Peter Gibson fled, the curses and obscenities chasing him, cutting through the cold night air as he staggered into the alleyway, his breath sobbing gasps and his lurching, stumbling escape ending as he fell, crashing, into a pile of wooden pallets at the back of the Bloodline Tattoo Parlour and the second hand shop that plied their trade alongside the cheap booze outlets, the betting shops and the sex joints of the High Street. He collapsed, sprawling, crashing his face on the icy concrete waiting, expecting them to come and finish their work; he could go no further, he was seventy two years old, and could fight and run no more; he was spent. Face down, his fingers clawing the concrete his body and brain expecting another kick in the ribs or the flash and the slice of the knife, he could still hear their drunken blasphemies as they searched. Slowly, painfully and as silently as his gasping lungs would allow he managed to drag himself beneath and behind the pallets – a place of safety on such a night – and then he passed out.
The minutes passed. Silence. He opened his eyes, his head throbbing and his body racked with pain. An icy sleet beginning to fall from the winter sky and worm its way into the gaps between the pallets. The cold had already started to eat into his senses and his extremities had already given way to numbness. Hypothermia – he knew what it felt like. All he wanted to do was to sleep, escape from this place, the cold, the pain, the beating, the fear. He pulled his coat around him trying to exact some small comfort and tried to blow warmth into his frozen hands but breath didn’t come, instead his body rattled with a choking cough and he tasted blood in his mouth. Silent, cold and frightened, in a pain filled drunken haze he lay, closing his eyes to shut out the world but at the same time subconsciously straining his ears, listening for any sign that they were still there, waiting to finish him off.
“Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank, Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street, Fills the alleys where men sleep........” The words of a long forgotten song from happier days drifted into his subconscious. He tried to place it. A different time, a different life .......1965.......University Folk Club.....Simon and Garfunkel, Bleeker Street........ a track, the track, from his first LP, Wednesday Morning 3 a.m., played on the old Dansette record player bought as an extravagance from his grant and against his mother’s advice when he went to University. He could still hear his mother’s scolding words........ “You’re supposed to be there to bloody well work not spend all your time listening to pop music” ........ Bleeker Street.....still the best song that Paul Simon ever wrote on the best LP that Simon & Art Garfunkel ever made....he had listened to it endlessly with the girl as they lay on his college bed....... the girl, what was her name? He tried to remember but his numbed, alcohol rotted brain could come up with no answers – all it registered was the pain and the cold. He knew only that he had been happy then, the world was young and ready to conquer....so much to see.....so much to do.......where did it all go wrong? “Voices leaking from a sad cafe, Smiling faces try to understand, I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand, On Bleeker Street.......” More, long forgotten words from the long lost anthem tiptoed into his head. In the distance he could hear the city, the thump of rock music seeping from the clubs. Peering through the lattice of pallets where he slumped he could just make out the glow of the city lights and the shadows they cast in the alleyway. Where did it all go so wrong.... ......what was the girl’s name.... where was she now? But try as he might his saturated brain could provide no answers ....and he was starting to feel drowsy. And then he fell into a troubled unconsciousness.
When he woke the city was quieter. A light covering of snow powdered the ground and the pallets. What time was it? He could no longer feel his body and he knew that he was in serious danger of dying of cold, freezing to death. He lay, unsure of what to do. Should he chance it? Had they gone, forgotten him after the drunken brawl, the flashing knife, the broken bottle jagged and lethal. He remembered now. The fight over the bottle of cheap sherry that had been passed around amongst the down and outs under the railway arches; suddenly a drink and drug fuelled night reminiscing around a fire blazing in a rusting dustbin had exploded into violence, out of control, murderous. A push, a name, an accusation, a smashed bottle, a knife and suddenly he was running, pursued by a drunken mob while a man lay sprawled by the fire blood oozing from a jagged, gaping rip in his cheek, a broken sherry bottle lying in the dirt beside him.“I am just a poor boy, Though my story's seldom told, I have squandered my resistance, For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises, All lies and jests, Still a man hears what he wants to hear, And disregards the rest........” more words again.....from another time seeping into his mind.
The snow powdered him. Above, stars twinkled in the winter sky and he remembered..... Carol, the girl. His past, began to tumble into view......University, the job as a junior reporter......1968... London...thought he had made the big time, Fleet Street...... the swingin’ sixties, drugs, sex, rock and roll, flower power, easy money, the high life.... but then the gambling, the bribes and backhanders for a good story and then the missed copy deadlines and the poorly composed copy thrown back by red faced, foul mouthed sub editors....and then inevitably, the sack. A move back to a provincial paper but the drink and drugs had a hold..... one night stands with girls met in seedy pubs, money lost on stupid ventures, the rows, the bills, the house repossessed ...... and then she left, Carol left and took the baby ..... Joanne ...... she’d be married now, middle aged he guessed........ maybe I’m a granddad. Maybe. And he sobbed.....all so long ago, another life, all gone and he felt very afraid – very alone in the dark with no-one to turn to. He lay, eyes tear filled with self pity, regret, fear and inbuilt rage looking up at the twinkling winter stars.
