Spare Change by Alp Mortal
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 19,259 Heat Rating: 2 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Having been dealt a dud hand by life, Linden is living alone on the streets, barely surviving from one day to the next, facing an uncertain future. Thom, a highly regarded investment specialist, appears to have everything going for him - until he loses his wallet.
When Linden finds Thom's wallet, it starts a chain reaction that leads both men to the threshold of a new and daunting prospect - the chance to find lasting happiness. I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal 
Click the gif to read the review by Kazza at On Top Down Under Book Reviews
Alp's 1st and our 3rd ARe #Bestseller of 2016
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Chapter One - Linden
“Any spare change, please ...”
He’d said the words so often that they no longer sounded like real words but more like a mantra, though not a very enlightening one.
A few dropped some coins into his cup. One man spat at him; another aimed a savage kick at his shins. Most just ignored the scruffy young man seated on the pavement as if he were rubbish.
Keen eyes, and keener ears, which had been schooled by too many days and nights in avoiding the demons that inhabited the streets, gave him advance warning of the approach of the security guards who were employed by the railway station to keep his kind out of the entrance ways, toilets, waiting rooms, and the dirty corners. When they said your kind, they made it sound like he was a different species.
Quickly picking up the cup and thrusting it into his coat pocket, he rose to his feet, readying himself to move off in the direction of the offices which the workers would now be emptying, leaving the area deserted until the morning. He would find a corner and attempt to wrap himself up against the chill, hoping to make it through the night without being accosted - eight hours of unbroken sleep would be such a luxury. The first of the commuters were already striding towards him as he shuffled along the pavement that led away from the station and over the bridge. He kept his eyes averted, sparing himself their looks of revulsion; pity hurt worse. No one said a word. They were all dressed the same, and he thought they looked like robots. A heavy-set man caught him with his shoulder, spinning him and sending him careering into the balustrade that separated the path from the thirty-metre drop into the murky river beneath them - the idea was always too seductive to be ignored completely - ‘end the suffering, Linden’.
As he found his breath, a woman stopped, placed her hand on his arm and asked, “Are you alright?”
“Yyyes; I’m fine.”
She pressed a two-pound coin into his hand before moving off quickly.
“Thank you ...” His words were lost in the hubbub as the first of the evening’s trams pulled up and discharged its cargo of grey-suited automatons.
Despite the crush on the bridge, his progress was swift; all gave him a wide berth as if he might infect them through the slightest touch.
Like a trained accountant, he knew the cup contained £4.68, which included the two pounds that the woman had given him.
“Something to eat ...”
At the end of the bridge, where the pavement widened into a precinct that was framed on three sides by shops, he stopped, took stock, and headed for the little supermarket. He grabbed a basket and slipped into the first aisle before the sole cashier caught sight of him and kicked up a fuss that he made the place smell. From the chiller cabinet, he took a sandwich, and from the snack aisle, he picked up two packets of biscuits - Custard Creams - his absolute favourite. A bottle of water completed his haul.
“I’ve told you before; you can’t come in here.”
“I’ve got money.”
“I don’t care; you stink the place out.”
He placed the stuff on the conveyor belt and kept his eyes down, hoping that she wouldn’t call the manager and get him turfed out before he had paid.
“Please just let me get this and I’ll be gone. I promise I won’t come back ...”
“For fuck’s sake ...”
She checked out his goods and threw it all in a bag.
“... £4.65 ...”
With as much care as he would handle a new-born kitten, he extracted the money from his pocket and placed it on the counter, keeping back the penny and the tuppence to make the exact amount.
“... Don’t come back.”
Without once looking her in the eye, he took the bag and scurried out. Immediately, he sat down on one of the benches that surrounded some kind of water feature, and scoffed the sandwich, barely registering the taste. He drank a quarter of the water before stowing the bottle and the biscuits in his coat’s deep pockets.
As he moved off, he caught sight of the security guard who patrolled the precinct. He dived into the stairwell of the underground car park and hoped that he’d be spared the embarrassment of being called out and chased, or as sometimes happened, frogmarched to the exit.
Today was his lucky day because as he peeked around the edge of the stairwell, he saw the guy entering the newsagent’s.
On the main drag between the precinct and the offices, he slipped into the public toilets and locked himself in one of the cubicles. He took a piss and a dump.
At the washbasin, after he’d washed his hands and face, silently celebrating the fact that the soap dispenser had been refilled, he found his toothbrush and cleaned his teeth, using the soap as toothpaste. He’d ceased long ago to wretch on the taste of the suds in his mouth, more concerned with trying to avoid getting a bad tooth. He would have washed his hair but there was no hot water and the hand dryer was broken, and he didn’t want to risk getting a chill in his head like had happened once before and had turned into the flu.
