Chapter 7

I had confessed to Father Petrou that it was me who put the envelope under the bible. I kept a small amount for myself, not to spend on me, but for travelling expenses. I was planning on using some of the cash to buy a firearm, but without having the right contacts, it was not possible. Maybe it was better that way. The last thing I needed was the police on my tail. The only weapon I had was the old police baton. If appropriately used, it would be as lethal as any weapon.

With my injury healing on my face, I was more comfortable going out during the day. A light curved line ran down my cheek. The cut will always show unless I have plastic surgery.

Father Petrou and I had many errands to run before Christmas. After my confession, about the money, I had left under the bible. We sat in his office and talked.

He sat there, stroking his beard, thinking. “We are going to use that money to help the community,” he said. He got up, marched up and down the small office. He continued, “We can start with The Salvation Army.”

Father Petrou had many contacts. We would get cooked food at cost price. It could be from restaurants or grocery stores. He made the call, and I collected and delivered. Charity shops, shelters, homeless people, wherever help was needed, I was there. People would come up to me, thanking me, giving me their blessing.

It was Friday afternoon. I had finished for the day from delivering some meals at The Salvation Army shelter in Turnpike Lane. I drove back to the church, and Parked, Father Petrou’s car on the church driveway. I locked it up and looked for him. Then I remembered that he had a meeting with the head priest at St. Mary’s church.

I had a quick shower before my daily trip to London. Tonight I was planning to go into the City. It was the last weekday until Christmas. Many of the office employees have a few drinks in the fancy wine bars around the city. Maybe my luck will change tonight, and I spot Goliath and his boss preying on another helpless victim.

When I got to Wood Green Station, before buying my return ticket, I looked up at the large clock on the station wall. It was still early, only four in the afternoon. It was too early to go into Central London. It would be after six when the wine bars start getting busy. I decided to walk down the high street to the next station at Turnpike Lane. The streets were crowded with shoppers, getting into the Christmas spirit. Going past McDonald’s, I decided to have my meal, before I took the train.

At the entrance of the fast-food restaurant, sitting on the cold pavement was a homeless man. He was wrapped up with an old quilt. The blanket’s original colour must have been white. From the dirt, it had become grey. I dug my hand in my jeans pocket. I retrieved some loose change which I gave to the homeless man.

Now that is something I wouldn’t have done a few months ago. Not that I didn’t want to help. I was blind. You can’t ignore the problem. You have to contribute to solving the problem. Father Petrou taught me to think this way.

I walked into the fast-food place, straight to the counter to order my food. With my Big Mac meal, I sat at one of the high stools by the window. I tried to eat my burger slowly, to enjoy it, but like always I ended up finishing it in less than five minutes. I was left with my milkshake. Which we all know, you can’t drink it too fast as it is too thick. I tried to suck on the straw hard, which was a bad idea. A few seconds later, I sat there holding my forehead from the pain.

“Freeze brain,” a female voice said in a Russian accent.

I swivelled my seat around. Standing there was an attractive young lady. Her blonde hair flowed down to her back. I recognised her at once. It was one of the girls at Alexandra Palace. She was with the punk who was looking for trouble a few nights ago. Next to her another young lady, her eyes glued outside like she was trying to spot someone.

“You mean brain freeze,” I said.

With a smile, she replied, “Sorry I am still learning, language.”

I chuckled, “You said it wrong, still learning the language. Get your boyfriend to teach...” she stopped me before I could finish my sentence.

With a look of daggers, she spat, “Not my boyfriend.” Turning around, she rushed out of McDonald’s. She leaned down to the homeless man sitting outside, and then disappeared toward the shopping centre. I sat there with my mouth open.

Attempting to drink my beverage, it was still too thick. I dumped it with my other garbage in the trash and walked out of the restaurant. The homeless man had his face buried in a burger he had in his hand.

“You got yourself something to eat?” I said.

He finished chewing before he answered my question, “Oh, I didn’t buy this. Tatiana got me this. When she goes to McDonald’s, she always gets me something to eat.” The man had the widest smile on his face. He may have been homeless, but at that moment he was the happiest person.

“Does Tatiana have long blonde hair by any chance?” I asked him.

With his mouth full, he just nodded his head.

It was crazy in the City. With Christmas Day on Tuesday, most of the city workers celebrated. Having Pre-Christmas drinks. I walked the length of Fleet Street, to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Towards The Barbican, then back to Covent Garden. Another night has gone to waste, with no success.

Next day, Father Petrou was busy with the Christmas service. I had the day to myself. I decided to take a run up, Alexander Park. I pushed myself further. The road was steep towards Muswell Hill. I could tolerate the pain on my legs, but my chest was burning. I forced myself until I reached the top of the hill. The return run, I took it easy, going through the park, instead of running along the road. Once I was back home, I jumped into the shower. I got ready before I went to see my good friend Father Petrou.