‘So, Alex,’ I say, taking a sip of my 7-Up. ‘What are you doing in Paris?’ Alex taps the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell ye no lies, lassie.’ ‘Sorry,’ I say apologetically. ‘Didn’t mean to be nosy.’ Maybe there’s some tramp code about never asking about people’s previous lives. ‘Nah!’ Alex flaps his arms around like an epileptic. ‘Dan’t be ridiculous. Me and Bob here had to get away like. Right, Bob?’ Bob squirms in his seat. I’d assumed they’d met here, in Paris. I can’t imagine for the life of me what sort of connection they must have had before trampdom. Alex is almost a parody of a drunk hobo, whereas Bob looks like he washed up on the streets by accident. Although he always looks in dire need of a shave, I can tell by his posh accent and the cut of the crumpled suit jacket he wears that he probably had some sort of profession. Again I’m surprised Sage doesn’t call him out on this.
She’s normally quite quick to pick up on evasive behaviour. God knows I can’t ever get away with it, anyway. She merely snorts and says: ‘Sounds like our story.’ ‘Oh, aye?’ Alex says, but it isn’t a question. He doesn’t seem to care what the fuck we’re doing here. He suddenly lets out a huge exaggerated sneeze. I realise that he’s not a well man. I’m beginning to think that his eyes look rheumy and watery because he’s in mid flu-stream, and not because he’s been at the whiskey. Although it’s probably a combination of both. ‘How did you two meet, then?’ I ask. I can’t help myself. Sage scowls at me. ‘Ah now, lassie, that’s the question,’ Alex says, making a sound like a foghorn into a huge tartan handkerchief he’s pulled from the pocket of his donkey jacket. ‘That’s the question, so it is.’ Tucking his handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, he looks off into the distance. Without any warning he croons, ‘Walk on, wallllk ooon-’ ‘You what?’ I say. ‘– with ho-ooope in yer heart!’ His voice rises with every word. I look over at Sage in horror. She just shrugs at me. Alex stands up, his voice getting louder and louder. ‘And you’ll neiveeeer walk alo–!’ He coughs, sneezes, and carries on singing as if the interruption hadn’t happened mid-syllable. I look round. The other patrons in the restaurant are staring and grinning. Alex gets up and heads for the exit, all the time blaring nasally: ‘Waaaalk ooon, walk oooo – ah ah ooon, with hoooope in yer heart –’ Bob, Sage and I mutely follow him out. He throws open the glass doors, and stands, arms outstretched in the pedestrian alleyway, as he finishes the song’s finale at the top of his voice. ‘And you’ll neiveeeeer walk aaaaaloooone . . .’ Passers-by who’ve stopped at this spectacle, move on. Alex turns around and whips off his tam-o’-shanter. His greying hair is greasily plastered to his scalp in rat tails. He bows to us theatrically. ‘Roight now, lassies, Bob. I’ll bid yer good day.’ And he’s off. We watch as he struts into the crowd, pausing only to accost a businessman wearing a brisk French suit. The man reaches immediately into his jacket and removes his wallet. ‘Amazing,’ says Sage. ‘Yep,’ says Bob, proudly. ‘That’s Alex for you. Now, girls, I have a favour to ask of you. Oh my God. The bus is completely silent except for a stomach turning ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ noise. It’s the sound of a totally pissed Scottish man with false teeth gnashing his way through a recently dead whole crab. Bits of reddish pink shell fly everywhere, and the usual rubbery, old-shoe bus smell is swamped beneath the stink of fish. I can feel that my face is bright red with mortification, and I don’t know where to look. I try not to flinch as a hairy crab claw bounces off the tip of my boot. Sage has sneaked herself into a window seat a few seats away from us. She’s staring out of the window as if her life depends on it, but I can tell she’s battling to pretend nothing out of the ordinary is going on. Although it’s rush hour, eight double seats in front of us are empty. Alex is sitting on the middle of the back seat opposite the aisle, blithely crunching, spitting, slobbering and sucking. A cluster of French workaday people are hunched together like refugees as far away from the three of us as they can manage. A couple of them are tutting and shaking their heads, but most are just staring, wide-eyed. Even though we haven’t far to go, the journey feels like it’s taking hours, and I desperately pray for it to be over or for someone to have the balls to throw us off. His mouth full, Alex offers me a severed, dripping claw. I shake my head. ‘Yer sure, lassie?’ Or at least this is what I think he’s said through the avalanche of crab meat that tumbles out of his mouth. Shell flecks coat his donkey jacket like dandruff and his gnarly hands are covered with slippery white fishy shreds. I silently curse whoever thought it was a good idea to give Alex the bag of crabs. It was obviously someone who’s never shared a meal with him. We’d barely sat down in the bus before he’d dived into the stinking plastic bag and begun gleefully ripping one of the things to pieces without the slightest flicker of embarrassment. I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut as Alex whips out his top plate to remove a piece of shell stuck between the teeth and his gums. In between slurping crunching sounds, Alex coughs something huge and solid-sounding into his sleeve. This is why he’s coming home with us. He’s got some sort of noisy chest infection. Bob took us aside earlier and asked if Alex could stay with us ‘the night’. Alex needs to sleep indoors for a while to give him a chance to get better. He’s been passed around various friends and acquaintances, and tonight it’s our turn. Of course, we couldn’t say no. If it wasn’t for Bob, we’d never have found out about St Eustache and the food. I suppose we owe him one. But I’m not sure my little room can stand any more guests. I still haven’t managed to eradicate the hash stench that still taints the room’s atmosphere from the buskers’ sleepover. Those, and a blocked toilet, are all our last guests left behind. I’m finding it impossible to imagine Mrs Danvers’s face when she catches sight of my latest visiteur. It was hard enough sneaking Scotty and Irish past her Nazi commandant stare, and they were relatively normal. Christ knows what she’s going to think when I try and smuggle a loud, pissed, fish-coated Scottish beggar into my room.

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