There is an underclass in London, those who work for cash in hand, who do not appear on the census, do not pay tax or collect benefits. Some live on the street, begging to survive. This was the life eighteen year old Alex Rider had chosen. He was better equipped that most for the harsh realities of living hand to mouth. Skills learned to equip him as a life as a spy now allowed him to live under the radar.
The first few months were spent picking pockets inter spaced by working in pubs, restaurants, hotels and building sites doing unskilled work. Alex did not mind cleaning work as it meant you were indoors and were normally fed and watered as part of the deal. He made friends with others hiding from the authorities. Through these friends he picked up new skills, learned to communicate in Czech, Polish, Romania, Urdu and Farsi. There were a few like him, British or Irish starting a new life without the stigma of being an ex-mental patient, ex-con or former addict. Some had run from abusive families or partners and there were a few veterans, who had left everything they knew far behind and were on the long hard slog back to a normal life. Those who by a few bad choices or sheer bad luck had ended up homeless were most willing to seek and accept help. Alex wanted nothing to do with normal. No bank account, no tax record, no signing on, no going to shelters and steering clear of hospitals, doctors, dentists and the police.
Alex kept moving and got to know London well from Stratford to Hammersmith, Balham to Holborn. There were plenty of squats, derelict and abandoned buildings to live in and enough work, when you weren't picky what you did. As the summer turned to autumn Alex looked for warmer digs with mod cons.
The Dragon Inn in Pimlico had not succumbed to modernisation into a Gastropub or Wine Bar and it remained a small freehouse, whose publican was a proud Londoner born and bred. Charlie Dodds hated the yuppification of Westminster and Chelsea. Only a few of his regulars were what he considered locals. He put an advert into the local newsagent for a live in barman/handy man. He wasn't sexist but he was getting on and needed a young lad to do the cellar work. The place was in dire need of fixing up and he did not have enough spare cash for a proper builder. Most who turned up had no references and no skills and wanted proper wages, not room and board. After the fifth Aussie asking about overtime rates, Charlie thought he was asking for the moon on a stick.
As he pulled a pints of Guinness for some Construction Workers who were earning a packet building the horrible apartment block down the road. A dark haired youth, still wet behind the ears asked about the job. This time, the kid had sounded local and had references, having worked for Shev Patel, doing up houses for two months. "I can only do basic plumbing or electrics. Nothing gas or technical. You'll need certification for those anyway but I can tile, do most joining but I'm not an expert carpenter. I can fix roofs, guttering, repoint brickwork, I reckon I can have a fair bash at most things. Oh, I can paint and wallpaper. Mr. Patel wrote me a nice reference." The kid then handed over an envelope.
The fifty something publican knew Shev Patel by reputation. The man was a self made millionaire, his dad still ran a corner shop in Bermonsey. Buying slums and repossessions and doing them up to rent out. He had a reputation of hiring his own workers, not using outsourced builders and paying cash in hand.
"Says here Mr. Patel wanted to make you a site manager."
"You need to go to college for that. I got kicked out of Brookland in Year 10 and really hated it there. I just want freedom for a few years before even thinking about any more school. I turned 18 in February and I've worked in seven pubs and two restaurants as a temporary worker. I can clear up, use a dishwasher, change a barrel, clean lines and pull pints. I've no real experience of catering apart from peeling potatoes and a bit of serving, but not silver service standard."
"I just serve sandwiches and light snacks, I really need help to update the kitchen. I've got new units in the back, up to proper hygiene spec, but I need someone to rip out the old kitchen, make good the walls and tile. I've priced up for the plumber and electrician. Also for a new floor. Can you do that?"
"You can show me the kitchen but I think I can manage."
Charlie was more than happy to hire a local lad, London born and bred, like himself.
Alex was happy to settle down even if it was rather near to Chelsea. Not that he knew Pimlico well. He had no illusions that he would bump into anyone that would recognise him. He had dyed his hair mid-brown and wore glasses when serving on the bar. It made him look more like a student than one step from the doss house. He was thankful for Primark and charity shops, as he needed to look sort of smart for work, unlike on the building site.
In late September Alex got a card for Sabina's twentieth birthday and posted it care of the English Department at York. Inside was a short note saying he was OK and a gift voucher for Monsoon, better than nothing and this way he did not have to go shopping for a girl who was impossible to buy for. He missed her. He regretted cutting her and her family out of his life, but it had been a necessary evil. His prediction about MI6 coming back into his life had been proved true. Better to have no friends at all than let them be used as pawns. Once bitten, twice shy. Alex had learned the Bank's true colours when Tom had been hurt and Jack murdered.