He’s chatting with the other guards as if he’s one of them. He’s even wearing the same dark uniform. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair slicked back. I keep my eyes on him as we file into the laundry hall: a grey sea of girls in itchy work-coats, moving sleepily to our workstations. Washing machines, hand basins, steam-presses, dryers, folding benches.
Everything is grey here, but outside the large windows the world is white with snow. He laughs at something one of them says. And I remember why Bon and I used to call him Teeth. He’s got a perfect smile, perfect teeth. He throws his head back and laughs again and for a moment he’s illuminated by the light from the windows; for a moment he looks like some kind of hero.
But he’s not a hero. And he should have been dead. That scar along his temple. Bon did that. Teeth was in the police then — part of the old government and their plan to clean up the city. ‘Clean the Streets’, was their slogan, which really meant ‘get rid of the homeless kids whatever way you can’.
It’s hard to believe now, even for us. What happened on the streets back then is the stuff of dark cruel fairy tales.
Those of us who lived in the tunnels were mostly safe as long as we stayed out of sight. It was the kids on the streets that were in most danger: those who slept in the alleys covered by pieces of cardboard and stolen blankets…
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