A contribution for Sunday Scribblings

Megan Rodwell paused in the act of checking the appointment diary and froze.

‘Who is that?’ she hissed to her receptionist.

Bronwen’s eyes flicked once towards the man and then to her employer’s face. ‘That’s your four o’clock appointment,’ she said softly. ‘Last one of the day - Mr John Scott.’

‘Oh, my God … ‘

‘Don’t forget you have a panic button.’

Megan stole another covert glance at Mr Scott. Clad head to toe in black leather and liberally decorated with studs, buckles and chains, he slouched in the pale blue chair as if he were on death row instead of merely waiting his turn to talk to a counsellor.

He looked up, as if aware of her gaze, and scowled. She stiffened her back, closed her eyes briefly, and then went into professional mode with a cool smile of welcome.

‘Mr Scott? Would you like to come through?’ She led the way into her consulting room, and invited him to sit. He did so, with a grunt.

Megan took a moment to study him. It was something she did with all new clients. It gave them a few seconds to settle, and she could often pick up non-verbal cues about their state of mind. This one, she couldn’t guess. Maybe that was because her own heart was racing so hard.

She’d been quite young when she’d had a bad experience with a group of punks, and it had made a lasting impression. They were all so very scary, with their black, ripped clothes, their safety pins and their piercings … not to mention the tattoos and the scalped, spiky hair and the all-or-nothing aggression. She hadn’t seen one for years, and she’d hoped they’d died out, but there he was, a real live hard-core street punk in her pretty little pale green room. She was alone with him and the door was closed.

Her mouth was dry. She reached for the jug and poured herself a glass of water. A little sip of the cool Evian turned into a gulp, and she forced herself to breathe deeply and relax the tight muscles in her neck.

‘Well, Mr Scott,’ she said in a voice which just barely shook. ‘May I call you John?’

Blue-grey eyes met hers properly for the first time and she recoiled at the lack of warmth in them. He stared at her for a few seconds and then looked down and spoke to his Doc Martens.

‘Only my enemies call me ‘Mr Scott’.

Megan let out a breath. She had caught just the slightest hint of sadness under the ingrained bravado of his voice, and it was enough.

She studied his face, looking beyond the pierced eyebrows, the lip stud, and the tattooed forehead, and she saw the tension around his eyes. She took in the uneven stubble on his youthful jaw, the boniness of his shoulders under the worn leather, the chewed fingernails - and suddenly he wasn’t an anonymous, angry punk who’d smack someone as soon as look at them, he was simply John Scott; a very young man who needed her help.

‘Well, then, John,’ she said. ‘Let’s start at the top. Do you have many enemies?’

He hesitated just a moment before replying but when he began to talk, she had nothing to do but listen and nod, and try process all that he was telling her. At the end of the hour, when the flow of words had ceased and he sat wordlessly contemplating his boots, Megan smiled, and did something that was strictly against the rules. She leaned forward and took hold of one of his hands.

‘You’ve made an excellent start today, John, ‘ she said softly. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to continue? Will you come back next week? We can begin to sort out some strategies for all of those fears of yours - if you think you can work with me.’

His hand tightened momentarily on her fingers before he gently withdrew it.

‘Think I can. I … I’d like to try.’ He raised his eyes, and gave her a tentative smile.

When he had gone, shrugging on his street swagger like a coat as he left the room, Megan walked to the reception desk. Bronwen shot her an apprehensive look.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Really. He’s just a nice kid with problems.’

Bronwen’s brows rose, and Megan gave a wry look and had the grace to look ashamed.

‘Yes, I know. But I’ve learned something today, and I think I’m finally going to get rid of those nightmares. Working with John is going to be good therapy for me, too.’

She walked to the front door and stared out to where she could see the bright orange and green hair threading its way through the home-bound office workers, then she locked the door, and turned away.

‘I almost feel that I should be paying him.’

A contribution for Sunday Scribblings

He stood in the shadow of an ancient brick wall, right in the centre of the old city where the tourists marched past in cheerful groups of twos, threes and more, and the students strolled more leisurely, discussing philosophy and pizza. Not one of them seemed to hear his morose cries.

