‘For you to come back to my room to make love.’
‘WHAT?’
The old electric shock of fear ran then from my chest to every other surface of my skin, signalling that I was in danger. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I said loudly. It was just him and me in here. I wanted him to go away, now. He got the picture, loud and clear.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I misunderstood.’
Then he just walked away.
I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I didn’t feel safe there anymore. My mind was racing a hundred miles an hour. Maybe it was just me? But there was something very creepy and not right about that guy. I wondered if I should say something at the front desk, but it was all so odd—would they think I was making it up?
For a few moments I remained on the couch, alternating between fear and anger. Who the fuck was that guy? Why didn’t we have locks on our room? What if he tried to rape me in the middle of the night? (He’s not going to rape you. Why would he rape you? If he was going to rape you, he’d have raped you already. Besides, you’re a fat fuck. As if anyone would rape you.) But I just couldn’t make sense of it. I had never seen that guy before. What had I done that had made him think I wanted to have sex with him? Did I look at him funny? Was it my fault?
My body told me to get up and leave, so I did—I walked out onto the street, casting nervous glances over my shoulder, a key in my hand ready to stab anyone who came near me. My mind continued to race. Was I being paranoid? I was being paranoid, of course I was. But he was so creepy. What the fuck had he meant when he said, ‘Oh, you don’t know?’ as though … what? Was this hostel actually just some big fuck-party? Had I missed the memo? Was that why it was so loud at night with so many people coming and going? What the fuck was I doing there?
That night, as I walked, and raged, a feeling of unreality walked with me. At one point I pinched myself, not quite sure if I was awake or asleep. I wish my father was here. I wish I could hold his hand, just for a second. But he wasn’t here. No one was here. No one was looking out for me. What if something happened to me? No one would know.
The voice in my head kept telling me to get a grip. No one is going to hurt you. It was just a misunderstanding. You’re being a fuckwit. Get a grip.
What I wanted in that moment, more than anything, was Joffa. I wanted him next to me. I had travelled all this way to get as far from him as I could, and all I wanted was to hear his voice again. Just the thought of hearing his voice made me breathe a little easier.
I stepped into a phone booth and called his number. My hands were shaking so much that it took a few attempts. When he answered the phone, my heart dropped. He did not sound happy to hear from me. He sounded stoned. I didn’t tell him what had happened at the backpackers; I told myself it would probably sound so stupid, and besides, he’d probably think I was trying to make him jealous and he’d get pissed off at me. He barely said a word, and I didn’t have enough credit on my calling card to wait for him to care. As I replaced the receiver on its hook, my hands still shaking, I started to feel faint, dizzy. The voice said, Maybe someone spiked your tea.
That night, in my bed, I lay awake yet again, this time with my mother’s rosary beads in my hand. I tried not to make noise as I cried. Pathetic, I said to myself. You are fucking pathetic. You are a baby. Grow up.
I must have dozed off at some point, but when I woke, it was with a startle. It was early still. Dawn was only just breaking. I got up and headed to the shower. I opened the door cautiously. What if he is in the bathroom? I looked under all the stalls. Nobody was there.
I hadn’t really noticed it before, but the smell of mould in the bathroom was so strong it made me feel ill. My head hurt too. As I showered I recalled a story I’d read once in a magazine about a girl who died from inadvertently inhaling bathroom mould. Cold panic prickled my skin. Was I going to die here?
I then did a thing I’d seen other people do in movies: I slapped myself on the face, turned off the hot water, and stood under the cold water trying to shock myself awake. It worked. Pull yourself together, Bowditch. Get out, go for a walk.
So I did. It was quiet at that time of morning. I remember hearing a bird singing. I remember feeling happy then, for just a second, as though things might be okay. As though I might be okay. But a passing truck disturbed my peace, and once again the bad feeling shadowed me, told me I’d need to be careful to make sure I got through the day without dying. I had Mum’s rosary beads in my pocket. I walked and prayed, said, ‘Please, God, protect me.’ But from what? This was the most confusing part—that there was no obvious threat to speak of. Just a feeling in me, a bad feeling, like something very wrong was either happening, or about to start.
But that night I could not sleep, not at all. I rang the employment agency after-hours number and told them I was sick, that I wouldn’t be able to start the
