Broken Places by Wendy Perriam

rain. It was thundering on the pavement, hissing along the gutters, drowning out the faint but insistent rumbles of his stomach. Having forgotten to bring his cheese roll, he had eaten nothing since the cornflakes, and it was now getting on for half-past one. The poor sod on the matting seemed equally provisionless – well, apart from his liquid lunch, of course: a bottle of cider lined up beside the Scotch.
    Peering out at the waterlogged street, his mind moved from tramps to Pepys once more. This morning he’d been concentrating on the great man’s great achievements, but his small vanities were equally intriguing – the way he’d paid the equivalent of £ 1500 for a fashionable new wig, then had the gall to deny his wife her equally fashionable face-patches. And, although he’d finally relented, that was probably only due to guilt, having betrayed poor Mrs Pepys with a whole succession of willing widows, wives and serving-wenches and even with her own maid.
    No, he must keep away from the subject of betrayal and, in fact, he’d had enough of Pepys for one day, so, as soon as the rain slackened even slightly, he decided to push off home. He could eat his cheese roll there, in the dry, rather than risk a mauling by the still hostile and probably hungry dog, who might fancy a chunk of his flesh for Christmas dinner. Well, at least dogs didn’t figure on his long, shaming list of fears, and nor did spiders, crowds, thunder or the dark. It gave him a weird satisfaction to know he wasn’t prey to every fear imaginable. Although secretly he suspected that anyone of reasonable intelligence should be pretty scared. Forget flying, swimming, driving – just being alive in an unjust and random world was a terrifying prospect. And, apart from the huge global fears – climate change, terrorist attacks, biological warfare, nuclear apocalypse – the sense of being trapped in one’s own skin and by one’s own peculiar temperament, enduring things that no one else could share or comprehend, could bring on panic in itself. He had often longed for a Siamese twin: someone part of him and fused with him, to ward off his alarm at being separate, adrift and insufficient in himself.
    He’d learned long ago, however, to put on a façade; to play the role of a brave and self-reliant chap, at least in any company beyond that of his wife – ex-wife. It also helped to keep extremely busy. In fact, even now, as he emerged into the less punitive rain, he changed his mind about cycling straight back home and opted for a final stop at All Hallows By The Tower – the vantage-point from where Pepys had watched the Great Fire. Havingchained his bike to the railings, he pushed open the glass doors, stopping in his tracks as he saw, not an empty church, but a lively Christmas party in full swing. A long line of tables had been set up in the south aisle and a good forty or fifty people were sitting eating dinner; a buzz of conversation filling the normally hushed space.
    As he made to back away, a matron in a pink silky dress came dashing in pursuit. Oh, Lord, he thought, the vicar’s wife, or some pillar of the parish, about to reprimand him for trespassing on a private function.
    ‘Do stay for lunch,’ the woman beamed, clasping his arm, so as to steer him back inside.
    ‘I … I’m afraid I haven’t been invited. I just happened to be passing and—’
    ‘Everyone’s invited. We lay on Christmas lunch here not just for any parishioners who have nowhere else to go, but for visitors and tourists and all members of God’s family.’
    Eric swallowed, being neither visitor nor tourist, and certainly not a member of God’s family. His early experiences in life had led him, long ago, to discount, any idea of a merciful God. ‘I actually live in London and I’m afraid I’ve never been a church-goer.’ Not true. Church had been compulsory in childhood – and had put him off for life.
    ‘You’re welcome just the same. Do come in and sit