Gavin was lonely, even though the streets were full of people. Ever since Cassy had gone the aloneness was everywhere... like a grey fog surrounding him. The lights, people and buildings, everything seemed to recede and always to be just out of his reach. He walked about the city in a daze , searching for her.

Somehow they had become separated as they pushed their way through the press of Christmas shoppers. People were often more generous at this time of year, so Gavin hoped that Cassy would have a little money to buy hot food on the day she left. She hadn't coughed so much during the night before and in the morning her cheeks had two splashes of bright colour.

"I'm over the worst, Gav," she assured him. "Honest. " Her eyes were huge, sunk into deep blue shadows. At dawn they had packed their few belongings into a back-pack which Gavin carried. That was three days ago... or was it a week? He had lost count of the time.

It wasn't so easy to find food on his own. Now he too was coughing in long painful spasms that tore his chest, bending him almost double as he gasped for breath.

No one had seen Cassy. He asked all the usual crowd at the soup station where he first met her. New to homelessness, he had hovered on the outskirts of the group. They milled around in a glow of warmth and light, clasping their mugs of hot soup in both hands. Their breath steamed, floating in spirals up above the roof tops towards the black sky sprinkled with frosty stars.

Cassy had given him half of her meat pie and somehow they stayed together. It just happened with no explanations. Neither of them said very much, there was no need, they had a mutual understanding and now he felt lost without her.

One of the crowd remarked, " 'spect she's gone into the Gallery..." The others turned away to hide the fear in their eyes.

Many rumours and superstitions circulated amongst the street people. They came and went, but the myth about the Art Gallery persisted. When one of the homeless gave up all hope for the future, and it only seemed to be the young ones, they would climb the wide steps and enter the imposing building. Why they chose the Gallery or where they went after entering it remained a mystery. No one ever came back to tell. Sometimes those outside thought they recognised a coat or particular woolly hat, but it was always worn by a stranger.

When one of the street people went into hospital or died, they all heard about it. Going into the Gallery was different; there they disappeared. Members of the public went in and out all day... why should the street people be an exception? It was weird. They whispered amongst themselves and decided it was better not talked about. Thoughts of the Gallery filled Gavin's mind as he made his way to his patch for the night.

Snow skittered across the dry pavement. Tiny granules danced in mini twisters before settling into the cracks. It was very cold. More bone chilling without Cassy's frail body pressed close to him inside their sleeping bag. The sharp snow stung Gavin's face, melting into hot tears; although he had long since forgotten how to cry.

The red and yellow reflection of lights within the shop window gave a semblance of heat. In the doorway Gavin crouched against the wall, trying to avoid the draughts. He pulled the sleeping bag over his head but it was too cold to sleep. His lungs rasped with coughing. At daybreak he was exhausted. He dragged himself from under the layers of plastic and newspaper and,with the sleeping bag, dumped the lot in the nearest litter bin. His whole body ached. Without Cassy he could see no reason to continue this daily struggle.

He made his way slowly towards the Art Gallery and stood for some time staring past the open doorway into the foyer. At last he mingled with a party of students and went inside. With his long scarf wrapped around his neck and flipped over one shoulder of his ex-army great coat he easily passed as one of them.

He trudged from room to room, occasionally resting on the long polished benches placed at strategic positions in front of an especially noteworthy work of art. The central heating was hot and Gavin longed to sleep. He felt light-headed and found it difficult to focus his eyes. It was already late afternoon and he had seen no sign of Cassy. Intuitively he knew that she wasn't far away.

Low shafts of late sunlight diffused the concentrated spotlights in the Gallery. The pictures and sculptures took on another dimension. Gavin thought that they were moving. They began to close in on him, forcing him to go past the marble pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling, leading him into a shadowy recess in the oldest part of the building. He became disorientated by a display of wall to wall holograms. The subjects depicted in them changed shape with every movement of his head. Rivers poured down mountain sides to cascade into pools where young people splashed and played, laughing they beckoned to him to come and join them.

The whole was lit by a vast lava lamp. It towered from floor to ceiling at the far end of the recess. Within the glass casing oil boiled and seethed, parting and closing ceaselessly. A kaleidoscope of colours giving tantalising glimpses of a shining world beyond. It filled him with such longing that he lost all sense of being. He had an overpowering desire to step into this strange world.

Out of the swelling billows rose a young girl who held out her arms towards him. "Oh Cassy..." he cried. " Cassy...Cassy..." and he fell onto his knees.

He left his clothes scattered at the foot of the lamp and joyfully grasped her outstretched hands in his. Together they melted into the warm oil. Gleaming bubbles jewelled their skin as they floated into oblivion. The oil rolled, brilliant green, purple and gold, rising and falling with hypnotic grace.

A janitor, pushing her cleaning trolley through the Gallery later that night, found Gavin's clothes. "Oh, not again." She sighed. Then, because she wished to avoid any fuss or the unwanted attentions of the police, she stuffed them into a bin bag and threw it out into the yard with the other rubbish. She never tied up the bags. It made it made it easier for the street people to rummage through them during the night... tidier than tearing the bags open and she wished them luck.

In the Gallery only the security lights remained switched on. The hologram recess was in darkness and the lava lamp cooled.

The oil sank slowly to settle on its base. There it heaved as if it were alive. Like some great beast...asleep and gently breathing.