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see
strange sights and I didn’t quite know what to make of this, but as I was
heading in the direction of London myself, I thought I’d get a piece of
cardboard, scrawl the city’s name on it, stick out my thumb and see if I could
cop a lift from the VW the next time around.’
    ‘And
did you?’
    ‘Oh
yes, I did.’
    ‘And
did he take you to London?’
    ‘Oh no,
he didn’t.’
    ‘Go on
then, tell me what happened.’
    ‘Well,
I see him coming and I stick out my thumb and hold up my piece of cardboard. He
stops and calls, “London?” through the open window. “Yes,” I say. “Hop in,” he
says. And off we go. The VW Camper is pretty knackered up inside and the driver
doesn’t say much, he’s very gaunt and pale and he doesn’t smell too good. “Can
you take me all the way to London?” I ask. “Certainly,” he says. “That’s where
I’m going. Go up there every day at this time.” I ask what line of business he’s
in and he says “recycling”.
    ‘“Recycling
what?” I ask.
    ‘‘Waste,”
he says.
    ‘And we’re
about twenty minutes into our journey when he says, ,,I have to make a slight
detour here to drop something off. You don’t mind, do you?” And I say “No, I
don’t mind, what do you have to drop off?” And he says “Just a letter.” And I notice,
in the back, he has a big carton of sealed envelopes. He takes a turning off
the A23 and we go along some country lanes, then he turns up this farm track
and we drive into this broken down old farmyard. He pulls up, reaches over his
shoulder and takes one of the envelopes. “Do me a favour,” he says. “Take this
to the farmhouse. Knock at the door, and if no-one answers, put it inside on
the hall table.” I say, “No problem.” I take the envelope and off I go.
    ‘The
farmhouse is about thirty yards away, and I glance back over my shoulder a
couple of times and notice that the driver is watching me very intently. I
knock at the door and I wait. Then I hear this dog barking and look back and
see a great big dog snapping at the VW. The driver is momentarily distracted,
so I duck down behind some old corrugated iron and wait to see what will
happen next. The driver shouts at the dog, and the dog ambles off. The driver
looks back in my direction. He can’t see me, smiles, turns the VW around and
drives away.’
    ‘This
is all bloody odd,’ I said.
    ‘Bloody
odd,’ said the mendicant. ‘And bloody suspicious. So I decide to take a look
around. No-one has answered my knock at the front door and the place seems
deserted so I slip round to the back of the house to see what might be seen.
And the first thing I see is the first mountain.’
    ‘The
first mountain?’
    ‘About
ten feet high. Hundreds of pieces of mouldy cardboard, thousands in fact. The
ones at the bottom of the mound look ancient, the ones at the top a lot newer.
These have all got something written on them. The same something. A single
word. London.’
    ‘London?’
    ‘And
then I see the second mountain. A mountain of rucksacks and sleeping bags.’
    ‘Good
God,’ I said.
    ‘Good
God is right. I go back to the front of the house and I’m wondering what to do.
I figure I’ll push open the front door a couple of inches and take a careful peep
inside. And I’m just doing this when the big dog attacks me. It comes rushing
up out of nowhere and it leaps at my throat. I duck out of the way and the dog
hits the front door, knocking it wide open. As I roll over I see the dog land
in the hall, and as its feet hit the floor the floor tilts like a trap door and
there’s this terrible sound of whirling machinery. And I just catch a glimpse
of the dog as it vanishes into all these thrashing blades, howling hideously,
before the floor swings back up into place, the front door closes and all goes
very quiet indeed.’
    ‘Holy
shit!’ I said.
    The
mendicant finished his second pint. ‘“Recycling”,’ he said, ‘that’s what the
driver called it. “Recycling