You could depend on him to be there.
The flattened earth made a shallow pit for his curled form, the unfolded newspapers coloured yellow as if something putrid had leached out of his body through layers of stained and tattered rags. Regular as clockwork, the tramp could be found near the banks of the Clyde, his makeshift den consisting of one strut of the concrete bridge that soared skywards into an uncertain blue and three sides of not-so-fresh air. Only after the cold light of dawn glittered against the water did he make his shambling way from this untidy nest, picking up anything that might keep body and soul together for another twenty-four hours.
The metal mesh bin at the top of the narrow path was his first stop of the morning. Stooping low so that his arm could reach right down into the base, he would forage among the bits of rubbish left from the night before, ever hopeful of a discarded bit of food that the urban foxes had failed to recover. Sometimes he had to stand aside as early morning cyclists or joggers dodged past and he would utter an oath, shaking one gnarled fist at their retreating backs, swaying like a demented scarecrow.
This morning was no different, except for one thing. As the tramp lifted his eyes from the bin he saw the figure speed towards him, one arm flung out as if to push him out of the way, and just in time he leapt back, a cry issuing from his cracked lips. In seconds his fury had dissolved into anticipation. Forgetting his sudden panic, he came back to the mesh basket, eager to see whatever it was the cyclist had dropped. He was salivating as he fished it out, recognising the Subway wrapper.
‘Miracles!’ he murmured to himself, fingers trembling in excitement, hardly daring to believe that so much of the baguette was still intact. Turning around his mouth curled into a sneer. ‘Nae idea, nae idea at all. A couple o’ bites and ye think ye’re finished. Eh? Eh?’
But there was nobody there to upbraid; there was no swish of cycle tyres to be heard along the path, only the comforting rumble of traffic overhead. Left alone to enjoy his unexpected breakfast in peace, the man shuffled back to his place by the bridge, easing his aching bones on to the patch of hollow ground. Greedily he bit into the sandwich, feeling the shreds of salad escape from his mouth, tasting the tuna fish as he slavered and swallowed, the hard crusts biting into his bleeding gums.
The unexpected fire of chilli made the tramp shrug and for one second he took this as the reason why his benefactor had chucked the food away. His shoulders were still raised in an indifferent shrug when his whole body tensed. Before he knew what was happening, the fire inside his belly roared up.
He tried to scream. But all that issued from his lips was a faint bloodied line of froth. Eyes bulged in their sockets as he glared at the empty path and the bank of withered grass. Then the first convulsion whipped him in two and the fire engulfed him in such pain as only the damned would ever know.
It was not over quickly. Tears streamed down his filthy cheeks, his gaunt face a parody of some ancient gargoyle, jaws strained in an effort to spew up the monster within. Torn by the convulsions, his head cracked against the concrete behind him and then the spasms ceased as oblivion claimed him. Slipping sideways, the weight of his body took him towards the steep side of the river where it lay like some discarded heap of rags.
Up above him, the cyclist leaned against the handlebars, watching and waiting. At last, satisfied that it was all over, one foot pushed against the pedal, making the wheels turn and swish along the empty street.