What was that song....”Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest....?” He concentrated but he was losing the battle to think, it was all so very hard.....and he felt so drowsy, so very drowsy. And then it suddenly came; Simon & Garfunkel, “The Boxer” ..... 1970. He had bought Carol the Simon & Garfunkel LP Bridge Over Troubled Waters for her birthday and they had sung track endlessly in harmony with the booming speakers of his first proper stereo system as they decorated their first home.....before his world, their world - had fallen apart. Cheap bed sits followed, squats, doss houses and then the streets. And the song came again in the darkness; it could be his story, was his own story: “When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy, In the company of strangers, In the quiet of the railway station running scared, Laying low seeking out the poorer quarters, Where the ragged people go, Looking for the places only they would know”. And he wept, he was old, afraid and alone.
He tried to move but his joints had stiffened. Somehow he pushed himself up onto his elbow but as he did so a violent pain shot through his ribs and he screamed out. Instinctively he put his hand to his side and then saw the dark patches on his fingers and on the white powdery snow: blood - a black pool spreading on the snow powdered concrete. He panicked and put his hand to his side again. It came back sticky, black, blood covered. He slumped back putting his hand protectively but uselessly over the gaping knife wound......and his eyes, now slightly out of focus, looked up at the stars ..... so drowsy....so sleepy. The song, creeping, worming into his dying consciousness.... the story of his world, his song, his life; a life slipping away into the snow behind scrap pallets in an alleyway; a life oozing through his fingers and into the dirt: “Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job, But I get no offers, Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue, I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there”. And he suddenly began to shake uncontrollably, his breath coming in gasps as he silently mouthed the words from a life time ago:” Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, Going home where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me, Leading me, Going home....”.
The minutes passed. Silence. He opened his eyes, his head throbbing and his body racked with pain. An icy sleet beginning to fall from the winter sky and worm its way into the gaps between the pallets. The cold had already started to eat into his senses and his extremities had already given way to numbness. Hypothermia – he knew what it felt like. All he wanted to do was to sleep, escape from this place, the cold, the pain, the beating, the fear. He pulled his coat around him trying to exact some small comfort and tried to blow warmth into his frozen hands but breath didn’t come, instead his body rattled with a choking cough and he tasted blood in his mouth. Silent, cold and frightened, in a pain filled drunken haze he lay, closing his eyes to shut out the world but at the same time subconsciously straining his ears, listening for any sign that they were still there, waiting to finish him off.
“Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank, Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street, Fills the alleys where men sleep........” The words of a long forgotten song from happier days drifted into his subconscious. He tried to place it. A different time, a different life .......1965.......University Folk Club.....Simon and Garfunkel, Bleeker Street........ a track, the track, from his first LP, Wednesday Morning 3 a.m., played on the old Dansette record player bought as an extravagance from his grant and against his mother’s advice when he went to University. He could still hear his mother’s scolding words........ “You’re supposed to be there to bloody well work not spend all your time listening to pop music” ........ Bleeker Street.....still the best song that Paul Simon ever wrote on the best LP that Simon & Art Garfunkel ever made....he had listened to it endlessly with the girl as they lay on his college bed....... the girl, what was her name? He tried to remember but his numbed, alcohol rotted brain could come up with no answers – all it registered was the pain and the cold. He knew only that he had been happy then, the world was young and ready to conquer....so much to see.....so much to do.......where did it all go wrong? “Voices leaking from a sad cafe, Smiling faces try to understand, I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand, On Bleeker Street.......” More, long forgotten words from the long lost anthem tiptoed into his head. In the distance he could hear the city, the thump of rock music seeping from the clubs. Peering through the lattice of pallets where he slumped he could just make out the glow of the city lights and the shadows they cast in the alleyway. Where did it all go so wrong.... ......what was the girl’s name.... where was she now? But try as he might his saturated brain could provide no answers ....and he was starting to feel drowsy. And then he fell into a troubled unconsciousness.
