Fifth Floor, Christmas Day

The radio was on.

LBC voices. Ian Dale speaking to a caller. The pensioner stirred his mug once and turned it off.

The heating had been on long enough. Long enough to warm the walls. He switched it off and put his dark coat on, brushing white cat hair from the sleeve with his hand.

Sunlight pressed through the curtains. Outside, the cold was bitter. He knew better.

Fifth floor. No lift.

The smell hit him in the stairwell. He paused, then started down.

The dog from the flat below had been taken out again. A puddle sat on the landing. Since Covid, he kept his hand off the rail, watching where he placed his feet.

Lower down, rubbish bags blocked part of the way. The chutes were blocked again. One bag had split. He stepped around it and kicked a tin by accident. It rattled down the stairs.

Outside, a rusted sign was fixed high on the wall. The letters were faded.

The London Borough of Kensington
No Ball Games on the Estate

The cold caught him as he stepped out. It filled his lungs. A sharp pain flickered in his chest.

He walked to the Pakistani corner shop. It was open, as it always was. Even on Christmas Day.

Thank God for small mercies.

He put a packet of crisps on the counter. He was here for a small dose of conversation.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. A remark about the day.
The shopkeeper answered cheerfully.

The crisps stayed unopened in his pocket when he left.

In the next block, the toilet handle stuck. The woman pressed it again and held it down longer. The water rose, then stopped. She wiped her hand on her jeans.

The flat still had council fittings. The doors, the handles, the layout had not changed. What had changed was where the rent went. Each month it left her account by standing order, to a company whose name appeared on the statement and nowhere else.

She tore bread into smaller pieces and put them into a bowl. Sugar followed. Then milk.

The child grabbed the milk, sugar, and bread with his fist and stuffed his mouth.

A small baby slid against her hip. She shifted her weight and steadied the bowl with the back of her hand. The formula tin sat empty on the counter.

Across the road, a man slept under the bus shelter. He had been moved on from the bin room of the council block. He pulled a quilt tighter around his shoulders and tucked the edge beneath his leg. Another sleeping bag lay beside him.

Christmas shelters were open. He knew the days. He knew the locations. He could not be with people.

He had been put down for help once. The letter came months later. By then he had missed it. By then he was already on the street.

Back upstairs, the pensioner closed his door. It was early afternoon. The flat was still cold. He decided to get into bed.

Two hours.

He ate his soup with the television on. Then he turned the heating on full. It was Christmas.

In the flat, the woman gathered the soggy bread her children had dropped. The baby slept. The other child hugged her legs, holding a Christmas card he had finished drawing.

Under the shelter, the man did not move.

The light slipped away.
The cold stayed.

Christmas Day carried on.