Chapter Four

"Look, Sue, it's him again, our professor."

The young man in the blue uniform of the museum wardens pointed at the monitor. His colleague angled her head and made an affirmative noise.

"Has anybody complained yet?"

The woman frowned thoughtfully.

"As far as I know – no," she answered, her eyes still on the monitor.

"Then let's give him half an hour. It's awfully cold outside today and as long as his presence doesn't disturb anybody… Can you do a round, letting him know we're watching things?"

With a deep sigh Sue stretched her arms above her head and left the small control cubicle. Her colleague continued watching the monitor.

The weeks before Christmas weren't a very busy time at the National Gallery of Scotland, people were interested in the glittering decorations of shop windows displaying potential Christmas presents rather than the museum's famous collection of Scottish impressionists. The shabby looking man with the bulging old backpack was one of the few visitors in this section of the ground floor. Slowly he strolled from painting to painting, reading the information, studying the pictures closely. Finally he retreated to one of the wooden benches in the middle of the room and sat down. But his rest was a brief one only: As soon as Sue entered the room he got up again and resumed his tour. For the last few weeks he had been a regular visitor. During the winter months the museum, offering warmth and shelter from the rain and wind, became a favourite haunt of the small number of the city's homeless who didn't feel daunted by the multitude of cultural artefacts and the solemn atmosphere of silent contemplation.

Nevertheless, some of the other visitors often complained about the presence of these people, feeling irritated by their appearance and smell. The man with the rucksack had been the cause of such complaints before, although apart from his worn clothes and greasy hair he looked as if he paid some attention to cleanliness and he didn't give the impression of having a drinking problem. In addition he behaved as if he was familiar with the surroundings and possessed some knowledge of art and therefore the wardens had given him his nickname und usually allowed him some time before approaching him and asking him to leave. He always followed these requests obediently.

So this time Sue continued her round, taking her time, even when another visitor drew her attention to the homeless man. Half an hour before closing time she finally addressed him, quietly and politely, as she had been trained to do.

"Sir, I must ask you to leave the premises."

The man looked at her – black eyes in a pale and haggard face – and nodded. He hoisted his backpack and with slow, tired steps turned towards the exit.

Sue watched him, feeling pity for him somehow. How had he got into his present situation? Wasn't there anybody who could help him? Didn't he have friends or family? She sighed deeply. Why did the so-called welfare state fail to help people like him? How could they slip through the net of social security? Soon it would be Christmas, the festival putting friends and family into the centre of attention. How would this man feel about it, knowing that luckier people in their festively decorated homes were sitting down to sumptuous Christmas dinners with their families and no problems other than making their digestion cope with the intake of food and drink and pretending interest in the stories Grandpa Joe had been telling on every Christmas Day for the last five years?

Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot

Thanks a lot to all those dear readers who sent reviews. I know I promised a longer chapter this time - well, I was wrong, but the next chapter is on its way...