Being Young, Sleeping Rough

Wesley White

(Scottish Universities Theological Forum, November, 2005)

The Homelessness Partnership of the city of Glasgow, Scotland, reports that it has received between five and six thousand requests for housing assistance from people who are determined to be “qualified homeless,” for one reason or another, in the first half of 2005. That number will have doubled by the end of the year when the books are closed, if records for preceding years are a reliable indication.

I wanted to find out what Glasgow night life was like for rough sleepers. I am a teacher of theology and a committed participant in a Christian community. Can active faith bring these varied worlds together?

During the same time period, there will be approximately 500 rough sleepers who have managed as best they can in various locations across the city. Rough sleepers refers to those who have run out of resources of any kind, their family and friends are no longer able or willing to help, and they have not sought public assistance for whatever reason. They literally spend their days and their nights on the streets.

I wanted to find out what Glasgow night life was like for rough sleepers. I am a teacher of theology and a committed participant in a Christian community. Can active faith bring these varied worlds together? Should it? After amassing all the information I could find, and after many inquiries, I was invited to tag along with one of the two Street Teams that tries to offer public help to rough sleepers.

What follows is a descriptive and accurate account of what I saw and heard and felt in three nights on the streets as experienced by the young who sleep rough.

Tuesday, 25 October

It is a wet and windy night, but not too cold. I take the 44 bus into city centre, arriving at the Barnardos Street Team van, parked in an alley way just off Union Street, at 8:35 p.m. The van is equipped with a simple kitchen unit that doubles as an office for note taking and record keeping. Every night it is parked in a judicious place so that rough sleepers can easily be invited in for a hot or cold drink and maybe a bit of food.

I knock on the side door of the van and am introduced to Terry Gallagher and Fiona McLeod. I will be teaming up with them. Terry is in his mid-forties. He is married and has two children. His head is shaved and he wears an earring. An infectious smile dominates his face. He is a trained social worker and has been on this Street Team for two years. Over the course of the next three nights, I will witness his way of quickly earning the trust of people on the streets.

Fiona is twenty-seven, with shoulder-length auburn hair, pulled back into a pony tail. She is a bit shy with me, but much less so with what she and Terry call “streeters.” She grew up in Oban, but has lived in Glasgow since attending university. Fiona has worked with the Street Team for almost four years.

Later in the night, when there is a bit of a lull, we will grab a cup of coffee from a pub that Terry and Fiona usually visit at least once during their nightly “wander.” We stand in a corner outside the pub where they can keep their eyes open for “streeter types.” We do our best to stay out of the wind and rain, sipping our coffees. They tell me a bit of their stories. They are varied and interesting, but I want to know why they do this difficult work for inadequate pay.

“It is rewarding,” they say, “to know that you are making some bit of difference in the world.”

“You have to know what to look for to pick out the streeters,” says Fiona. “There are telltale signs.”

“We watch out for what kind of clothing someone is wearing,” says Terry. “We can also see it in the movement and look in their eyes. Of course, we also note if they are hanging around in one place for a long time.”

“I guess it’s mainly body language,” he says.

Right now, however, I squeeze into the van for a debrief with the Street Team of the night before. The space is crowded and stuffy with seven of us.

The Monday night team encourages Terry and Fiona to try to make a second contact with seventeen-year-old Alli (Allison) who was out the previous night in the semi-sheltered area between Queen Street Station and the Buchanan Street subway entrance. They report that she is “incoming” in order to get the money to support her boyfriend’s drug habit, for food and to pay for a shower at one of the sleazy city hotels that advertises “pay per use.”

I soon discover that “incoming” is Glasgow street language for prostitution. It crudely depicts the ‘exchange of money’ for sex and the act of a male “coming in”. It usually nets 20-30 pounds per customer for a girl of her age. All of the street team workers agree that the drug habit Alli is supporting is not only that of her boyfriend.

The Street Team hopes to gain her confidence so that they can determine whether she is “solo” (truly on her own) or if she is a runaway. If she is a runaway they must report her to the police. If she is solo, they will do all they can to convince her to take their offer of appropriate housing (there are numerous options) and their offer of help so that she need not resort to "incoming".

The Monday night team also tells us that the public toilets off Buchanan Street were unusually busy the previous night.

