I got caught in heavy traffic driving back to Manchester. I always come in through Salford, our neighbouring city, and there was only one lane open due to repair work.
The sun shone and it was hot in the car. I wound the window down and mentally crossed off my list as we edged slowly forward. It wasn’t a long list. I could ask around up at Martin’s old fishing haunt, though I suspected that anglers were a solitary breed. And I could wander the streets of Manchester, in search of other young runaways. See if anyone recognised Martin’s photo. It was a long shot but I didn’t have much option. I didn’t exactly relish the prospect of trawling round town for the young homeless, so I decided to get it over and done with as soon as possible. I hadn’t time to fit it in before picking the kids up but I’d do it first thing the following morning. And on Wednesday I’d go fishing…
It was a June morning, just like the good old days. Not a cloud in sight, warm sun, blossom. But nobody relied on it. As I drove into town, I noticed everyone sported rolled up umbrellas. And most of the old folk were still in winter coats and hats. It was going to take more than this to convince them that summer was on its way.
I parked in a side street off Piccadilly Gardens, more of a back alley than a street. I hoped it was small enough to miss regular visits from the traffic wardens. I threaded my way through the debris that littered the alley. Rubbish from the clothing wholesalers who occupied most of the old buildings. Here and there, a pile of ripped bin-bags spilt out bones and vegetable peelings, marking the back entrance to the occasional restaurant. Tuesday must be bin-day.
I wandered through the gardens to Piccadilly Plaza. The row of shops faced the bus terminus. It was one of the busiest parts of town but had always had a seedy, run-down feel. Most of the shops were discount stores, selling tacky goods at give-away prices. Or charity shops, Oxfam and Humana. Above the parade rose the ugly Piccadilly complex; hotel, radio station, electronic billboards. It was an area I shopped in regularly, buying second-hand clothes rather than new tat and I’d often seen youngsters begging here.
I was in luck, or so I thought at the time. A couple of lads were sitting quietly in the entrance to one of the empty shops. A cardboard sign announced they were hungry and homeless. In an old Kentucky Fried Chicken carton they’d collected a handful of coins. Hardly enough for a chicken drumstick, let alone a decent meal.
