Hannah Le Poidevin, Laattaouia

He sat low, crouched between an old building and two wooden poles supporting a half collapsed, cheap plastic sheet, like the kind erected every week for the souk. Behind the high wall at his back, he could hear the sounds of life, or what was left of it, after coronavirus had plucked out some in its greedy fingers and fear had removed the rest. If he twisted his head a fraction to the right, he could peer into the window of the building opposite him and see the figures of the family that lived there playing games and doing homework, scolding the children for taking food, gathered together around the tagine. But he didn’t bother looking. This was a habit he had long since stopped. The pain at seeing them together in there whilst he was alone out here ripped his heart apart.

A dog ran up to him and began to nuzzle its small head under his chin affectionately. He rubbed its stomach and it whined happily before curling up on his legs.

“At least I have you, yeh mongrel. You’ll never leave me, will yeh? You’ll always talk with me, won’ yeh? Not like them lot in their posh buildings with their TVs and running water and food to last then into the next century.”

As if it understood, the dog let out a high pitched yelp before lowering its head once again, closing its eyes.

It started to rain.

He moved further under the collapsing plastic sheet. A raindrop landed on his uncovered head, sending a cold shock through him. He began coughing. The dog whined again and buried deeper into him, sharing precious body heat. He wanted to get away from this stinking pit, but he could hear the police sirens behind the wall. He didn’t want to be arrested. Not today. He had been once before and didn’t fancy another trip. That pit was worse than this one. He laughed manically at his joke, the strange sound grating on his ears. Although now he thought about it, he wasn’t really sure that counted as a joke. It had been so long since he last joked with another person that he couldn’t quite remember. His laugh turned to a racking cough.

The plastic sheet collapsed sending the water level rising above his ankles, soaking his feet as the rain cascaded down like pin pricks all over his body. The dog yelped and ran away. He shuffled after it out on to the street, deciding it was better to risk the police. He didn’t have a mask. He couldn’t even afford bread. He trudged slowly onwards, past the mosque singing its “Allahu Akbar”. A big, warm, dry building all locked up; a wasted building for worshipping

their god. Not his god. He had no god. Not anymore. He refused to bow down to something that left him to die in this way: alone, cold, hungry.

Forgotten.

“Being punished.” They whispered. “He’s a sinner.” they reasoned. Just what he was being punished for he would like to know. He would repent on hands and knees, or spread eagled with his belly against the cold, hard, wet ground to whoever would listen. Only two more weeks till Ramadan when their god would relent, and they might throw him a coin or two as they passed.

He stumbled ownards.

A few people were hurrying around outside, masks stretched over their faces, hiding their expressions. Clinical, uncaring, emotionless. They crossed the street to avoid him. “Social distancing” they would explain, “leave two meters around you…” But he knew they were lying. He was unwashed, unholy and now he was diseased. They were told the outside was dangerous, to be treated with caution, and he came from the outside, it was his home and so he was to be feared. But, he thought, he would rather be from the outside than suffocating behind a mask like an actor from some strange dystopian play, directed by fear itself.

One partially concealed being offered him bread. He took it.

Winding a path through the deserted market, he crouched under a shelter, ravenously devouring the bread, tearing off stale pieces and throwing them to the dog. He watched the masked creatures scuttling about, like puppets on a string. His breathing slowed suddenly. He began to wheeze, a great racking cough rising from his chest. It could be the flu. It could pass. He did not care. He had water, no warm clothes, no shelter. He was not old, but he was weak from hunger. He could not fight it. He coughed again. He knew that soon he would become just another static, another preventable death on the streets

He kept coughing.