He opened his eyes and saw an angel. She was perfection. Her hair was a blond corona that cascaded down to her shoulders, framing her flawless face. It glowed as if on fire, almost white in its radiance. Her skin was clear and white, as if made of marble, and her cheekbones were high and fine. Her eyes were a piercing blue, watching him intently, moist with concern and wide in innocence. Her nose was straight and true, with a slight upturn at the end giving a young girlish appearance to her face. She wore an expression of surprise, her lips, the color of soft pink roses, were held apart to form an oval.
"Mr. Cavil, are you alright?" she said, "You had been calling out in your sleep." She shifted position slightly, revealing the morning sun through the window behind her that had been shining on her hair, and he was momentarily dazzled. He felt a dizzying shift of perspective as he realized where he was: the St. Lucille Mission. He had been here before, many times, often for soup or a light dinner, and occasionally for a warm bed on a cold night, or a shower to wash away the grime of a life on the streets.
"How did I get here?" he asked. He had no memory of coming.
"Your friends brought you in. You had passed out." She raised an eyebrow at him. "I think you had been drinking again, Mr. Cavil."
Cavil propped himself up on his elbow, and as if to punctuate her rebuke, felt a terrible pounding in his head. He looked around and saw that he was in the dormitory, a long thin room lined with narrow beds, ten on each side. The furnishings were sparse and poor, but it was clean and warm. The beds were mostly empty, but he could see a few other forms huddled under blankets. He groaned and lay back down.
"You take your time Mr. Cavil," she said, "and when you are ready, have a shower and some breakfast if you like."
She stood up, smiling at him. Her smile was broad and genuine, showing perfect white teeth. It lit up her face and dimples formed on her cheeks. His angel's name was Sophie, and she ran the mission with her husband, Martin Peterson. She was simply dressed, in a crisp white blouse with short sleeves and dark gray pants. She wore sensible shoes on her feet.
She turned and walked away from him, into another room where a handful of men were sitting around a table eating cereal from big bowls. They were poorly dressed, refugees from the streets who had spent the night at the mission. She gathered some dirty dishes and walked to the kitchen to add them to the others. On the way she passed another, smaller room where four men were gathered in a circle, open bibles on their laps. Her husband, Martin, looked up as she passed and they exchanged warm smiles.
The men with Martin were better dressed than those in the dining area. They were living in the mission's few private rooms, having made a decision to turn their lives around. This was the part of the mission of which Martin was most proud. They had, in the last few years, helped many back on their feet, to lead constructive and fulfilling lives in their community. Martin insisted that there be no pressure to convert to Christianity at the mission, and all were welcome irrespective of belief. But many did convert; perhaps inspired by the kindness they received from Martin and his wife.
Sophie filled the sink with steaming hot water and began to wash up when she heard the mailman stuffing the morning mail through the letterbox. She dried her hands and went to pick it up. Shuffling through the junk mail and utility bills she came to a letter with "Urgent" stamped on the front in red letters. The contents elicited a soft "Oh!" of surprise: the letter inside was titled "Notice of Eviction".
#
An hour later, Martin and his wife were together in the dining room. Martin was sitting at the table, with his head in his hands. Sophie was pacing behind him, wringing her hands. The men had mostly gone; the homeless had returned to their lives on the street and their longer-term guests were either back in their rooms or performing tasks around the Mission. One of the latter group, a man of middle years, was cleaning the dining room floor with a mop and bucket.
"But what will we do?" asked Sophie, "Where will we go?" She continued to pace.
"The eviction gives us a month to find somewhere new," replied Martin looking up, "but I am not optimistic about finding something we can afford. We are already right on the bread line and still haven't paid off some of the debts from setting up."
Sophie sat down at the end of the table. She sighed.
"If only we hadn't spent all that money on Jerome's -" she started but Martin interrupted.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "paying for Jerome's operation was exactly the right thing to do. Without it he would still be in pain. It was the right thing to do, and we need to have faith that the Good Lord will look after us."
"Of course," she said, hanging her head. "So what will we do?"
"First, we need to start looking for a new place. I can do that, though I don't have much hope. Second, we need to go a talk to..." he lifted the letter to read the name, "... Raymond Fox and see if we can persuade him to let us stay, or at least give us longer to find a new place."
"I can do that," she said. "Maybe if I explain the work we do he will reconsider."
Martin raised an eyebrow. "Don't get you hopes up. From the letter it looks like our lessor owns some sort of nightclub - The Fox Den - so I don't think he will be very sympathetic to a Christian Mission."
She smiled at her husband. "I'm sure we will be able to sort something out. Remember, the Lord is looking out for us."
#
Sophie peered nervously out of the cab's window as she approached her destination, her earlier confidence draining from her. It was clearly a poor area, with a largely black population, though it didn't appear destitute. The street was busy despite the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun and the shop fronts were open for business. There were market stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables, clothing stores with signs advertising 50%-off sales in their windows, launderettes, pawn shops and bars. Her own Mission was also in a poor area, though it was on the other side of town and rather quiet. In contrast the people here were full of life: she saw a large matronly woman haggling; a middle aged housewife arguing over the price of a garment with an intimidated shopkeeper; young men greeting each other with strange handshakes and chatting on the street; an old man sipping beer at a table outside a run down café.
She mentally prepared herself for the meeting. She needed to be forthright, businesslike and assertive, she told herself. She had tried to cultivate this image by wearing a smart business suit. The skirt was blue and came down to her knees, though was a little tighter than she liked and tended to ride up her leg when she sat. She wore a matching blue jacket and a white blouse underneath. He legs were clad in tan pantyhose and she wore sensible blue shoes with a small heel. She had put her blonde hair up in a bun and wore large horn-rimmed glasses. She didn't really need the glasses, but wore them to provide a more intellectual image. She had applied some lipstick and given her cheeks a light dusting of blusher.
The cab drew up and Sophie paid the driver. It was only as the cab was driving away did she realize The Fox Den was not a nightclub at all. It was a strip club. The name of the club was displayed over the door in flashing neon lights. Next to it was the club's logo - a silhouette of a naked woman with exaggerated features, also in neon. The silhouette was sideways on, bending over, pushing out her breasts and rear, and had a large fox-like tail and pointed fox ears.
A huge black man with a shaved head stood at the door, dressed entirely in black. His muscles glistened with sweat in the oppressive heat and stretched the black t-shirt he was wearing. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked up to him.
"I need to talk to Mr. Fox please," she said, a forced and nervous smile on her lips.
"What about?" he grunted in a deep voice. He made no attempt to hide his gaze, looking her up and down.
"Um... about a property he is leasing," she replied.
"Wait here." He turned and walked into the club while she waited patiently. She felt horribly exposed, standing outside a strip club, obviously out of place. A band of black youths walked past. They said nothing, but leered at her suggestively. She wished her skirt wasn't so tight and her jacket was a little longer. Fortunately, the bouncer soon returned and gestured for her to follow.
The inside of the club was dark and it took her a few seconds to adjust her eyes. She followed him along a dingy corridor to a door, which he opened and gestured to her to go inside.
The office was also dark. Its only window was large and ran along one wall, looking out on the main floor of the club, which was also in darkness. A desk lamp illuminated one end of the room and the desk it sat on. Behind the desk sat a man who she presumed was Mr. Raymond Fox, owner of the club and the property the mission was renting. Given the neighborhood, she had expected a black man, but he was not. He was probably about forty, and rather handsome with salt-and-pepper hair and was dressed in a smart black suit and black silk shirt with no tie. He didn't get up but motioned to a chair in front of the desk.
