Dont touch me! Get your hands off! Ah! Someone, help me! a terrified girl shrieked, her voice echoing down the slick, mudcaked lane.
Claire dashed forward, her coat a smear of brown earth, but a slip sent her sprawling, her ankle buckling. She scrambled to her feet just as the frantic girl vanished into the gathering gloom. Shaking the grime from her trench coat, Claire looked up and saw an ancient man sprawled in the mud, his trembling hands slick with blood as he tried vainly to pull himself upright. The autumn sky hung low, heavy clouds and the lingering scent of rain, while twilight pressed its fingers against the street.
The old man mumbled incoherently, reaching out his crimsonstained hands toward Claire. A surge of unease washed over her.
Hes drunk! Stay away from him! a woman shouted, striding past the fallen figure. She brandished a folding umbrella like a shield, then, after a few steps, turned her sharp gaze on Claire.
What are you doing here? Got a lot of problems, love? Hooha! These lotll do anything for a bottle, you hear? she snapped, then hurried toward the rows of terraced houses where brighter streetlights flickered.
The spot where the elderly man lay was a deserted back lane, bordered by a high concrete fence topped with barbed wire, beyond which a factorys perimeter loomed. Wind rattled the skeletal branches of ancient poplars, and as each minute passed the darkness deepened.
Mmm mmm the man continued his guttural sounds.
Are you alright? Need an ambulance? Claire asked, voice trembling, keeping her distance. He shook his head, his mouth a silent roar, while his fingers jabbed at a sodden sack lying beside him. The old fellow was slight, frail, his age evident in every shiver.
Claire felt a pang of compassion. She remembered her own grandmother, who had raised her, and the lesson whispered on her deathbed: never walk past someone in need. Yet even Grandma had warned that meddling could land you in court if you werent a medical professionalcall the paramedics, shed said, and keep your distance, for there are conartists who lure the vulnerable.
But Claires heart refused to listen to caution. She stepped forward, lowered herself over the man, and he let out a fresh, desperate moan, extending his bloodstained hands toward her. A broken bottles shards clutched in his right fist glinted in the dim light.
Tears welled up as she reached into her bag, pulled out a pack of moist wipes, and, after discarding the broken glass into a nearby bin, gently cleaned his wounds. Slowly, painstakingly, she helped him to his feet. The effort left her breathless, but she kept going, recalling how shed cared for her own grandfather when he was bedbound.
Thank heavens my hands are still strong she murmured. Where do you live?
The old man gave another low grunt, his legs unsteady, his gait a hesitant shuffle. Claire eyed him skepticallywas he truly intoxicated, or merely mute? The village folk called men like him daft as a brush, but she decided to assist regardless; a cold night would surely claim him if left in the mire.
She asked again, louder.
He gestured weakly toward a cluster of warmly lit windows, the glow stark against the dusky lane. He could barely lift his feet, his back hunched, his sack bumping against his side with each careful step.
Claire noticed the sack rattling with glass pieces, a faint tinkling accompanying each shuffle.
Probably wanted to recycle those bottles, and when he fell they shattered The shards must have cut him she thought, supporting his arm.
They reached the nearest house, its front door ajar, the old mans breath a hoarse whisper.
Intercom Claire whispered, baffled. I dont know the code.
He tapped his fingers, alternating between three and one.
Thirtyone? Thirteen? she guessed, fumbling with the keypad. The first ring sparked a startled female voice.
This is Claire stammered, unsure if shed reached the right flat.
Im coming down! a cheerful voice called, and after a tense pause the old man croaked another muted sound, his sack rattling once more as tiny glass fragments clinked together.
The entrance burst open, revealing a woman in her thirties and a man of similar age.
Albert! the woman cried, throwing her arms around the frail figure. Thank you! Thank you so much!
She turned to Claire, gratitude spilling from her lips, while the man guided Albert gently inside.
Ill be right up! the woman said, holding the door ajar, just a moment.
Claire stood, bewildered, in a courtyard shed never seen, eyes drifting over the modest terraces and the small corner shop that sold crisps and newspapers. Shed passed these rows countless times on her evening jogs, never imagining theyd become a backdrop to this nights drama.
Here, the woman said, handing Claire a small bundle. Some apples, the best sortsweet, fragrant. My grandfather planted the orchard long ago.
Claire hesitated, feeling a rush of awkwardness. No, thank you. Your grandfather should have his wounds cleaned; maybe a visit to the urgent care? He might need stitches. I dont need the apples I only wanted to help.
It wasnt just a little help, the woman sighed. Im Emily, and this is my husband James. Albert Thompson is my grandfather, a war veteran. Do you have a moment? Ill tell you why were so grateful.
Claire nodded, bracing herself.
Albert just turned a hundred last year, Emily said proudly. He fought in the war, and when he was captured he deliberately injured his tongue so he couldnt betray anyone. After escaping, an infection scarred his tongue badly, and surgeons removed most of it. Since then hes spoken like a mute.
Claire listened, stunned.
He doesnt drink at all, Emily continued. Youd think his slurred speech made us think hes intoxicated. Once, in a bitter winter, he lay on the road for hours because nobody would help, and he nearly froze to death.
Why let him wander alone? Claire blurted.
We dont; he insists on going out, Emily smiled. He lives with us in this flat; we took him in after we married. We look after him, and we have a little girl, Lucy, who once fell on a bottle shard and got a scar. Since then Albert has made it his mission to collect broken glass from the streets, so nobody else gets hurt. Hes out there every day, rain or shine, never taking a holiday.
Emilys tale echoed in Claires mind, reminding her of her own grandfather, a veteran whod marched all the way to Berlin, later struck by a stroke that stole half his speech and a hands strength. Yet hed repaired roofs with his left hand, tended his garden, and even once fixed a shed roof solo, earning a fierce scolding from his wife for daring to work while she was at the shop.
Claire recalled his garbled wordsspoon, rain, Ninaand his surprisingly sharp curses that would make any schoolteacher gasp. Her grandmother used to swat him with a damp rag, pleading, Be quiet, love, the children are listening.
She left the courtyard, a bag of apples now in her handshed taken them to spare Emilys embarrassmenther heart warm with memories of familial care. In a world where a seemingly drunken, filthy old man can be a beloved grandfather, watching over his loved ones, the lesson was clear: kindness and attention can change a nights fate.
