Free Night Watcher by Chris Longmuir Page A

basement, where there were heating ducts and a conglomeration of pipes and wires servicing the upper regions, then the store extended downwards for two levels.
    Julie had been working there for the past two months, thanks mainly to Nicole’s guilt trip over the accident; she was in charge of the food hall which occupied most of the basement floor. The restaurant which took up the rest of the space was managed by her friend Betty, whose cooking skills brought a steady stream of customers downstairs. There was also the coffee shop one floor up, in one corner of the ground floor, which served the best of coffees, a selection of teas, and tempting cream cakes.
    Julie always arrived at the store in the morning before any of the other section managers, although there was no need for this. She liked to ensure that her section was ready when the doors opened. Besides, it gave her the chance to have an early cup of coffee before getting down to the business of the day.
    Early morning staff entered through a rear door at the back of the building. The alley leading to this door was vastly different from the sparkling appearance of the frontage and was invariably strewn with papers, rubbish, and condoms left behind by the previous evening’s amorous seekers after privacy.
    At the rear of the alley, beyond the door, a stone staircase descended to the subterranean depths of the lower basement. Two large iron skips leaned against the railing which separated the stairs from the main body of the alley and, depending on the day of the week, these were either overflowing or almost empty. However, they never lost their stink of rotting produce and other unidentifiable smells that made Julie think something had died and not been buried. Julie had tried holding her breath as she walked up the alley, but could never hold it long enough, so she compromised and held it, just before she came to the door.
    Lately a tramp had taken up residence in the alley, probably because it was reasonably quiet and dark at night and provided shelter from the cold wind that rushed up the River Tay. The security staff did their best to move him on, but he always returned, and each morning he seemed to be huddling ever nearer to the door recess. This morning he looked frozen as he squatted on the frosty pavement in his huddle of tattered clothing, paper and cardboard, over which he had pulled a dirty blanket. Julie shivered at the thought of how cold he must be and feared that some morning she would find him beyond help.
    Most of the staff seemed frightened of him and gave him a wide berth, but Julie did not share their fear and could only pity him. Maybe that was because she had been accustomed to tramps in Edinburgh, sitting in Princes Street with their backs against shop frontages, their begging bowls, or whatever they were using for begging bowls, in front of them. Despite being used to them though, she had always had a niggling feeling that no one should have to beg, and she often suspected that what they wanted was money for drink or drugs. So, while she was sorry for them she never threw money in their caps, although she sometimes slipped them a bar of chocolate or a sandwich.
    This tramp, however, did not have a begging bowl or a cap or anything else in front of him. He was just there, a miserable bundle of rags, inviting sympathy rather than fear.
    Julie’s heels clacked off the paving stones, throwing an echo upward between the buildings the alley sliced its way through. It was deserted except for the tramp and herself. She paused as she drew level with him. For some reason she always expected him to look up and acknowledge her presence, but he remained bundled in his makeshift bedding giving no indication he knew she was there.
    A flurry of wind teased at the edge of her coat making her shiver and she wondered how he must feel as the awfulness of being cold and having nowhere to go forced its way into her consciousness. But he was always there no matter