And so Terry, Fiona and I head out. It is now almost 9:30. We head first to the public toilets. Fiona descends the steps into the female side and quickly returns to tell us there are probably three female streeters loitering near the cubicles, one of whom she has had contact with before. Terry and I then descend the steps to the male side.

At the bottom of the steps, sitting comfortably in the corner, still partially outside, is an elderly man that Terry tells me is obviously a streeter. We do not talk to him. The Barnardos teams focus only on the young streeters, 16-25 year olds. A separate team from the Simon Community tries to connect with those who are over 25.

At the far end of the urinals are two young boys who show signs of being streeters. Terry motions to me to use the urinal. I surmise that I should simulate relieving myself, even though I have no need. Terry does the same. Whether he is faking it as well, I do not know, or care.

Terry then approaches the two boys, with me at his side. He shows them his Barnardos Street Team identity card. It is around his neck and laminated and under his photo it has Terry’s name and says “Barnardos Street Team… People Who Care.”

Terry asks them if they are trying to keep dry.

One of them shrugs his shoulders and says, "Aye, sure.”

Terry invites them to join us on the steps to talk for minute. Later on, he will tell me that it was too early in the night to try to talk there by the urinals. There are too many people in and out, and streeters will not engage in those situations.

At first the two teenagers are reluctant, but with a bit of coaxing they follow us.

We climb the steps and three-quarters of the way up Fiona joins us. Later in the night the toilets will be inhabited by both genders, but right now it is better for Fiona to keep some distance.

The five of us sit on the steps, keeping enough room on one side for men to get in and out of the toilets. Terry mysteriously produces two pre-packaged muffins and a bottle of fruit juice from the inner pockets of his jacket. The two boys do not hesitate to accept the muffins and the drink.

After a few minutes of friendly small talk, we discover their names, Graham and Brod. The full name is Broderick, but he strongly forbids its use. They are dressed in layers of clothes that are not grossly dirty, but neither could they be described as clean. Brod has a wool cap that is pulled down almost covering his eyes. Graham’s head is bare, his long and stringy brown hair showing the effect of a windy day and a rainy night.

After eating his muffin, Brod rises and begins to amble up the rest of the steps. He reminds Graham that they “have things to do,” but Graham makes it clear that he intends to stay.

Just before he mounts the final step, Brod turns and thanks Terry for the muffin, and he is gone.

Fiona gently questions Graham about his situation. He claims that he is almost 18, but later in the conversation it comes out that he has only just recently turned 16. He has had one night on the benches in Central Station and two nights in these public toilets. He’s not “poppin” (drug use), he claims. A strong odour of alcohol, however, wafts from him every time he opens his mouth or leans in my direction.

Fiona asks him how he comes by any money at all.

“Offering,” he says.

"Offering", it turns out , is another example of Glasgow street lingo. It is the term for male prostitution that usually involves teenage boys and middle-aged men, brokered by a "kink", a local manager of sexual liaisons. Some kinks also manage the exchange of drugs along with kinky sex.

“It can’t be good,” says Fiona. Graham does not reply, but simply stares at his soggy Reeboks.

I ask Terry if I can ask Graham a question. Terry nods.

“What’s it like sleeping in the toilets?”

“At least it’s dry,” Graham replies, “and it is warmer than anywhere above ground. The police usually ignore the place, unless there’s a fight. You have to wake up fuckin’ early because of job people. You wake up stiff all over. But you had a night.”

Terry reaches within the folds of his jacket once more and retrieves another unopened bottle, orange juice this time, which he offers to Graham. As Graham gulps it down, another half hour slips by with friendly banter about life in Glasgow and the various denizens of city centre.

We discover that Graham is from Edinburgh, but has not lived at home for over a year. He has no desire, he says, to return to what he calls the “violent shit” of a mother who is almost always drunk. His father is long gone.

Fiona asks Graham if he wants to come with us to the Barnardos van where we can sit around a comfortable table and have something hot to drink. Terry and Fiona look pleased when he rather quickly agrees.

We make our way toward the van, Graham tossing furtive glances here and there as though he is afraid of seeing someone he knows or as though he might bolt away without a moment’s notice. We are soon there, however, and once seated, he appears much more relaxed.

Terry heats up cups of water, one by one, in the microwave built into the back wall of the van, adds spoonfuls of hot chocolate mix, and sets them before us all.

