The Quotidian Timeline

Three days later, 10 pm, July 12th – Leicester Square Tube, London

Finch Kinshot clutched his rumbling stomach. It took an hour from the moment he sat until someone gave him cash or brought him food. He preferred money, of course. This way, he would eat what he liked. He sat outside the Wyndham theatre in Leicester Square. Eyeing his reflection on the glass panels, he winced. He had a thin beard and ripped clothes. His teeth were an off brown colour from an untreated blow to his cheek, and his hair matted with sweat.

Heading to St Martin’s Court, he sat between the stage doors of the Wyndham’s and Noël Coward theatres.

What was he supposed to do now? Unfamiliar sights, smells, and sounds surrounded him. He had been out of his comfort zone for days, and he had spent every day near King Michael’s Hospital, waiting for his mother to be released. He checked newsstands daily. Aria was still in a coma, the tabloids read. At night, he wandered through central London.

The images of being removed by the security guards near his mum haunted him. Other intrusive thoughts included his second night in Quotidian. His head wound. Those first few nights were gruelling. He stumbled through the shadows, but nowhere was safe, and he walked in circles, determining each corner. He wished to escape his reality. Why did I jump? He longed for safety, forgetting the need to use the restroom. This lack of bare basics jarred in his head. On the first night, he walked until he collapsed by the Thames. He went for a pee and fell asleep. But he woke up a couple of hours later, freezing. He searched for cardboard and wandered the area. Businesses had leftover cardboard along the north side of Victoria Embankment Gardens. To his relief, he took five folded boxes. He threw them over the steel fencing of the park. He jumped over, finding a safe spot, when someone struck him on his left cheek. Then his stomach. His assailants escaped. They took with them his cape and shoes. He fell to the ground, doubled over, and dragged himself under a bush. As the sun rose, he trudged to King Michael’s and waited. Every day he waited.

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In time, he adapted. Begging was always unpredictable. He might get lucky and eat straight away. At other times, another angry homeless man, or woman, approached him, claiming his spot as their own. At others, the police came near, and he ran. He didn’t have papers. How would he explain he came from Machia? Strangers ogled him. He also kept his distance from them.

During that hour, nothing noteworthy happened until a tourist landed a container of Chinese food on his lap. His face lit up. He savoured the flavours and textures of his meal.

Finch wanted to go to Denewood. But if the Bellatorn staff did not recognise him? Or the locals were not charitable? And yet, after three days of sleeping rough, he was determined to try. He counted the coins in his pocket and stumbled in his bare feet to Charing Cross. It was late in the evening when a homeless woman approached him, and he winced, jumping back.

“Please, stay with me?” she asked, afraid of a group of lads fifty yards away.

Finch understood her fear. Being beaten by thugs was still a vivid memory. He placed his hand on his head wound. The youth walked past, and she thanked him for staying. Then ignored him, covering herself with a blanket.

***

The homeless people, invisible to him before, were from varied walks of life. Now he saw them. There were refugees. Once he came across a kind man. Then, an organised tribe in a park. The lonely woman he just met. Working men who slept rough. Angry territorial homeless people. Groups of druggies. There was variety. It was society reflected on the streets. It wasn’t us and them; he observed. It was us and the neglected “us”.

When he arrived in Charing Cross, he checked the fare to Denewood. He didn’t have fifteen pounds. He turned back. It shook him, being denied access to anyone or anything he wanted. How did he fall so low?

Something changed in Finch that day. He had taken so much of his life for granted. It never occurred to him that experiencing a slice of that reality would bring him so close to death.