‘Big Ishoo! Big Ishooo!’

No-one paused. No-one even looked at him, for fear of being caught by his sales pitch, pathetic as it was, and the pile of magazines at his feet was growing no smaller as the afternoon wore on.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall, easing his foot in the heavy cast, and accidentally knocked over one of the crutches which leaned beside him. He swore.

‘You shouldn’t say that, ‘ observed a youthful voice, dispassionately. ‘It’s a bad word.’

He looked up and found himself eye to eye with a small blonde girl of about five years old. Her expression was serious, and her gaze very blue. Pink ribbons fluttered from her hair, but did little to confine the fluffy hair blowing about her face.

‘You know what? You’re right,’ he responded, with a tight smile. ‘I’m sorry about that.’ And he planted the fallen crutch, and stood up to find himself looking into identical blue eyes, this time on a level with his own. He straightened his back and gained an inch or two.

He swallowed. ‘Big Issue?’ he asked, hopefully.

She started to shake her head, then looked down at the girl and pulled out her purse.

‘What are you doing here selling this rubbish?’ she asked abruptly as she counted out the coins.

‘Trying to make a living.’ He pulled a magazine out of the plastic bag at his feet, and thrust it towards her.

‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it,’ she said sternly. She glanced at the little girl again, and back to his face.

‘Aah … I understand you now,’ his lips stretched into a smile but she could see his teeth clench as he bit down on the words and the muscles in his jaw and temple jumped. ‘A little education going down, is that what this is? Let’s go buy a magazine from the homeless man and hope he doesn’t go round the corner at the end of his shift and use the money to drown his sorrows in alcohol.’

He glared at her. ‘Or drugs. Maybe you’re thinking drugs.’

‘No … no, I wasn’t,’ she answered, softly. ‘I only wanted to know how you ended up here. Last time I saw you, you were staying with friends … ‘

‘Yeah, well … no-one wants an alkie on their couch, do they?’ He threw his head up and looked briefly at the sky, and when he looked back his eyes were damp. ‘I drank. And I got thrown out. I lost my job. I drank. I slept in doorways and drank, and I nearly bloody froze. Then I met this crackhead who picked me up and got me in here, doing this,’ he kicked at the bag of magazines. ‘And once I’d got a job, I got a place in a hostel. But that won’t last. After a while they want you to move on. You’re supposed to get your name on a housing list and move on up. Good for their statistics, you know.’

‘How did you hurt your foot?’

‘Someone dropped something on it. Accidentally.’ His eyes challenged her to question it.

The little girl had moved closer to her mother and was clutching at her coat, round eyed. The woman put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder to reassure her, and raised her eyes again.

‘You could come home,’ she said, simply.

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t want you to go in the first place,’ She tightened her fingers on the girl’s coat, the tension showing in the way her knuckles whitened. ‘We should have gone for counselling. And we still could.’

He made no reply, but gazed at the little girl, who gazed right back.

‘Please?’ The woman said softly.

He squatted down in front of the child. ‘And what do you say, my little Princess?’

A small hand crept up and pulled at a lock of the blonde hair, curling a small finger in and out of the strand, catching the end of the pink ribbon and letting it slip free again.

‘I want you to come home, too, Daddy,’ she whispered.

‘Are you sure? Both of you? He stood with difficulty, and took a breath. ‘I still drink, you know.’

‘I know. Are you ready to stop?’

‘I can try,’ he said. ‘I can try.’

She smiled.

‘Then let’s go get a coffee to celebrate,’ she said. She put her arm in his and started to pull him away, but then stopped to throw her copy of the Big Issue down on the pile, and rummaged in her bag.

‘Wait a moment … oh, here we are – ‘

She pulled out a pen and piece of paper and wrote briefly, then handed it to him with a flourish.

He read it and a broad smile spread over his face. He bend down and tucked it under a stone next to the bag, then turned and held out his hand.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘There’s a Starbuck’s round the corner.’

As the little group moved awkwardly away towards a new beginning, the paper fluttered in the wind, making the words dance.

It said, ‘FREE – HELP YOURSELF’.