Meanwhile, Fiona has already begun asking Graham about his mate, Brod. As though ignoring her question, Graham asks if he can smoke. Fiona reaches for an ashtray and Graham retrieves a crumpled box of cigarettes from the side pocket of his baggy trousers.

Finally, as a cloud of smoke envelopes us all, Graham simply says, “About Brod.”

Brod, it turns out, is a “floater,” suggesting that no one, least of all Graham, actually knows why he’s on the streets. He appears here and there, comes up with money as though by magic, but invariably spends his nights either in the public toilets, or at Central Station, or at various places on the south-side where his face is recognised.

Fiona wonders why he left so abruptly.

“He don’t like nobody,” says Graham.

Terry broaches the subject of alternative housing arrangements.

“What would it mean?” Graham asks.

“Rules,” says Terry, “curfews, sharing a room. You’d be put out if you kept on offering.”

“Food?” Graham asks.

“Cold milk and cereal in the morning, nothing more,” replies Terry.

“Ok then,” says Graham.

Some simple paper work is produced. Graham signs a form, as does Terry before he walks around to the driver’s seat and manoeuvres us out of the alley. Soon we are headed toward the south-side and Glengowan House.

The paper work is exchanged with the nightshift worker and we escort Graham to a room.

“This is good,” says Fiona, as we huddle around the open doorway. So far, he has the room to himself.

“What do I do?” asks Graham.

“Do what they tell you in the morning,” says Terry. “We’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re getting on.”

With a sigh, Graham says thanks and shuts the door.

It is 11:20 p.m. as we drive away. Fiona and Terry are delighted. This has been unusually successful. Often is takes two or three contacts before someone like Graham will receive help of any kind. We make our way back to the same alley off Union Street where Terry and Fiona fill out reports on what transpired with Graham. I record notes of my own.

After a cup of coffee, Terry and Fiona will take another wander that will keep them occupied until 2:00 a.m. But I’ve had enough for my induction night.

“I’m exhausted,” I announce. “I must get home.”

Terry puts a hand on my shoulder as I gather my notes and assorted belongings.

“Do you want to do the most important thing?” he asks me.

“What’s that?” I reply.

“Call Graham tomorrow and see what might come of it. Someone like him needs some support, some friends.”

Terry walks me part way down the street toward the bus stop.

“Didn’t you tell me you have five kids?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond.

He reaches into yet another pocket of his bulky jacket and thrusts a handful of condoms at me.

“Maybe you need to make more use of these,” he says.

With a wide grin, he turns and heads back toward the van.

Wednesday, 26 October

As I retrace my route of last night into the city centre, I am wondering whether Fiona and Terry had been able to make that second contact with Alli we had hoped for. Rather than going directly to the van, we are meeting at the Barnardos Street Team offices on Mitchell Street, just a few minutes from the pedestrian area of city centre.

We will have a debrief of our own. The Street Teams do shifts of two nights in a row, anticipating that they might make second or third contacts with streeters of the previous nights. It’s all about genuine relationships, as they have told me numerous times already.

As I climb the steps to the first floor offices, I am feeling at least a little less of a novice. I know it’s naive, but it gives me some measure of solace and even some pleasure. This is doable and effective. These people matter, I think to myself. These people matter a lot.

“Were you able to call Graham?” asks Terry as soon as we are seated in the comfortable couches in the office lobby.

“Yes,” I reply. “We had a good chat. Seems like he wants to meet up again. Maybe in the next day or two. He may see us on the streets tonight.”

Fiona has joined us and we wonder together if the possibility of running into Graham is a good or bad thing. His housing arrangement at Glengowan House extends for two weeks minimally. Hopefully, he will stick with it until he can get some more in-depth help.

Tonight we will walk over to the Queen Street Station area. Terry and Fiona had not been able to find Alli after I left them last night. Maybe she will be there tonight. If not her, others. Terry stuffs his pockets with all the paraphernalia that had been systematically revealed to me last night. It has been raining hard throughout most of the day, but now it is dry, though humid and very warm.

“The streeters,” says Fiona, “will be out and happy.”

I am glad that I dressed somewhat more lightly. Even now, I am sweating as we walk.

