Windows by Andrew Kingston

I know a tramp. I don’t know a tramp, but it feels like it. I can never shake the feeling that he’s only a few steps away. If that. I feel like I know him, although other than actually recognising him, the only thing I know about him, is that he enjoys detective stories. I know this, as I saw him with an arm load in the library once.

His routines and efforts to hold on to the last vestiges of decorous clothing set him apart from the younger, mid-afternoon public drinkers who gather round in obtrusive, cussing tribes with addled brand sportswear and gold leaf lager. In contrast to their un-tuned, aggressive eyes, his always look feverish but never cruel. His whole person seems to be made up of fading, forgetting principles tied up neatly, with well placed, well-considered but ultimately fragile bonds. Despite being a tramp, he had the appearance of a gentleman in so many ways.

One day, I decided to follow him. On most mornings on my way in to work that month, our paths had crossed in the main shopping centre at the same corner linking some bleary covered ‘square’ to one of a number of nondescript rat runs that someone, years ago, had grandly decided should be called ‘malls’. These sightings puzzled me, not only because of the early hour, but also for the fact that the tramp would hurtle round at some pace. His urgency was not what you would expect from a tramp, and at odds with his own more usual careful, shuffling gait. Less surprising was his forward stoop and the red-eyed, slightly faecal aroma in his wake.

On the day when I decided to follow ‘my tramp’, the point where our paths crossed was populated by a few other municipal lags waiting for the post office to open. They were a curious, paleskin breed of routine enthusiasts with big features and who formed unlikely alliances with each other. I ignored their glare as I turned on my heels and set off in pursuit. My tramp proceeded at full speed. He seemed to be moving with a very specific purpose.

I fumbled for my mobile phone, intending to call in to work and say I’d overslept. I wasn’t going to be really late. I was just curious where the tramp’s immediate journey took him every morning.

He moved stealthily, skilfully wielding his two well-stuffed carrier bags and using them as counter weights to help him swoop and swerve and avoid crashing in to anything. His progress was something to behold. Following him made me appreciate how people took extra care to veer out of his way, or if they saw him some way off, to plan huge, looping detours further in advance. Occasionally, he would turn his head slightly and mutter something unintelligible, but maintain his ferocious pace.

At a particularly inane part of the centre which had a water feature and had been dumbly named ‘The Corn Exchange’, he swung right-hand and off the main thoroughfare towards the exit for the bus station. I sensed my journey coming to an end.

The air quality changed as I pushed through the heavily-paned doors and left the arcade. It was hard to say how it changed exactly, but change it certainly did. The tramp branched right towards a coffee cart. When he reached it, he leant on it, appalling passers-by and potential customers, catching his breath until he was shoo-ed off by the hefty looking proprietor. Again, I avoided his keen red eyes and turned to look in the window of a travel agent. The end of my nose reflected over last minute deals to Turkey and the Algarve.

I heard the tramp over-exaggeratedly smack his lips and saw his reflected arm wipe his stubbly face. I’d never seen him quite so non-distinguished and tramp-ish before. He allowed himself to be pushed away, as if his mind was a million miles away, and paid no attention to the proprietor of the coffee cart. It looked like he was about to embark on a piece of disastrous street theatre. I was wondering how disappointed I should be when he picked up his bags and set off – again, with the same ferocious pace. I decided to watch until he went out of sight, then call it a day and trudge off to work. There was only so much fast-walking I could take and first thing in the morning was not the best time for it.

He got as far as the old cinema before doubling back. I panicked that he’d spotted me and was planning evasive action, but he flew straight past. He carried on for about another fifty yards, back as far as a discount shop, before using his bags to slow himself down and turn round so that he could start retracing again, this time passing even closer to me, his eyes burning brightly but not seeing, and certainly not acknowledging, my presence.

And so he went, back and forward. When his back was turned, I sauntered up, in stages, to a shop next to the old cinema. The morning workers started thinning out and I thought it might be time for me to get on. The tramp was showing no sign of letting up, and time was getting on. I decided to watch him turn round one last time, then get into work. This time though, he stopped right outside the shop next to me, an estate agent with huge polished windows displaying spot lit, uniformly displayed racks of cards of locally desirable residences.

He put his bags down and peered in to the shop. I could see he was gesticulating and realised he was folding and contorting his face, but not actually making any noise.

Inside the shop, two estate agents wore thick check-pattern shirts with thick shirt furniture, sculpted faux hair and confident, chunky looks. Weekend jocks. They were accompanied by a third man wearing a set of industrial overalls.

All of a sudden, one of the shirted men caught sight of the tramp and interrupted the other two. Panic descended. The agent who had been alerted and who I could now see was in lavender, fixed his stare and started frantically pushing buttons on his telephone, while his yellow shirted colleague flailed and shouted wildly. The man in the overalls disappeared and re-emerged from the back of the shop with a bucket.

I had, at best, only a reasonable view, but could see that the tramp had unzipped himself and was urinating all over the glass, over a space covering a series of agent’s cards advertising properties in the ‘Old Wood’ village. He had a sad, peaceful look, as if he was performing a great, spiritual act.

He shuddered like Max Wall as he shook and tucked up and his face regained the look of speed and intensity. His pace was less frenzied now and his carrier bags swung a little lower. This time, he didn’t turn round to come back.