A Final Sleep

It was early evening and far colder than your average November day in the cacophonous streets of Whitby. A rugged, old looking man was slumped in the opening of an alleyway next to the White Horse and Griffin pub. His leathery face crinkled with every smile at the people walking by. Few noticed him, and fewer still returned his smile. Children would look oddly at him in passing, wondering what a man was doing in the street. He remembered being that age; a naïve young soul with the world at his fingertips.

Often, as the world travelled on around him, his mind was flooded with childhood memories. Daydreams of his parents and the house they used to live in. They were never sad memories. Seldom did he dwell on his own discomfort, nor wish he had a home to call his own once more. His thoughts were ones of reminiscence. His parents. The sister whose name he barely remembered. He only wished for his own house when families walked down his street. For what is a home without the ones you love?

People were bustling along the cobblestone street; a crowd of indistinguishable faces. A man caught his eye. He didn’t quite look right. He stood slightly taller than most, but not enough to stand out. He walked swiftly, the way a lawyer might, but rather uncomfortably. He wore a simple and yet sophisticated looking suit, which fit him well but hung off him simultaneously. His hair was slicked back yet scraggly. All together he just looked, peculiar.

The peculiar man walked directly to him, providing an awkward smile as the only greeting. “Hello,” the old man began in the cheeriest voice his croaky throat could muster, “are you okay?” The peculiar man paused for a second before replying, almost composing himself. “Why yes, I am indeed. Would you like to come and get some food with me?” The question took the old man by surprise. “Come on, we haven’t all day” he continued, before turning and walking away, glancing over his shoulder with that awkward smile to see the old man collecting his things from the floor, looking utterly dumbfounded. They walked in silence, crossing the bustling bridge over the water and turning left towards the train station. The old man began to ask questions, trying to make some form of conversation. The peculiar man made no reply. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

They arrived at their destination; The Cabin Cafe, a small cafe across from the train station. Making their way inside, the woman behind the counter nodded to the peculiar man. A look fell upon her face that the old man couldn’t quite decipher. It was as if she both knew and didn’t know the peculiar man. The face was replaced with a warm smile of welcome when she looked at the old man. He’d never been in this cafe before, but the atmosphere was almost homely – as homely as he’d felt in years. He noted how strange it seemed that the peculiar man seated himself in the corner of the empty cafe, offering the seat opposite to him.

They pondered the menus in a silence. The old man chose something light and nothing too expensive. The woman took their order, the peculiar man paid, then turned to him with a white pen in hand and a jet black notebook laid out before him open on the table. He hadn’t noticed the book before.

“So,” he began, his voice only slightly louder than a whisper, “I never caught your name?”

That’s ‘cause you never asked, thought the old man. “Name’s ‘Arrison, but me mate’s call me ‘Arry. Who’re you?”

“Well hi Harry, uh, ‘Arry,” the peculiar man continued, “do you mind if I call you Harry? I mean, I am buying you food, so surely that would make us friends?” As he said this, he began to write in crisp white lettering on the black page without breaking eye-contact with Harry.

“S’pose so, but why are you buying me food?”

“You look like you could use a hot meal friend,” was his reply, then, “a man of your age. Which is?”

“58. Why’s that matter? What ya writin’ anywho?” Harry said rather accusingly, before checking himself. After all, the peculiar man was paying for his food, did it really matter what he was writing in his mysterious book? The peculiar man didn’t seem to notice, and continued to question Harry as the food arrived, noting responses in the book from time to time. Once finished, Harry thanked the peculiar man and they sat in silence once more. Abruptly, the peculiar man rose from his seat, and motioned for Harry to follow as he headed to the door. They retraced their steps to Harry’s street, stopping briefly as the peculiar man offered a room at The Station Inn, then continued after Harry’s polite declination, which the peculiar man noted in his book.

Back in the alley they’d met in, Harry sat against the wall and thanked him for the evening. Pulling a bag from his shoulder that Harry could’ve sworn wasn’t there before, the peculiar man laid it at his feet saying “A parting gift Harry. Something to keep you warm and the pangs of hunger at bay.” Before Harry could protest, the peculiar man was walking away. He was already rounding the corner when Harry began chasing after him with the bag on his shoulder, but when Harry got to the corner, the peculiar man was nowhere to be seen. Harry drooped. The bag seemed heavy on his shoulder, and the weight of whole scenario almost pulled him to the floor. He trudged back to the alley and, sliding down the wall, drifted into a restless sleep.