It is going on 9:20 p.m. as we approach the outer area of the station. It is early enough that there are still good numbers of people coming from and going to the trains. In spite of the crowds, Fiona and Terry easily spy out a youthful group who, to them, are obvious streeters, huddled around the stairway leading up to Cathedral Street.

“It’s mainly in the eyes,” Terry reminds me. “Look at how that observe all the passers-by, maybe with apprehension, maybe as potential customers for what they have to offer.”

We stand to one side and observe them ourselves. On the outer fringes of the group is a girl who matches our descriptions of Alli.

She is shorter than the others and dressed in tattered jeans that seem inordinately tight for her. She is wearing trainers that must have been red at some point, but now look almost black. Her heavy pullover sweatshirt is also red, with a hood that is pulled over her head. Across the front, the sweatshirt reads, “Leeds.” Beneath the hood is a mass of thick blond hair. With the warmth and humidity, her face is moist. We can see it even from our distance.

Fiona leads the way as we amble toward them.

“We met some new friends of yours,” she says, popping her identity card and quickly replacing it beneath the zipper of her jacket. “Want to talk some more?”

Alli seems at ease and moves a few steps away from her group of friends.

“You are Alli?” Fiona asks. Alli nods and asks about the others that she met the previous night.

“They’re not out tonight,” replies Fiona. “It’s our turn for some fun.”

Terry invites her to come with us into the station where we can sit down. She tells her friends she will be right back, and joins us.

There are plenty of empty tables around the Costa coffee shop, and we each pull up a chair.

“I suppose we really ought to order a coffee,” says Terry. I offer to go, and as I make my way to the counter, Terry shouts to me, “Make it one large. We’ll share.”

By the time I return, Terry has already visited his pockets and a large chocolate bar is open on the table in front of us. I have not missed much of the conversation.

“Our friends tell us you’re incoming,” says Fiona.

“Sure,” says Alli.

“Why?”

“Why not?” she replies. “Gotta eat. Try’in to keep clean. The cinema once in a while.”

“Any income tonight?” says Fiona.

“Naw.” “Danny, that’s my boyfriend, says it’s ok. Gotta be.”

“How’s he helping?” says Terry.

“Nothin’,” she says.

“He poppin’?” asks Fiona.

“Here and there.” “But not me. I been clean a while now.”

Fiona looks doubtful. “It would be better to get off the streets,” she says. “We can help. There’s plenty of places.”

“Nope,” says Alli. “Don’t work for me.” “Met shit people in them places.” “Everything’s a fuckin’ issue.”

Terry and Fiona offer her numerous alternatives, but Alli won’t budge.

“I’m fine,” she says, “I’m good.”

I wince inside at the irony. Alli stands to leave. Terry reaches into his pockets and puts five or six condoms in her hand.

“Make sure they use those,” he says, “all the time.”

“Anything else to eat…for my friends?” she says.

“They wanna talk?” says Terry. Alli smiles wryly.

“Can we keep lookin’ out for you?” asks Fiona.

“Yeah,” says Alli, “why not?”

A moment later, she is gone, and the three of us look at each other and shake our heads.

“You can’t help ‘em if they don’t want it,” says Terry.

We walk back over to the team offices to get the van and head over to Anderston.

The Anderston area in and around the train station is notorious in Glasgow as the place where many and easy "incoming" deals are transacted. It is curious, however, that "offering" arrangements rarely transpire there. We will be specifically wanting to have conversations with young girls who are incoming out of streeter necessity.

Fiona forewarns me that they will be shockingly young. “Most people would never guess,” she says.

Dim lights are glowing from the stairwell that leads to the trains below. There are maybe twenty people loitering around, some in groups, some singly. There is no reason not to suppose that they are waiting for a train or perhaps a taxi. Undoubtedly, some are.

Terry instructs us to sit down on the pavement with our backs against the wall of the train building. “Let’s just see what we see,” he says.

As the minutes tick by, the scene takes on more clarity. There are three or four older young women obviously going nowhere. A few people have come and gone. There are two solitary men who have been there since we arrived. There are two girls, clearly too young to be standing around idly at 11:30 on a Wednesday night, in the shadows of the building across the street.

“It is almost certain,” says Fiona, “that one of those men is a kink.”

