for the next few days-but I couldn’t lie low for long, I needed to know how Stabby was doing and whether I could go back home safely. So I emerged and caught up with the news- I was relieved to find out yes, I could, but then I realised I had to come and put this true version of events out about what happened.
So here you have it.