of them, it was the only way that he could escape his miserable life. In a slurred northern accent he shouted the same old thing, over and over again, about how God had fucked him over. He used to have a wife, kids, a house, a job. It had all gone wrong, he'd lost everything, and it was all God's fault.
I got under the water, trying my hardest to block out the noise as the others started to join in, telling him to shut the fuck up.
The council-run 'hostel' was what we used to call a doss-house when we were kids. Nowadays it was filled not only with home less men of every age with uniformly sad lives, but also Bosnian, Serbian and Kosovan refugees, who seemed to have brought their ' war to London as they fought amongst themselves in the corridors and washrooms.
The noises outside the shower started to merge and magnify side my head. My heartbeat went into overdrive and my legs felt numb with pins and needles again. I slumped down in the shower tray and covered my ears with my hands.
I just sat there covering my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise, plagued by the same childlike terror that had overwhelmed me in the cafe.
The image that the Yes Man had planted in my head, of Kelly in bed asleep, in the dark, was still with me. She'd be there now, this minute, in Maryland. She would be in her bunk bed, below Josh's eldest daughter. I knew exactly how she would look. I had woken up and tucked her back in so many times when it was cold, or when a memory of her murdered family had returned to haunt her. She would be half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on her back, arms and legs out like a starfish, sucking her bottom lip, her eyes flickering under their lids as she dreamed.
Then I thought of her dead. No sucking of the lip, no REM, just a stiff, dead starfish. I tried to imagine how I would feel if that happened, knowing that I had the responsibility to make sure that it didn't. It didn't bear thinking about. I wasn't sure if it was in my head, or I was yelling it out loud, but I heard my own voice shout, 'How the fuck did you end up like this?'
EIGHT
I was turning into one of those nutters out there in the corridor. I'd never had much difficulty understanding why they turned to drink and drugs to escape the shit of the real world.
I sat there for a few minutes longer, just feeling sorry for myself, looking at the only things I had to show for my progress through the real world: a pink dent in my stomach from a 9mm round, and the neat row of puncture holes on my right forearm from a North Carolina police dog.
I lifted my head out of my hands and gave myself a strict talking-to.
'Sort yourself out, dickhead! Get a grip. Get yourself out of this ...'
I had to cut away, just like I'd learnt to do as a kid. No one was coming to help me deal with the night monster; I had to get on with it on my own.
I cleared my nostrils of mucus, and it was only then that I realized I must have been crying.
Hauling myself to my feet I pulled out the washing and shaving kit and got to work. After I'd cleaned myself up I stayed in the cubicle for another ten minutes, using my old clothes to dry myself. I threw on my new jeans and sweatshirt; the only old things I put back on were my Timberlands, bomber jacket and belt.
I left everything else in the shower they could have that as my leaving present and walked back along the corridor. Through his open door whatever-his-name-was had finished gob bing off about God and collapsed face down on his urine-stained bed. A bit further on, I passed the closed door to my old cell-like room. I'd only left the previous Saturday but it already had a new occupant; I could hear a radio being tuned in. He, too, probably had his carton of milk out on the sill of the narrow window. We all did well, the ones who had a kettle.
I made my way down the stairs, brushing my hair back with my fingers and regaining some composure.
Down in the reception area, I picked up the wall-mounted phone, shoved in six and a half quid's worth of coins, and started dialling Josh, trying desperately to think of an excuse for calling him so early. The east coast of the US was five hours behind.
The distinctive tone rang just twice before I heard a sleepy American grunt.
'Yeah?'
'Josh, it's me, Nick.' I hoped he wouldn't notice the tremor in my voice.
'What do you want, Nick? It's just after six.'
I covered the other ear to cut out some young guy who needed help up the stairs from an old drunk as he staggered about with glazed and drugged-out eyes. I'd seen them both before: the old guy was his father, who also lived in.
'I know, I'm sorry, mate. It's just that I can't make it until next Tuesday and
I-'
There was a loud sigh. He'd heard my I-can't-make-it routine so many times before. He knew nothing of my situation, he knew nothing of what had been going on this last few months. All he'd seen of me was the money I sent.
'Look, I know, mate, I'm sorry, I really can't make it.'
The earpiece barked: 'Why can't you get your life in good order? We arranged this Tuesday that's tomorrow, man. She's got her heart set on it. She loves you so much, man, so much -don't you get it? You can't just breeze in and-' I knew what he was going to say and cut in, almost begging, 'I know, I know. I'm sorry .. .' I knew where the conversation was going and also knew that he was right in taking it there.
'Please, Josh can I talk with her?'
If He lost his cool for once and went ballistic.
'No!'
'I-..'
It was too late; he'd hung up.
I slumped down on a plastic stack able chair, staring at one of the notice boards telling people what and what not to do, and how to do it.
'You OK, darling?'
I looked across at Maureen, the other side of the reception. She waved me over, sounding like an older sister, I supposed.
'You look fed up. Come and have a chat, come on, darling.'
My mind was elsewhere as I approached the hole in the wall that gave access of a kind to her desk. It was at head height. Anything bigger and lower and she wouldn't have had any protection from the drunks and the drugged-up who had a problem with the house rules.
'Been a bad call to that little girl of yours?'
'What?'
'You keep yourself to yourself, but I see things from this little cubbyhole, you know. I've heard you on the phone, coming off more depressed than when you went on. I don't just buzz the door open, you know!' She gave a loud roar as I smiled and acknowledged her attempt to cheer me up.
'Was it a bad one, darling? You
OK?'
It was all right.'
'That's good, I'm glad. You know, I've watched you come in and out of here, looking so sad. I reckoned it was a divorce1 can normally tell. It must be hard not seeing your little 'un. I was just worried about you, that's all, darling.'
'No need, Maureen, things are OK, really.'
She tutted in agreement.
'Good ... good, but, you know, things normally-' Her attention was drawn momentarily to the staircase. Kosovans or whoever had started shouting angrily at each other on one of the upper landings. She shrugged at me and grinned.
'Well, let's just say things have a way of sorting themselves out. I've seen that look of yours in here before. And I tell them all the same, and I'm always right. Things can only get better, you'll see.'
At that moment a fight erupted above us somewhere and a
Nike sports bag tumbled down the stairs, soon followed by its tobacco-selling owner in a brown V-neck jumper and white socks. Maureen reached for her two-way radio as a couple of guys jumped down after him and