Nearly thirty minutes elapse before we stretch our stiff legs and backs and cross the street toward the two girls. One of the two solitary men left a good twenty minutes earlier. The other had left as well, but now has returned.

Again, Fiona takes the lead. She is right. I am shocked when I see how young these girls are as their faces come into focus up close. Both Fiona and Terry show their identity cards right away.

“You girls ok?” asks Fiona.

“We’re fine,” says one of them.

“Waiting?” says Fiona.

“Yeah, just waitin’.”

“He with you?” Terry nods toward the man across the street.

Both girls look down at their feet.

“We’re fine,” states the spokesgirl once more.

Terry offers them a muffin or a chocolate bar. Neither of them is hungry.

“Who knows you’re out here?” asks Fiona.

“We’re on our own. We’re fine.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” says Terry. “We can get you a place for tonight and longer. We can get you help, right now. We have a van and we’ll drive you ourselves.”

“Naw,” says the same girl, who seems to do all the talking. “We’re just waitin’.”

We talk for another ten minutes, asking about parents or relatives or guardians. We ask about school. We ask about friends who might be available. But all the answers are vague, avoiding eye contact.

The conversation ends with the inevitable handful of condoms and instructions to make sure they are used.

We cross the street in the opposite direction, our hands in our pockets, and return to our post by the wall. There is not much to say. The solitary man has changed positions a few times, but he is still there.

Fiona and Terry will stay and see what happens. They will be there until 2:00 a.m. But my emotional stamina has run out once again. I say my good-byes, assuring them that I will join them again on Friday night. They will be off on Thursday.

I walk eight or nine blocks before hailing one of the few taxis that happens by. I need the distance. As I settle into the cushioned seat of the taxi, I realise that I am already back in a very different world, a world that feels even more remote as we turn onto the quiet streets of the West End where I live.

Friday, 28 October

Tonight we are meeting at the van parked near Central Station. When I arrive for the debrief, I soon realise that our team for the night will be four in number rather than three. Catherine Jameison is joining us for the evening and Fiona and Terry are very pleased.

She is well-known as the head of the Homelessness Partnership, a joint effort of Glasgow City Council, Greater Glasgow NHS, the Scottish Executive and voluntary organisations like Barnardos that are part of the Glasgow Homelessness Network. Catherine wants to keep in touch with grass-root efforts and so periodically comes along for a night with one of the two street teams. She is a middle-aged woman whose stern demeanour has more to do with her passionate concern for the needs of the homeless than it does with anger.

Terry and Fiona begin by telling us about what happened in the final hours of the Wednesday night shift, after I had left them. They had returned to sitting on the pavement, backs against the wall. After some time, the solitary man had crossed the street and had some sort of verbal interchange with the two girls. And then all three of them simply left.

Who knows what became of them? Was a rendezvous moved to a different location? Were the girls in jeopardy? Were their plans foiled by our presence?

“Who knows?” says Fiona.

There is also good news. A second contact with Graham had been made by the Thursday night team. He was heading back to Glengowan House when they met him at 11:10 p.m. I will phone him again and see if we can meet up either over the weekend or sometime next week.

After the debrief, the four of us leave the van and head into Central Station. We climb the stairs to Bonaparte’s bar and cafe and order four coffees to take away. Then we go back to the main waiting area and sit down to wait ourselves, and watch.

It is early enough that people are still moving at a fairly hectic pace. Terry and Fiona have their eyes on various groupings of the youthful, but it all appears rather routine to me. I am glad that I end up sitting beside Catherine Jameison. I can use the time to ask her some questions.

“I think faith communities could provide long-term support through friendship. Homeless people have a very elusive and even, you might say, a fickle type of community.”

She tells me that outside of London, Glasgow has the most widespread and severe problems with homelessness of all the major urban areas in the United Kingdom, far beyond Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and Edinburgh. On the other hand, she is sure that Glasgow’s efforts to address the issues are better co-ordinated than anywhere else, including London. Glasgow is unique in promoting partnerships that freely combine the best contributions of both government agencies and voluntary charitable organisations.

“What about religious groups or faith-based organisations?” I ask.

She is startled by the question. “Largely, they are not there,” she replies after a moment’s hesitation. She has learned, I discover later, that I have what she calls “theological leanings.”