When he woke the city was quieter. A light covering of snow powdered the ground and the pallets. What time was it? He could no longer feel his body and he knew that he was in serious danger of dying of cold, freezing to death. He lay, unsure of what to do. Should he chance it? Had they gone, forgotten him after the drunken brawl, the flashing knife, the broken bottle jagged and lethal. He remembered now. The fight over the bottle of cheap sherry that had been passed around amongst the down and outs under the railway arches; suddenly a drink and drug fuelled night reminiscing around a fire blazing in a rusting dustbin had exploded into violence, out of control, murderous. A push, a name, an accusation, a smashed bottle, a knife and suddenly he was running, pursued by a drunken mob while a man lay sprawled by the fire blood oozing from a jagged, gaping rip in his cheek, a broken sherry bottle lying in the dirt beside him.“I am just a poor boy, Though my story's seldom told, I have squandered my resistance, For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises, All lies and jests, Still a man hears what he wants to hear, And disregards the rest........” more words again.....from another time seeping into his mind.
The snow powdered him. Above, stars twinkled in the winter sky and he remembered..... Carol, the girl. His past, began to tumble into view......University, the job as a junior reporter......1968... London...thought he had made the big time, Fleet Street...... the swingin’ sixties, drugs, sex, rock and roll, flower power, easy money, the high life.... but then the gambling, the bribes and backhanders for a good story and then the missed copy deadlines and the poorly composed copy thrown back by red faced, foul mouthed sub editors....and then inevitably, the sack. A move back to a provincial paper but the drink and drugs had a hold..... one night stands with girls met in seedy pubs, money lost on stupid ventures, the rows, the bills, the house repossessed ...... and then she left, Carol left and took the baby ..... Joanne ...... she’d be married now, middle aged he guessed........ maybe I’m a granddad. Maybe. And he sobbed.....all so long ago, another life, all gone and he felt very afraid – very alone in the dark with no-one to turn to. He lay, eyes tear filled with self pity, regret, fear and inbuilt rage looking up at the twinkling winter stars.
What was that song....”Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest....?” He concentrated but he was losing the battle to think, it was all so very hard.....and he felt so drowsy, so very drowsy. And then it suddenly came; Simon & Garfunkel, “The Boxer” ..... 1970. He had bought Carol the Simon & Garfunkel LP Bridge Over Troubled Waters for her birthday and they had sung track endlessly in harmony with the booming speakers of his first proper stereo system as they decorated their first home.....before his world, their world - had fallen apart. Cheap bed sits followed, squats, doss houses and then the streets. And the song came again in the darkness; it could be his story, was his own story: “When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy, In the company of strangers, In the quiet of the railway station running scared, Laying low seeking out the poorer quarters, Where the ragged people go, Looking for the places only they would know”. And he wept, he was old, afraid and alone.
He tried to move but his joints had stiffened. Somehow he pushed himself up onto his elbow but as he did so a violent pain shot through his ribs and he screamed out. Instinctively he put his hand to his side and then saw the dark patches on his fingers and on the white powdery snow: blood - a black pool spreading on the snow powdered concrete. He panicked and put his hand to his side again. It came back sticky, black, blood covered. He slumped back putting his hand protectively but uselessly over the gaping knife wound......and his eyes, now slightly out of focus, looked up at the stars ..... so drowsy....so sleepy. The song, creeping, worming into his dying consciousness.... the story of his world, his song, his life; a life slipping away into the snow behind scrap pallets in an alleyway; a life oozing through his fingers and into the dirt: “Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job, But I get no offers, Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue, I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there”. And he suddenly began to shake uncontrollably, his breath coming in gasps as he silently mouthed the words from a life time ago:” Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, Going home where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me, Leading me, Going home....”.
In the distance the sound of police sirens. They hadn’t come when he needed them, when they had circled him and beaten and kicked his body and when the blade had pierced his side. The police were nowhere when, terror filled, he had scrambled and staggered away from the railway arches pursued by the rest of the drunken pack and he had collapsed behind the pallets......and, now, here he was, his life blood oozing away, a no-one in the night, human refuse like the fish and chip papers, drug needles and betting slips that lay around him; tomorrow’s newspaper story........a story he might once have written but now he would be the story: a beaten, knifed, unknown elderly vagrant dead in an alleyway behind the city centre. And his eyes clouded, everything very distant, silent. Deep within he could hear his heartbeat, erratic and as the blood flow to the brain slowed the words came again.......”In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, And he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out, In his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving", But the fighter still remains......”.
And Peter Gibson, one time whizz kid Fleet Street reporter, one time life and soul of the party, one time Mr Know It All, one time husband and father to a wonderful wife and beautiful daughter, one time son of proud parents cried a last cry of fear and rage and shame under the twinkling winter stars. Flakes of snow settled; a white translucent shroud shielded him as life’s candle flickered and slowly died ....” Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street........ On.... Bleeker Street......Bleeker Str........Blee.......” And overhead, without any fuss, and one by one, the stars dimmed and went out as Peter Gibson’s eyes died and his spirit fled into the cold night air and he lay under the wooden pallets behind the Bloodline Tattoo Parlour, the second hand shop, the cheap booze shops, the betting shops and the sex joints on the High Street.
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