He awoke early the next morning to a stiff breeze chilling him to his core. Rifling through the bag, he pulled a coat out. It fit him perfectly, and reminded him of the coat his dad used to wear. There was even a hole in the pocket that his dad used to complain about. He shrugged it off, happy to be warm. Emptying the contents of the bag, he took inventory. A scarf, some sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a small leather bag. He dropped it as he opened it. It was full of money. All strapped together with an elastic band. 10s and 20s, neatly packaged together. Checking to see if anyone was around, he slowly counted it out. His jaw dropped lower and lower as the amount rose and rose. The weight of £20,000 felt as if something was crushing his chest.

What was he supposed to do with all this money? Surely there’d been some kind of mix up? Why did the odd man give him this money? He couldn’t answer any of these questions. All he knew was that he couldn’t keep it. But he couldn’t just throw it away, that wouldn’t help anyone. As his mind raced, his hands moved without thinking about it, packing his bag and pushing him to his feet. In turn, his feet walked the streets of Whitby, slowly gaining echoes of other feet following him.

Without really realising it, he’d gathered maybe 30 other homeless people, leading them to the promise of a hearty breakfast. When they finally arrived at The Tiffin cafe, the doors were just opening, and the rich aroma of fresh coffee and hot food left all their mouths watering. Harry smiled patiently at the owners as the group piled in, taking every seat and greedily looking down the menu. As each member of his parade ordered their food, Harry pulled a wad out of his pocket and paid, leaving without a meal for himself, for he had the peculiar man’s sandwiches in his bag. Looking back at the cafe, Harry thought he once again saw the deep blue of the odd man’s suit at a table, only for the glass door to close and reveal a homeless man’s coat.

He crossed the path, entering each charity shop and gaining more confidence in his limped stride. A short conversation with each attendant, and a quick reach into his pocket, then he was out. Shocked looks, dropped jaws, and at least £1000 watched him walk out of each shop. The bright blue sky above him and the sun warming his cheeks only made his smile grow wider with each step he took. It took him some time to reach the final shop he intended to unload his newfound and short-lived riches into, and when he had finally given away all but some of his money, it was well past midday.

He gripped the money in his pocket, at last content with the size he held. Pulling it out and counting it, he was still surprised with how much was left over. With £170 remaining, Harry made a turn towards somewhere he hadn’t been in many years; a book shop. With 15 minutes until closing, Harry wandered through the hallway and past the black spiral staircase of The Whitby Bookshop. There was a particular book he had in mind, one his dad used to read. It had been his favourite and Harry made a silent promise that one day he would read it. Laying on a table in the centre of the room, a small black notebook sat indiscriminately amongst others. Harry choked, looked around, and rushed to the back of the store in search of the book he desired. His heart leaped with joy and a small tear began to form in his eye when he found it. A small book, hardback and green, with golden letters etched into the spine reading The Time Machine, H.G.Wells. As he walked to the till, the black book seemed to have disappeared.

Once paid for, the book didn’t leave his hand, even after he bought himself and some other homeless people sitting outside something to eat. Dishing out the last of the money to these men and women, he turned with his portion of chips in one hand, book in the other, and made for the pier. The sun was almost hiding behind the storm clouds forming on the horizon, but an orange haze seemed to brighten the sky.

Finding a seat on the sand near the pier, Harry’s chips were nearly cold. He didn’t mind though. It was better than nothing. He picked at them, savouring each mouthful as if it were his last, until the last crumbs had been scraped from the pot. He let out an audible sigh and a smile swept across his face. His eyes drifted down from the sky, now almost purple as night drew in, to the book on his lap. Again, his eyes began to water as he thought of his dad. He wiped them away, laid back, and opened the book.

The sun faded away, and a silver sliver of the waning moon took its place on the horizon. An icy sea breeze crept in off the water, but Harry barely noticed. By the time Harry had finished the tale, pages damp from his tears, the storm had gained pace and a light rain began to fall on the beach. He tucked the book into his bag, but sat for a while longer as the rain fell harder upon him. 10 minutes passed before he stood from his spot, soaked to the bone. He trudged along the beach, up the narrow staircase that led to the streets, and back to his alleyway. Thunder roared all around him as he crawled further into the alley than his usual spot, hoping to stay drier through the night.

Stuffing his bag into a makeshift cushion, and holding the book to his chest, Harry laid down. He closed his eyes, and saw the peculiar man walking towards him with that awkward smile. With this image in mind, Harry fell into a deep and final sleep.