Leaving the toilets, he crossed the road and hurried into the arcade that linked the street with the office buildings.
“Any spare change, please ...”
He’d said the words so often that they no longer sounded like real words but more like a mantra, though not a very enlightening one.
A few dropped some coins into his cup. One man spat at him; another aimed a savage kick at his shins. Most just ignored the scruffy young man seated on the pavement as if he were rubbish.
Keen eyes, and keener ears, which had been schooled by too many days and nights in avoiding the demons that inhabited the streets, gave him advance warning of the approach of the security guards who were employed by the railway station to keep his kind out of the entrance ways, toilets, waiting rooms, and the dirty corners. When they said your kind, they made it sound like he was a different species.
Quickly picking up the cup and thrusting it into his coat pocket, he rose to his feet, readying himself to move off in the direction of the offices which the workers would now be emptying, leaving the area deserted until the morning. He would find a corner and attempt to wrap himself up against the chill, hoping to make it through the night without being accosted - eight hours of unbroken sleep would be such a luxury. The first of the commuters were already striding towards him as he shuffled along the pavement that led away from the station and over the bridge. He kept his eyes averted, sparing himself their looks of revulsion; pity hurt worse. No one said a word. They were all dressed the same, and he thought they looked like robots. A heavy-set man caught him with his shoulder, spinning him and sending him careering into the balustrade that separated the path from the thirty-metre drop into the murky river beneath them - the idea was always too seductive to be ignored completely - ‘end the suffering, Linden’.
As he found his breath, a woman stopped, placed her hand on his arm and asked, “Are you alright?”
“Yyyes; I’m fine.”
She pressed a two-pound coin into his hand before moving off quickly.
“Thank you ...” His words were lost in the hubbub as the first of the evening’s trams pulled up and discharged its cargo of grey-suited automatons.
Despite the crush on the bridge, his progress was swift; all gave him a wide berth as if he might infect them through the slightest touch.
Like a trained accountant, he knew the cup contained £4.68, which included the two pounds that the woman had given him.
“Something to eat ...”
At the end of the bridge, where the pavement widened into a precinct that was framed on three sides by shops, he stopped, took stock, and headed for the little supermarket. He grabbed a basket and slipped into the first aisle before the sole cashier caught sight of him and kicked up a fuss that he made the place smell. From the chiller cabinet, he took a sandwich, and from the snack aisle, he picked up two packets of biscuits - Custard Creams - his absolute favourite. A bottle of water completed his haul.
“I’ve told you before; you can’t come in here.”
“I’ve got money.”
“I don’t care; you stink the place out.”
He placed the stuff on the conveyor belt and kept his eyes down, hoping that she wouldn’t call the manager and get him turfed out before he had paid.
“Please just let me get this and I’ll be gone. I promise I won’t come back ...”
“For fuck’s sake ...”
She checked out his goods and threw it all in a bag.
“... £4.65 ...”
With as much care as he would handle a new-born kitten, he extracted the money from his pocket and placed it on the counter, keeping back the penny and the tuppence to make the exact amount.
“... Don’t come back.”
Without once looking her in the eye, he took the bag and scurried out. Immediately, he sat down on one of the benches that surrounded some kind of water feature, and scoffed the sandwich, barely registering the taste. He drank a quarter of the water before stowing the bottle and the biscuits in his coat’s deep pockets.
As he moved off, he caught sight of the security guard who patrolled the precinct. He dived into the stairwell of the underground car park and hoped that he’d be spared the embarrassment of being called out and chased, or as sometimes happened, frogmarched to the exit.
Today was his lucky day because as he peeked around the edge of the stairwell, he saw the guy entering the newsagent’s.
On the main drag between the precinct and the offices, he slipped into the public toilets and locked himself in one of the cubicles. He took a piss and a dump.
At the washbasin, after he’d washed his hands and face, silently celebrating the fact that the soap dispenser had been refilled, he found his toothbrush and cleaned his teeth, using the soap as toothpaste. He’d ceased long ago to wretch on the taste of the suds in his mouth, more concerned with trying to avoid getting a bad tooth. He would have washed his hair but there was no hot water and the hand dryer was broken, and he didn’t want to risk getting a chill in his head like had happened once before and had turned into the flu.
Leaving the toilets, he crossed the road and hurried into the arcade that linked the street with the office buildings.
