Peter Ackroyd - Hawksmoor

But, like Ned, they inhabited a world which only they could see: he sometimes sat on the same spot for hours at a time, until its contours and shadows were more real to him than the people who passed by.

He knew the places where the unhappy came, and there was one street corner at a meeting of three roads where he had seen the figure of despair many times -the man with his feet and arms splayed out in front of him, the woman embracing his neck and weeping. He knew the places which had always been used for sex, and afterwards he could smell it on the stones; and he knew the places which death visited, for the stones carried that mark also. Those who passed in front of him scarcely noticed that he was there, although some might murmur to each other 'Poor man!' or 'Such a pity!' before hurrying forward. And yet there was once a time, as he walked by the side of London Wall, when a man appeared in front of him and smiled.

'Is it still hard for you?' he asked Ned.

'Hard? Now there you're asking.'

'Yes, I am asking. Is it still bad?'

'Well, I'll tell you, it's not so bad.'

'Not so bad?'

'I've known worse, after all this time.'

'What time was it, Ned, that we met before?' And the man moved closer to him so that Ned could see the dark weave of his coat (for he would not look into his face).

'What time is it now, Sir?'

'Now, now you're asking.' The man laughed, and Ned looked down at the cracks in the pavement.

'Well,' he said to this half-recognised stranger, 'I'll just be on my way now.'

'Don't be long, Ned, don't be long.'

And Ned walked away without looking back, and without remembering.

As he had grown older in the city, his condition had become worse: fatigue and listlessness now held him, as slowly all his expectations were lowered like a bird which falls silent when a cloth is placed over its cage. One night he had stood in front of an electrical showroom and had watched the same flickering images upon a row of television sets; the programme, perhaps designed for children, showed some cartoon animals scampering across fields, gardens and ravines; from their terrified expressions it was clear to Ned that they were trying to escape from something, and when he opened his eyes again he saw a wolf blowing the chimney off a small house. Ned pressed his face against the glass front, and mouthed the words as the wolf spoke them, 'I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house down!' All night these images swirled around his head, growing larger and more vivid until the sleeping figure was engulfed in them, and he woke the next morning bewildered at his own rage. He wandered through the streets crying, 'Get lost! Just bugger off! Get lost!', but his voice was often drowned in the roar of the traffic.

A few days later he began to scrutinise each person who passed him, in case there was one who might know or remember him, or who might even now come to his aid; and when he saw a young woman looking idly into the window of a watch-repairer's, he glimpsed in her face all the warmth and pity which might once have protected him. He followed her as she walked down Leadenhall Street and up Cornhill, Poultry and Cheapside towards St Pauls: he would have called out to her, but as she turned the corner of Ave Maria Lane she joined a crowd watching the demolition of some old houses. The ground shook under Ned's feet as he came after her and instinctively he looked up at the gutted interiors of the houses; their sinks and fireplaces were visible from the street as a great iron ball was swung against an exterior wall.

The crowd cheered, and the air was filled with a fine debris which left a sour taste in Ned's mouth. In that instant he lost sight of her: he hurried forward towards St Pauls, calling out for her as the dust belched out of the old houses behind him.

It was after this that he entered what was known as the 'strange time'. Exhaustion and malnutrition had weakened him to such an extent that even the taste of his own saliva made him retch; cold and dampness entered his body so that he shook with a fever which would not abate. He was talking to himself now for most of the day: 'Yes,' he would say, Time is getting on. Time is certainly getting on'. And he would rise up from the ground, look around, and then sit down again.

He had a curiously weaving and tentative walk, taking several steps backward and then pausing before moving forward again: 'We don't want any rubbish round here,' one policeman had said to him as he stood quite still in the middle of the yard, and Ned had waited, eager to hear more of this, before being pushed violently into the thoroughfare.

Where now he heard words which fascinated him, for they seemed to be repeated in a certain pattern: on one day, for example, 'fire' was a word which he heard frequently and then on the next it was 'glass'. He had a recurring vision in which he saw his own shape, watching him from a distance. And then when sometimes he sat, bewildered and alone, he glimpsed shadows and vague images of others who moved and talked strangely -'like a book,' he had said.

And sometimes, also, it seemed as if these shadows recognised or knew Ned for they would walk around and cast their eyes upon him as they did so. And he called out to them, 'Pity me. Do you have a farthing or a broken crust?'

When he got up from the wooden floor, he was thirsty, and his throat was sore as if he had cried out the same word over and over again.

'And why should they pity me?' he thought as he walked away from the river. It was a cold, grey morning and Ned could smell the scent of burning rags or rubbish which came from the Tower Hamlets Estate on his right side. He walked into the Commercial Road and, raising his arm above his head so that it cast a slight shadow across his face, he could see Black Sam lying in the doorway of a betting shop: a heavy blanket was draped over his body, concealing his face and chest, but he had no shoes and his naked feet protruded into the street. Ned walked across to him and sat down by his side; there was a half-empty bottle near him, and he reached over to take it. 'Don't touch that,'

Black Sam muttered beneath his blanket, 'Don't fucking do it!' Then he removed the blanket, and they looked at each other without animosity. Ned's throat was still sore and he could taste the blood in his mouth as he spoke. 'Can you smell that burning, Sam? Something's burning somewhere.'

'It's the sun. What about that sun?' And Sam reached for the bottle.

'Now,' Ned said, 'Now there's something.'

'It's a cold and dark morning without the sun, Ned, and that's the truth of it.'

'It'll come,' he murmured, 'It'll come.' A column of smoke rose up in front of them, and Ned glanced at it in alarm. 'I'm not going to run,' he said, 'I've done nothing.'

Black Sam was whispering something to himself, and Ned leaned over eagerly to hear it: 'It keeps on turning,' he was saying, 'It keeps on turning'.

Ned noticed a small stream of piss issuing from beneath the blanket and running across the pavement into the gutter. But then he raised his head just in time to see the cloud cover vanish from the earth although the pillar of acrid smoke lent the sun a blood-red colour. 'I don't know how long I'll be here,' he said to Sam, 'I'll go now and then I'll come back.' And he rose to his feet, steadied himself, and began walking to that patch of derelict land by the river where the vagrants danced around their fires.

The bell of Limehouse Church was ringing when Ned woke up in the old house; the others (the old couple and the young man) were asleep, for it was still night, and so he rose cautiously. He left the room without thought, opened the door and crossed the threshold into the street known as Rope-Maker-Field. It was a clear, calm night and as he looked up at the bright stars he gave a deep sigh. He started walking towards the church itself, but weakness and lack of food now so wearied him that he was able to take only small and tottering steps.