‘Big Issue’ – Another Of the Runners-up In Our Short Story Competition

Published on: 8 Nov, 2025
Updated on: 8 Nov, 2025

Today we are delighted to publish another of the runners-up in our short story competition, run in conjunction with Guildford’s new independent bookshop, Paper Moon.

Richard Garcka’s story focuses on a homeless man selling copies of the Big Issue in Guildford High Street.

Big Issue

By Richard Garcka

Billy wondered why he bothered.

“Big Issue!”

He had set up his pitch here thinking that Guildford High Street would deliver wealthier punters. Sell enough copies of the Big Issue and he might just afford the coach fare to his sister’s in Yorkshire. She would have him if he promised not to fall off the wagon. And there would be work there; farms were short of labourers nowadays. But first, he needed the money for a ticket. At this rate, he would be lucky to afford the bus back to the shelter.

He tried exercising his shoulders while clutching the pile of magazines. A chill wind froze one side of his face. You appreciated the seasons more when you were homeless. Billy considered crossing the road so he might present the other cheek, when a man approached holding out some coins.

“’Ere you are, mate.”

“Thanks, guvnor,” said Billy. “That’ll be £4.”

“Oh, wait up. Is that the Aliens issue? I bought that on Monday. Sorry.”

The man and his coins walked away. Billy wanted to shout at him: never mind whether you’ve read it. Buy it twice! Buy it ten times! He wasn’t W H Smith’s. This was his livelihood. But he decided yelling after punters would not look good for business

Billy noticed himself in the shop window across the road. From a distance, not so bad. The red tabard looked smart enough. And he was able to grab a cold shower and a shave at the shelter this morning. New trainers off that old dear from the charity. Fluorescent red to go with the uniform, she had said. Warm feet for once, is what Billy thought; bugger the colour. Hair needed a comb – couldn’t make out his face – just as well – but he might pass for someone younger than forty-three. Looking a damn sight better than when he was on the booze.

“Big Issue, love?” he asked.

The young woman hurried by. Tall, elegant, smart business-suit, exuding wealth. She muttered something about no change and gesticulated at her clutched purse, trying to mime the message at the same time. It seemed to be bulging. Her stilettos sped up as she passed, before resuming their regular stride.

Eyes fixated on her legs, three lads followed close behind. No money to rub together. One turned to Billy: “Don’t take her personally, bro. If you ain’t no little green man, they don’t wanna know!”

Billy shrugged and the boys hurried by. He liked being called bro. And they were right, of course. All the Big Issue vendors were saying the same when they met at the depot. The public’s interest in donating to those-in-need had dried up since the aliens had landed.

What was the point? Billy had heard the argument before. Maybe the Martians were planning to enslave us. Or maybe they would cure all our ills. World peace and all the trimmings. Whatever happened, forget charity. This would be a game-changer. A new start. Or a new end. No point worrying about the future any more.

Billy shifted from one foot to another to keep his circulation moving. Since living on the streets, he had learned never to rely on vague promises. Politicians with their fancy words. Media campaigns. Give me a hot meal, a roof over my head and somewhere safe from predators. That was all that mattered. If aliens were going to provide that, then welcome to Earth. If they wanted to blow us up to kingdom come, be my guest. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.

Where were the extra terrestrials anyway? Five weeks since the spaceships arrived and not a sign of them. He stared at the magazine cover, displaying one of the dozens of craft that had landed across the world. Shaped like doughnuts. Large doughnuts. Billy was hungry most of the time, but he would struggle with this doughnut – standing on end, it towered two hundred feet.

One had landed in Stoke Park, not far from where he now stood. Smooth silver casing. No windows. No sign of life. The military was trying to make contact, but nothing. No space aliens. No Terminators. Not even sodding ET. Billy could not become worked up by it. Offer me a bed for the night or bugger off back to Mars.

The foot-traffic had dwindled. That quiet moment between the morning shoppers and the early lunch-takers. Billy rocked back and forth on his heels and stared up at the grey October sky. He wondered what the weather was like in Yorkshire.

“Excuse me, kind sir.”

Billy jumped and nearly dropped the magazines onto the damp pavement. The voice came from behind. Billy turned his head and found himself no more than six inches away from a man’s face.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me!” Billy stepped back a pace. “£4, mate.”

“£4 to you too, sir.” He wore a smile which seemed artificial. Heavy dark coat with collar turned up. Dark trilby. Sunglasses which were unseasonal, but not unusual for Guildford where residents sometimes preferred anonymity. Skin was cellar black. Average height. Average build. Just average. Billy thought him harmless enough.

“What’s that, mate? The Big Issue costs £4.” Billy held out a copy.

“Ah, yes! A magazine.” The man rummaged in his pocket and thrust a bundle of notes into Billy’s outstretched hand. £50 notes. Lots of them. “Will this do?”

“Shitting hell. Put that away.” Billy looked around as he returned the money. “You can’t be flashing this much cash out in the open. You’ll have pickpockets lining up. Or worse.”

The man’s smile turned down. “Have I offended you, sir?”

“No. What? No. You’re not from round here, are you. The magazine costs £4, right? You’re giving me five hundred quid or more. I’m all for charity but that’s too much.”

From his stilted English, the man sounded foreign. In his drinking days, Billy would not have thought twice about fleecing him. But he was trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Turn over a new leaf. Do the right thing so he could look his sister in the face.

“Charity?” The man seemed to be searching his mind for a definition. “Oh, I know. When people give money to help others.”

“Got it in one.” Billy held up the magazine. “Here’s how it works. I buy these up front for £2 each. Then I sell them for £4. Profit buys me a hot meal. Maybe a cheap bed.”

“You have no home?” The man tilted his head to one side in concern.

“No, mate. What, you don’t have homeless people where you come from?”

The man did not answer but looked up and down the street.

“There are so many buildings here. You cannot live in one of these?”

“They belong to people. You’re really not from this country, are you.” Billy was starting to wonder if this was a wind-up. Bag-snatchers were not beyond distracting someone while they were mugging them. He kept his ear open for the sound of a moped.

The man had turned his head away and seemed lost in thought. Billy guessed he was on a Bluetooth phone, since he saw the man’s lips moving. He faced Billy again and once more handed him the wad of cash.

“I’ll take them all.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll take all your magazines. For my friends.”

Billy pursed his lips, scrutinising the notes. Counterfeit money, maybe? But why spend it on magazines? The man seemed to read his mind.

“The banknotes are perfectly legal. We know it is more than your magazines are worth, but we want to be… charitable.” The man articulated the last word slowly, as though trying it out for the first time. “Anyway, we are leaving soon. We have seen and heard much that is distressing. This place is more backward than we thought.” The man shrugged in a sort of what-can-you-do way.

Billy decided he must be one of those eccentric billionaires. No idea about the real world but prone to random acts of philanthropy. He took the money and handed over the magazines.

“Well, I’m not arguing with you. But I’m not keeping all this. I’ll share it with the others back at the depot. Much obliged.”

The man tucked the pile under his arm and turned to leave. He paused to look back at Billy.

“You will? Interesting. Perhaps there’s hope for your people yet. Now, can you please direct me to Stoke Park?”

Billy, distracted by trying to count the notes discreetly, gave the man general directions. When he looked back up, the man was gone. Billy stuffed the notes into his inside pocket and headed off toward the bus terminal. He noticed a discarded newspaper in a nearby bin. The picture of a spacecraft was on the front cover. The one in Stoke Park.

Billy nodded to himself. Safe journey, he thought, then he quickened his pace. He had a coach to Yorkshire to catch.