‘You can’t be here.’
The voice came from the taller one, though they were both tall, made even taller by their service-issued boots and their straight backs.
‘But I’m not bothering anyone,’ said the sitter.
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve told you to move on, so you need to move on.’
‘Move on to where?’
‘Don’t care. Just not around here.’
The sitter looked at her hat on the ground. She was short by half. They wouldn’t let her in with half. Not with him.
‘Can I not wait a bit? My dog’s tired.’
‘How long do you need?’ said the shorter one.
‘Dunno … maybe an hour.’
The taller one said nothing.
‘Okay,’ said the shorter one. ‘You’ve got an hour. I want you gone after.’
The sitter and her dog were left alone. A coin dropped into the hat. It was the wrong colour.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the sitter, kissing her dog on the head. ‘We’ll be fine.’
The dog lay down on the sitter’s cardboard and closed his eyes. The sitter leaned back against a rubbish bin and looked across the street and a clock outside a theatre. An hour would be cutting it fine. The matinee crowd would still be in there.
Fucking police … I’m not moving … I’m just not
The hour showed no kindness. The sitter was still shy for the night and the hostel didn’t accept shyness.
‘Time’s up.’
The sitter jumped. Two pairs of feet were at her side.
‘Can I have another five minutes?’
‘No,’ said the taller one. ‘We’re moving you on.’
‘But I haven’t got enough.’
‘Not my problem. Come on, get up.’
The dog opened his eyes and looked at the sitter.
‘It’s okay,’ said the sitter, stroking her dog. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Today please,’ said the taller one.
The sitter glanced at the shorter one. His attention was given to the distance, then to his radio.
‘Alpha zulu two one to control, over.’
The radio talked back.
‘Leave her,’ said the shorter one, covering his radio. ‘We’ve got to go.’
The shorter one kicked into a sprint, holding his radio as he ran. The taller one pursued.
‘What was all that about?’
Another two pairs of shoes.
‘Not sure,’ said the sitter, looking up at a couple. They gave the air of grandparents from a different time. He had a flat cap, tie, and scarf. And she, a long coat from a proper store, glasses from the expensive shelf, and department store gloves.
‘Were they bothering you?’ said the man.
‘I’m used to it,’ said the sitter.
The woman put her arm through the man’s and give it a little squeeze.
‘Oh …,’ said the man, ‘this is for your dog.’
The man leaned down and placed a note in the hat. On top of the note he placed a coin. The right colour.
‘We had one like him once,’ said the man. ‘Miss him every day.’
There was another squeeze.
‘Take care,’ said the man.
‘Thank you,’ said the sitter, reaching for the note. ‘Thank you.’
The dog sat up and licked the sitter behind the ear.
‘I love you,’ said the sitter. ‘Told you we’d be okay.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
Suggested Further Reading:
