The Waif and the Stray

It takes a little while for this story to unfold -- as for most of my stories. The characters grew out of a phrase I read in another story here on this site, 'Valentines for Adam', written by Jason Clearwater, in which Adam so nicely defines the terms 'waif' and 'stray'. I'm happy to be able to use the definitions here with his blessing. I'm also grateful to ElectricBlue for reading a draft of the story and for his corrections. Any remaining mistakes are, therefore, all mine!

Please leave a comment if you'd like to, as I really appreciate those of you who take the time to write them.

Everyone in this story is over the age of 18.

+++

The high, flat whistle flew across the street, diving into my ears with the accuracy of a humming bird's beak.

"Lou!"

That follow-on confirmed all the noise was indeed aimed at me. I turned my head and saw him sitting in one of his usual spots. This one, outside the Co-op. And new for today, from the vantage point of a camping bed, one end backed up against the side of the grubby phone box. I tipped my chin to show I'd heard him and pre-empt any further caterwauling in my direction, before jogging in-between the traffic to the other side of the road.

"Hey, Jude."

"Hey, Lou. Took you long enough to hear me. Have a seat."

He shuffles along the camp bed, carefully for fear of tilting it, pressing his hand flat on the canvas until I'm about to sit down and bring it back to balance.

"Nice bit of furniture you've got yourself here," I squint at him in the late afternoon sunshine, the relentless onslaught of noise and fumes from the buses and cars seeming to fade into the background a bit.

Because, let me say this; Jude Sheridan is a good-looking bastard and whenever I'm in his company, he overpowers whatever else is going on in the world. Despite my best efforts.

"Where've you been? Ain't seen you in weeks," he squints back at me, all unruly hair, curiosity, and devastatingly clear eyes.

I shrug. He doesn't need to know about the clusterfuck that's been the last month, and I'm definitely not going to be the one to tell him.

"Here and there," I reply eventually.

"Mysterious as ever," he shrugs. "Wanna smoke?" and, when I shake my head, "Anything else?"

I consider it, briefly. I can't deny a bit of chemical-induced happy would be good right now. But I'm never taking drugs with Jude. That's gotta be a rule. No, I need all my wits about me when he's around. I shake my head again, and watch him light up instead.

"Got your inhaler, have you?" I can't resist asking, intrigued as always by his apparently carefree, you might say reckless, attitude to his health.

He draws his hand out of his pocket for a minute to show me the blue plastic tube, his elbow brushing my side as he pushes it back out of sight. I meet his eyes. There's a slow, insouciant grin there. I shake my head for a third time, but this one is to show my disapproval.

"Only dickheads would smoke when they have asthma as bad as you."

He exhales, pushing a stream of smoke out into the already polluted air of St George's Road, ignoring me. I sit back, appreciating the relative comfort of the camp bed. It's a big improvement on the usual upturned plastic bread tray. We watch the world go by. It's a weird and wonderful one, perhaps more than most English cities, since this one is the home of the alternative lifestyle.

"Get a look at that," Jude says, as if on cue, nudging me with his elbow and jerking his head in the direction he wants me to look.

At an old lady, pulling a shopping trolley that's swamped with small soft toys and fake flowers. More fake flowers in her hair, in two long braids and dyed many colours, the dominant one being pink.

"Only in fucking Brighton," he breathes quietly.

"Truth."

"Not even the pensioners can be normal."

We snigger together. Pink Lady also appears to be laughing to herself, until, as she turns her head, I see one of those Bluetooth things stuck in her ear.

"Look at that," I comment, unnecessarily it seems, as Jude's seen it too.

"Fuck me, she's probably the Mayor or something."

And that, for some reason, hits our funny bone big time, and we roll around a bit, until the giggling calms down and we can sit up straight again.

"Oh Georgie, there you are."

I look up, confused. A woman of the large sort looms over both of us, blocking out the light.

"Yeah, he's been good as gold. Lovely fella, aren't you?"

That's when I discover there's a dog under the camp bed, straining to Jude's touch as he scrubs his hand over excited brown ears.

"There you go," Jude offers the end of a dog lead to the large lady.

"Thanks for looking after him. He whines so horribly if I leave him on his own out here."

"You're welcome. It's a free service."

He's giving her one of his best, shit-eating grins. The sort that warms your tummy and kidnaps your voice. It even affects dog-owning women of menopause-age, judging by Looming Lady's reaction. She waddles off, brown dog in tow, throwing just one loving glance backwards in Jude's direction.

"Didn't know you like dogs."

"I don't, but she was fussing about leaving it out here while she went shopping so I offered to stay here with it." Jude shrugs. "No biggie."

"Softy."

"Naw. I like cats better. They don't depend on anyone like dogs do."

"Not a fan of undevoted loyalty and attention then? You shock me, Jude Sheridan."

He snorts, then coughs. I slam his back until he stops, his face suddenly red.

"You ok there or do you need me to drag your arse up to A & E?"

"Fuck off. I'm fine."

I tsk. We both sit back again, normal service resumed, passing comment on notable people as they pace along the street, in and out of the shops, on and off the buses. Kids in tow. Dogs in tow. Bikes being wheeled along. Hands full of shopping bags in natural, sustainable cotton or what-the-fuck-ever.

"You know what I can't stand about this place?" he suddenly offers up, his voice clear and strong next to me.

"Give it to me."

Something... weird passes over his face before he clears his throat and continues.

"It reckons it's got all the creds. Votes Green. Loves the gays. Buddhist nursery school? Yeah, right here. Save the whale? Sign up here. Handwoven caskets in sustainably-forested bamboo? Of course, right here. And yet look at the place. It's a fucking filthy dump. Shit all over the roads. Council that can't even provide enough bins for every house. Seagulls that crap everywhere and fling food and shit out of your bins all over the shop. It's the definition of a shitheap."

It's a familiar rant, but I'm snickering over the idea of sustainably-forested bamboo.

"Is that even a thing?" I ask him. "Sustainably-forested bamboo?"

"If it ain't, then it is here. Anything to satisfy the hippie-dippy crowd."

I'm still laughing. I probably shouldn't, because prejudice is prejudice, however funnily it might be expressed. And I rarely probe what's behind these rants he gives, in case I find more of that than I'd care to. And, for some reason, I'd rather keep things with Jude as they are. And he's right about some of it. The bins are always overflowing in this city.

"What's brought all this on, then?"

He slides his eyes over to mine. An unexpectedly intimate moment.

"One day, I'm gonna get out of this place, Lou."

"Yeah? Where to?"

"Where? Does it matter?"

"Well yeah, Jude. How else will you know where to go? You gotta have a destination in mind."

"Don't they say the journey is more important than the destination?"

I'm the one to snort, this time. "Christ on the cross, Jude. You can't go all philosophical like that when you just need to buy a ticket for the bleedin' bus."

"Disappointingly practical, that's you, Lou."

"Yep, that's me." I push up, ready to go.

"Actually --" his hand stays me. Warm on my forearm.

"What?" I'm startled by his touch. It's unusual for him to touch me so deliberately.

"I've had a letter and I wondered --"

"Oh, sure. Hand it over." I settle back down.

Quickly, to dispel his embarrassment. Because that's another thing I don't want to expose too much. Jude can't read too well and, once I'd found that out and not teased him or told him he was thick, he'd taken to asking me to help him sometimes. I watch as he pulls a folded letter out of his pocket and hands it to me.

"It's from the council," he says, pointing to the logo at the top.

"Yeah." I scan it. It's dense and I can see why Jude'd be nervous about it. "It's nothing to worry about. It's telling you about some planned changes to parking in the streets in your area. You don't need to reply to it. Unless you care about residential parking?"

He's regarding me from under his long eyelashes. "Yeah. No, not hardly."

"See, this is the list of the streets affected and this here is a map showing the whole area."

"Right, ok. I just wanted to check."

"Sure. Is this where you live, then?"

He leans over to look at the letter. "Number 114? Yeah. For the moment, anyway."

Not for the first time, I wonder how much he can read, and how much he just guesses. But he's plucking the paper from my hands and folding it away.

"Hove? Posh, that is."

"House ain't much more than a squat, but yeah, it's nicer than Brighton. Or it would be if it wasn't for all the seagulls."

"Mmm."

"Where are you, these days? Still in Whitehawk?"

And shit, if that isn't the thing that's imploded in the last few weeks, and definitely not for discussion. The little bird in my chest -- the one that beats panic into my body -- starts awake, issuing a thud of warning that ricochets through me.

"Hm, something like that, yeah. You know you can get literacy classes down at the library over the summer, Jude?" going on the offensive to throw him off the subject of where I'm living.

"Yeah? I'd rather learn from you."

Ok, so that's me losing to his sudden offensive, and I feel cornered. By the intensity in his voice and in his eyes.

"I'm not a teacher."

"But you could teach me, couldn't you? I'm no good with real teachers."

I'm stumped. And then he reminds me of why I keep a distance between us as he leans closer.

"I'd pay you back in favours," a wicked grin spreading over his handsome face.

"Ah yeah, no," even though just the suggestion of it spikes my body temperature.

"C'mon, Lou, I think we'd have fun together."

He flashes his eyes and manages to widen his already wide grin, but it's all just a joke to him, so it's always going to be a no. However nice he looks. Or smells (that too, because, despite the smoking, he smells really good).

"Still no."

"Really?"

A flicker across his face makes him look almost serious, as if I should be taking him actually seriously. Until it dissipates. But the fleeting look stays with me as I walk away, somehow clearer and more substantial to me than the real disaster of my actual life.

+++

Six days later, a few degrees hotter, and this time it's me sitting on the camping bed. It's migrated down the road a ways, but doesn't seem to have gained too many toxic-looking stains, so I let myself sprawl on it for a bit, contemplating my next move. I pick at the blue canvas, worrying at it, even while enjoying the very un-English warmth.

"Hey, Lou."

I look up sharply. He's a lanky, black silhouette against the sun. And then he sits down with an alarming lurch of the camp bed, nearly delivering both of us to the pavement. I snort loudly and try to hide behind my hands.

"Blimey, that's a sight for sore eyes. Never seen them before."

Because Jude's wearing shorts.

"Hey, I've got a fine pair of legs, I'll have you know." His mouth ticks up on one side. "And it's like a fucking proper heatwave, Lou, in case you hadn't noticed. Which would be the reason you're still dressed for winter in those jeans, I imagine."

My smile drops a bit, and shit if he doesn't notice. A dangerous look of concern starts to appear in his eyes. My little bird yawns and gives an initial flutter that shimmies through my chest.

I open my mouth and speak, needing to head him off. "I was gonna walk along the seafront for a while."

He flinches at my abrupt change in direction but recovers quickly. "Yeah? Good, you read my mind. Let's go."

And bugger if he doesn't hold out a hand to pull me up. Thwarted, I capitulate. We walk down towards the sea, him loping along, slightly favouring his left side. Me looking for ways to divert the conversation away from me.

"Why do you limp like that?"

"Like what? What do you mean?"

"You limp. On the left. See?" I mimic him, over-doing it, to make him laugh.

Which he does. It's a nice sound. Less bitter than when he's laughing at some clever insult one of us has thrown out at the passers-by.

"I've never noticed. Do I really limp like that?"

"Well, I might have been exaggerating just slightly."

His laughing eyes follow mine for a few more seconds before I look away. We walk a little further down the street, weaving around the fucking bins, wouldn't you know it, because they're littered all over the place today. I try not to think about how hot I am, and whether I'm sweating or not. Or to wish I'd got some summer clothes to change into. Or just clean ones.

"You know, something did happen to my left foot when I was a kid. I'd forgotten about it until now," Jude suddenly pipes up.

"Yeah? What?"

"Some woman stepped on my foot in her stilettos when we was out shopping one day. One of her heels went straight through this foot. Nan went fucking barmy. We had to go to A & E and everything."

The story in all its gory detail whips through my mind, but the thing that pops out of my mouth is, "Wait, you had a nan?"

It takes him a beat or two, before his eyes widen. "Uh, yes. I had a nan. And a mum and dad. What do you think I am? The fucking Borg or something?"

"Trekkie."

"Takes one to know one. Anyway, what do you mean, you didn't know I had a nan? What kind of a comment is that?"

"I don't know. I just can't imagine you having a family. Or being a little boy, somehow."

We've ground to a halt, and he leans against the painted balustrade, quiet.

"You've never mentioned her before, or any family, that's all," I add when he still doesn't say anything.

"Neither do you. You don't talk about your family at all," he replies, making his point really clearly, even if I say so myself.

I curse for bringing the focus back to the very thing I've managed to avoid for the year or so I've known Jude. Family. Mine. Or the complete lack, thereof.

"Come on then, woman of mystery and obfuscation. Tell me."

"Obfuscation? Now that's quite a word," I tease, playing for time.

"I know quite a lot of words, Lou. Just can't read all of them."

"How do you remember them, then?"

"I listen. Carefully. And I notice words. I can tell when they go missing, too. Why don't you ever tell me anything about yourself?"

The heat of the day sucks the air from my lungs. I stare up at him. Willing the bird to stop beating its wings, to stop taking up so much room inside me. Jude's back is to the sun, as usual. It picks out the red in his hair, but throws his eyes into the shade.

I look away. The sea is quiet, glittering and harsh in the brassy afternoon light. It ought to be beautiful, but somehow, I can't find the beauty in it.

"So you're a stray then?" his voice carries his exasperation.

"A stray?"

"Or a waif? You're one of 'em, but which one?"

"What's the difference?"

"Strays once had a home. They're, like, domesticated, but wander where they don't belong. Waifs, on the other hand, don't belong to anyone. Ownerless and unclaimed. So, which are you?"

I pretend to think about it. As if needs more than a nanosecond. "A waif, then."

He doesn't smile back. Not really. That serious look is back on his face. The one that makes me nervous.

"No family at all?"

I shake my head slowly, side to side, because that's better than letting my mouth say things I won't be able to take back.

"Where did you come from, then? It's like you landed in Brighton from another planet."

"I got on the bus and this was the last stop."

A loud gaggle of kids and dogs and scooters bustles past us. I feign interest in them, which Jude isn't buying.

"Yeah, sure, Lou. But where from? Where did you get on the bus?"

"Leeds."

I grit it out and release some of the tension in my hands, curling and uncurling them over the warm railings.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

When I look at him, his expression indicates he might understand just how difficult that was for me. And, for a few cruel seconds, I hate him for it. For being able to understand. For making me open up to him. Seconds drag by. Minutes, perhaps. The wings inside me are beating uncomfortably fast, emphasising the span of time.

He breaks the silence first. "C'mon, Lou, why's it such a big deal? You're not evading the long arm of the law are you? Living under a false identity? Witness protection?"

"No." I avoid his look, not wanting him to see the sulky panic on my face.

But his hand tips my chin up, leaving me no choice, his clear eyes scarily focused on mine.

"If you're in any trouble, you know you can come to me, don't you? I can help you."

"I'm not."

Jude sighs, and I think -- hope -- he's letting it go. Another dog snuffles its way past us, followed by its pet human.

"Well," he begins again, this time turning his body to face me, crowding me, almost penning me to the balustrade, "I beg to differ. You don't look all that great. You're wearing the same clothes you were last week, and don't try telling me they've been washed since then, because I won't believe you."

I rub savagely at the chipped paintwork under my fingers, wishing for pain and blood. "Yeah, well. I might need a place to stay, as it happens."

He shifts, moving back a bit, leaving me to regret his distance.

"To stay, or to live, Lou?"

"To live. Yeah, that." I stare out at the view. The clash of light on water. Again, I'm struggling to find the beauty in it and blink hard to clear my mind.

"Can you afford rent?"

"Yeah, I've got work. Zero hours contract, but it's been steady for the last few months, so --" I shrug.

"Ok, let me see what I can do. Give me a couple of days?"

Finally, I take a look at his face. It's serious. Like he's really making a serious offer. And honestly, what other options have I got? Fuck all.

"Trust me, Lou."

I breathe in, suddenly thinking more is happening here than just discussion of my homelessness (as if that isn't enough), and then dismiss it.

"I'll call you. A couple of days, tops," he repeats, turning and loping off along the seafront before I've had chance to reply.

I watch him, that slight limp of his, the uneven cant of his hips, wondering if I've done the right thing. My stomach does a slow roll. I stand there a while longer, waiting for the bird to settle down before I can move on.

+++

I don't have to give him anything like a couple of days. More like a couple of hours, tops.

"Hey Lou? Louisa?"

I flinch at his use of my full name. "Jude."

"Yeah. So, look, there's a spare room in my mate's house in Hove. He doesn't usually rent it out, so he stores some of his crap up here, but it looks good."

As if I can see him, I realise he's standing in the room right now, swinging to look around it, this way and that.

"So d'ya wanna come see it?"

"Yeah. I mean, wow. Yeah?"

"Yeah. It looks good in here, really. When can you get over?"

I look around me, at the rucksack and pathetic assortment of plastic bags lying at my feet. At the unyielding brick and concrete of the little-used shed and playground where I've been sleeping most recently.

"I can come now."

"Yeah?" his voice lifts. "Great. Bring your stuff. Get the number seven bus."