on the spike of the top flagpole (careful not to let the spike pierce through her chin) and she would look down. She would survey the ground. The whole town would be below her.
Down there, over there, she sees her remains; her sleeping bag, her blanket, her day’s takings. Where she sits each day is piled like a mistake, like rubbish, against the edge of the hotel.
She stops the imagining. It will make her go mad.
A taxi stops. Someone gets out and pays through the window, goes up the hotel steps and through the door.
She could stay in the hotel.
Tonight she could stay in a hotel.
That woman who offered her the room in the hotel; it is never as chancy, an offer from a woman, as it is from a man. That’s common sense. Women aren’t as strong, usually, and anyway they’re less likely to give you a hard time, although they’re just as likely to be lying. But she could check it all out. She could make a real noise if it wasn’t okay. There’s bound to be other people in a hotel.A hotel has a staff who have to clean out rooms, or at least every few days they do. There would always be somebody about, eventually, if she was in any trouble.
No strings. Who knows what it means?
It could mean money.
It could mean something foul.
It could mean something good.
It could even be a disguise, a shorthand, for something that might make her happy.
Or it could mean something she doesn’t know, can’t know yet, something else. Something, Else. And there’s no denying this has been a lucky day, so far. She leans backwards, stretches to touch the doorframe of the carpet showroom. Touch wood. This has been quite a good day. Whatever the game, it might be worth, in the end, her own room with a bed in it for the night.
She drops the girl’s money in handfuls into the pocket of her coat, where it falls down into the lining.
She will cross the road and take the change she’s folded under her blanket and put it in her pocket too. Then she will walk up the road like someone who is going to stay in a hotel. She will pass under the flying head. Now she can’t tell any more whether she’s just imagining it, as she pushes through the revolving door and into the blast of heat and the scent of meats and sauces that the air in a hotel is. Nobody stops her. She is walking on carpet that sinks like gracious mud, past chairs that are as big as she is. Nobody has stopped her yet. The reception desk comes up to her shoulders. The person behind it is on thetelephone. She looks different, more frightening, in the light. She is speaking very loudly, and in an accent that has been clipped into a style. Something is clipping at her words as they come out of her mouth. Else imagines the clipping is being done by pinking-shear blades; narrow strands of irrelevant material stripped back, soft-tooth-edged, off the receptionist’s words, dropped and wavering down to the floor and landing round her feet under the reception desk, like the swathes of speech that come out of the mouths of people in cartoons and holy pictures drawn and painted centuries ago.
The receptionist presses a button, holds the receiver away from herself and turns.
Can I help you? she says.
Then she says, Oh. Oh. Right. Can I, can I help you?
Else clears her throat and swallows.
A room? the woman says. For tonight?
Else nods.
The woman glances over her own shoulder; she looks younger when she does that, and nervous. Then she nods back, one nod.
For the one night, she says very loud. Certainly, madam. If you could just bear with me a moment.
She types something into a computer, then types something else. She presses a button. A bell rings somewhere down a corridor. Else gets ready to make a run for the door. Nothing happens. The woman stands up and reaches behind her for a key.
Else stifles a rising coughing. It will make her chestburst, but she holds it in. The woman waits, her hands on the counter, till Else is ready. Else sees that she’s wearing a badge with four
Down there, over there, she sees her remains; her sleeping bag, her blanket, her day’s takings. Where she sits each day is piled like a mistake, like rubbish, against the edge of the hotel.
She stops the imagining. It will make her go mad.
A taxi stops. Someone gets out and pays through the window, goes up the hotel steps and through the door.
She could stay in the hotel.
Tonight she could stay in a hotel.
That woman who offered her the room in the hotel; it is never as chancy, an offer from a woman, as it is from a man. That’s common sense. Women aren’t as strong, usually, and anyway they’re less likely to give you a hard time, although they’re just as likely to be lying. But she could check it all out. She could make a real noise if it wasn’t okay. There’s bound to be other people in a hotel.A hotel has a staff who have to clean out rooms, or at least every few days they do. There would always be somebody about, eventually, if she was in any trouble.
No strings. Who knows what it means?
It could mean money.
It could mean something foul.
It could mean something good.
It could even be a disguise, a shorthand, for something that might make her happy.
Or it could mean something she doesn’t know, can’t know yet, something else. Something, Else. And there’s no denying this has been a lucky day, so far. She leans backwards, stretches to touch the doorframe of the carpet showroom. Touch wood. This has been quite a good day. Whatever the game, it might be worth, in the end, her own room with a bed in it for the night.
She drops the girl’s money in handfuls into the pocket of her coat, where it falls down into the lining.
She will cross the road and take the change she’s folded under her blanket and put it in her pocket too. Then she will walk up the road like someone who is going to stay in a hotel. She will pass under the flying head. Now she can’t tell any more whether she’s just imagining it, as she pushes through the revolving door and into the blast of heat and the scent of meats and sauces that the air in a hotel is. Nobody stops her. She is walking on carpet that sinks like gracious mud, past chairs that are as big as she is. Nobody has stopped her yet. The reception desk comes up to her shoulders. The person behind it is on thetelephone. She looks different, more frightening, in the light. She is speaking very loudly, and in an accent that has been clipped into a style. Something is clipping at her words as they come out of her mouth. Else imagines the clipping is being done by pinking-shear blades; narrow strands of irrelevant material stripped back, soft-tooth-edged, off the receptionist’s words, dropped and wavering down to the floor and landing round her feet under the reception desk, like the swathes of speech that come out of the mouths of people in cartoons and holy pictures drawn and painted centuries ago.
The receptionist presses a button, holds the receiver away from herself and turns.
Can I help you? she says.
Then she says, Oh. Oh. Right. Can I, can I help you?
Else clears her throat and swallows.
A room? the woman says. For tonight?
Else nods.
The woman glances over her own shoulder; she looks younger when she does that, and nervous. Then she nods back, one nod.
For the one night, she says very loud. Certainly, madam. If you could just bear with me a moment.
She types something into a computer, then types something else. She presses a button. A bell rings somewhere down a corridor. Else gets ready to make a run for the door. Nothing happens. The woman stands up and reaches behind her for a key.
Else stifles a rising coughing. It will make her chestburst, but she holds it in. The woman waits, her hands on the counter, till Else is ready. Else sees that she’s wearing a badge with four
Similar Books