“In fact,” she continues, “in my opinion, religious groups are suspect of exacerbating problems with their tendency to default to free handouts which only continue cycles of dependancy.”

“What,” I ask, “do you think faith communities could do? What do you wish they would do?”

Catherine sips her coffee and considers my question.

“I think they could provide long-term support through friendship. Homeless people have a very elusive and even, you might say, a fickle type of community.”

“Faith groups,” she says further, “could also help them find satisfactory and meaningful occupation. They just need relationships that are constant . They need to be reminded, a lot, that they can take a job and stick with it.

“And I think,” she concludes, “they could contribute a lot in addressing the educational needs of people caught in the endless cycle of homelessness. They need basic skills that will allow them to find and maintain jobs. They need anything that will enhance their sense of dignity.”

Now it is my turn to be startled. If churches cannot provide these things, I think to myself, who can?

I am glad that Terry and Fiona interrupt us. It is now past 10:00 p.m. They have seen what they certainly believe to be streeters, but they are concerned that the four of us together will be too intimidating. We must divide into pairs. I will split off with Fiona, as will Catherine with Terry.

Fiona and I make our way toward a young man and woman seated against the wall at the far side of the station. They appear to be a couple. The man has his arms draped across his propped-up knees, and his head has drooped down onto his chest. He appears to be trying to sleep, but is roused with a jerk every time an arm or a knee collapses under the onslaught of semi-relaxation.

The woman, however, is wide awake, smoking a cigarette and looking this way and that, as though she is expecting someone or protecting something. Between them is a bundle which must be the collection of their few belongings.

Fiona shows her identity card to the woman, extends her right hand in which is an unopened bottle of orange juice, and says that we have a bit of food if they are hungry.

“What you got?” says the woman.

She has a blanket of sorts spread across her legs. She appears to be twenty-one or twenty-two years old. She takes a final draw on her cigarette and snubs it out on the floor beside her.

We squat in front of them, and Fiona produces a muffin and a couple of pre-packaged sandwiches. The woman’s name is Jane, and she is, in fact, married to the drowsy man beside her. He slowly comes to life and, as he helps himself to a sandwich and some slurps of her orange juice, we learn that his name is Colin.

Suddenly, a muffled cry arises from the bundle between them, and we discover that it is makeshift bed for a four-month old infant. It lies in a holdall bag, surrounded by and on top of their various articles of clothing. The sleeve of a heavy tartan shirt has been draped across its face to shield its eyes from the glare of the station lights. Jane lifts the baby to her breast and begins to nurse it.

Their story, according to Fiona, is not uncommon. Although they have been married for a number of years, he is not the father of the baby.

“Don’t matter,” says Jane. “He’s tryin’ to be a good Dad anywise.”

They have made their way north from London, trying to break away from alcohol and drugs, trying to make a life. They survive on a benefits check that comes to a friend’s address in London. The only way they can access it, however, is for Colin to travel all the way back to London to retrieve it. By the time Colin is reunited with Jane, the money is invariably all but gone on train fare, drink and drugs.

While this conversation unfolds, Colin keeps nodding his head and saying, “I mean to do better.”

He takes jobs here and there when he can find them, but they never last. Binge drinking causes him to miss work for days on end. He and Jane have not lived in regular housing since the baby was born.

In spite of their dire circumstances, they are not easily convinced to take the help we can offer. They are afraid of the police and the record that trails them for too long whenever they enter “the system,” as they call it.

“More trouble than it’s worth,” says Jane. But Fiona argues for what is best for the baby.

“Some place safe,” says Fiona. “Some place warm.”

Finally they comply, although as if resigned to a precarious fate. They are reluctant customers at best. Later on, Fiona will tell me she doubts they will stick with it very long.

“They will back on the streets, somewhere, within the month if the pattern holds true,” she says.

We head to the van and drive Colin and Jane and baby to the Hamish Allen Centre that is available only for homeless people who qualify under family status. It is almost 1:00 a.m. by the time we arrive. Fiona and I stand aside as Jane and Colin investigate the sparse, one-bedroom flat in this building complex that used to be a fire station for the south-side of Glasgow.

The walls are beige and bare, but everything is clean. The tiny kitchen is equipped with a bare minimum of utensils, plates, glasses and cutlery. The bathroom, too, is very small, but sufficient with sink and toilet and shower. There are fresh sheets and blankets, pillows and pillowcases for the two single beds in the bedroom.

Jane quickly arranges a bed of blankets on the floor for the baby.

Tomorrow, they will be interviewed by the staff at the centre to determine how their long-term needs might be addressed. But right now we are all bleary-eyed. It is time to leave them and let them get some sleep.

Taking Fiona aside, I ask, “Can I give them a phone number?”

“Sure,” she says. “They’ll need all the help they can get.”

It is 1:40 a.m. by the time we return to Central Station. We scout around for Terry and Catherine, but they are no where to be seen. We hope it bodes something good. Fiona will find out at the debrief on Sunday night.

We decide to call it a night. Once again, I will find a comfortable taxi to take me home. Fiona will return to the van to write up her notes before she makes her way to the flat she shares just off Argyll Street.

“It’s been an unusual week,” she says, as we exchange good-byes. “Two successful placings in three nights.”

“Must be me,” I offer. “Everyone tells me I have an extraordinarily trustworthy smile.”

“No, it’s your accent,” she says, smiling herself. “Thoroughly American camouflaged by a curious Scottish lilt.”

“Will your friends from your church visit?” she asks.

“Who?” I reply, not certain what she means. “Visit who?”

“Jane and Colin,” she says.

I wish I did not have to hesitate. “I think so,” I reply after a moment. “I hope so.”

I think about Fiona’s question throughout the duration of my taxi ride home. Would my friends easily welcome them? Would they be able to embrace them as they embrace others? Would they welcome them at all? Would my friends make the effort to connect with the likes of Colin and Jane?

It is 2:10 when I climb the steps to my flat. I am too wound-up to sleep, even though I’m exhausted. I turn on the television and watch the final minutes of a repeat of "The West Wing". It strikes me as another strange irony. Does the epicentre of political and military power in the world have anything to do with the lives of Jane and Colin, Graham, Alli, and two very underage girls who turn to incoming to survive?

It is 3:00 a.m. when I crawl into bed beside my wife, who will have been asleep for three or four hours. I peer around in the dark at my own bedroom, books and clothing strewn here and there. My five children are sleeping soundly in nearby rooms. The television is still warm from my viewing. It is a far distant place from where I have been these last few nights.

As I drift off to sleep, I wonder what Colin and Jane will awaken to tomorrow morning. What will become of them? What will become of their four-month old baby? Will we visit?

Epilogue

In the days since my last night on the streets with the Barnardos team, I have been studying the words of the Prophet Isaiah. He seems to be urging me toward a higher level of spiritual fervour.

“Is this not the fast which I choose?” God asks. (58:6-7)

Fasting, I think to myself, is a discipline that is surely indicative of some sort of aggressive spirituality. But what is this fast that God clearly prefers? I do not have to read far in the text to get the answer.

Is this not the fast which I choose,
To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
To undo the bands of the yoke,
And let the oppressed go free
And break every yoke?

Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry
And bring the homeless poor into the house;
When you see the naked, to cover him;
And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

Isaiah, further, does not hesitate to predict the impact of spirituality of this type, demonstrated in the midst of the world as it is. (58:8-12)

Then your light will break out like the dawn…
The glory of the Lord will be your rear guard…
And you will be called the repairer of the breach,
The restorer of the streets in which to dwell.

I cannot help but think to myself whether these words of Isaiah have any bearing on what happens in the streets of Glasgow? If they do not, what on earth is the good of spiritual devotion? If not, why on earth am I committed to spiritual health?

My mobile phone rang this afternoon just as I was about to step into a university seminar room. It was Colin and Jane.

“Are you coming by?” they ask.

We arrange a time for the day after tomorrow.

“Would you know anyone getting rid of any baby clothes?”

I am sure that I can bring some along. I will also bring some bags of food.

It occurs to me that Fiona and I never got the name of the baby on the previous Friday night.

“Her name is Rachel,” they tell me when I ask, “named after the Jennifer Aniston character in Friends.”

Everyone is desperate for real friends, I think to myself as I switch off the phone. Even these who are so young, but sleep rough.

And so we will visit after all. And what will come of it? Perhaps a bit of light will break out. Perhaps the glory of the Lord will shimmer, even if ever so slightly. I think so. I hope so. I believe so.