Four
A rack of brochures stood by the station exit. Timothy flipped through them, looking for hostels. There seemed to be quite a few within walking distance, but the closest was the Trans-National, a few streets away. Stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, he picked up his guitar case and headed off.
As he walked, a slimy rain began dripping down the collar of his jacket; taxis honked at him and buses rumbled by. He passed clumps and straggles of pedestrians, all walking briskly and not sparing him so much as a glance. The guitar case dragged at his arm, and the straps of his backpack chafed. Timothy was gazing blearily into the distance and thinking that the hostel had looked a lot nearer on the map, when suddenly he tripped, staggering against a shop window. He looked down and saw with dull surprise that his shoelace had come untied.
Now that was odd. He’d done it up on the train, and he was sure he’d double-knotted it. Setting down his guitar case, he dropped to one knee to fix it-and someone bumped into him from behind.
“Oh, sorry!” said a light alto voice, and a hand came down on his shoulder. Timothy spun around to see a willowy girl with skin the color of tea leaves and dark hair falling in braids to her shoulders. His heart felt weak, and his lips moved in soundless disbelief: Miriam?
No, of course it wasn’t. This girl’s nose was narrower and longer, her lips less full. “It’s okay,” he said, feeling his ears grow hot at his own mistake. “I shouldn’t have just stopped like that. Sorry.”
The girl laughed, a rich throaty sound. “Well, if we’re both sorry, then it can’t be anyone’s fault, can it?” Under the glow of the streetlamp her teeth flashed white. “I’m just glad I didn’t smash your guitar. Off to a gig?”
He had a fleeting thought of lying and saying yes, just to impress her. “No,” he admitted. “Just the hostel.” She looked only a couple of years older than he was, well-dressed and alone; it was probably safe to tell her that much. Besides, even if her accent was pure London, the friendliness in her voice reminded him of home.
“Which one, the Trans-National?”
He nodded.
“Ah.” She looked amused now, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Well, best of luck.” Without waiting for a response she walked off, her hips swaying lightly but her shoulders perfectly straight. It was the same way Miriam walked when she was carrying something on her head-a skill he’d never been able to duplicate, no matter how hard he tried-and Timothy watched her with a wistful lump in his throat until she raised a hand to her ear and began speaking into it:
“Rosie? It’s Veronica. Listen…”
The sound of her voice faded as she crossed the street. Funny, he hadn’t seen her take out a cell phone… Timothy shook himself back to attention, finished tying his shoelace, and started off again.
When he reached the Trans-National, its doors were half blocked by a cluster of young people in ragged jeans, smoking cigarettes and chatting in a babel of languages. Whoops and giggles rang in his ears as two of the boys shoved each other around in a mock fight. Timothy dodged past them and plunged inside.
“Sorry,” said the shaggy, heavily pierced clerk at the desk. “Can’t get a room here without proof of age. Driver’s license, that sort of thing. Got to be eighteen or over ’cause of the bar, see.”
Timothy slumped. Sixteen he could pass for, but not eighteen. “Do you know another hostel I could try?” he said.
The clerk chewed on his lip ring, sizing Timothy up. “There’s the Old Victoria,” he said, pointing out the location on the map tacked to the desk. “They’ll probably take you.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy wearily, and squeezed back out the door again. This time he bumped into one of the boys, who said in a gruff American accent, “Watch it!”
“Aw, he’s just a kid,” said the girl next to him. “Leave him alone, Tyler.”
Tyler shot him a glare but subsided. Timothy gave the American a wide berth and was just stepping onto the sidewalk when a young woman with hair like a crested crane touched his shoulder. “Try this place,” she said, pushing a card into his hand.
Timothy looked down, expecting a coupon for some local pub or tourist trap. Instead he saw a cream-colored card with a single engraved word on the front:
SANCTUARY
He turned it over and read:
For the discriminating traveler on a budget
Secure, well-maintained, attractive hostel in the heart of London
No smoking, no alcohol, no age limit
Present this card at booking for a 20 % discount
“So why aren’t you staying there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light so he wouldn’t sound accusing, merely curious.
She gave him a sly grin and tapped the words no alcohol. “But if I were underage or just wanted a place to sleep, I’d go to Sanctuary like a shot.”
Timothy started to pocket the card, then thought better of it and handed it back. “It’s okay,” he said.
“What, you don’t trust me?” She looked affronted. “I was just trying to help.”
“I know,” he said, “but the Old Victoria is closer.”
He must have spoken louder than he’d realized, because someone in the crowd behind him laughed. “Yeah-if you like ripped sheets and bedbugs.”
There were noises of general agreement, and the crane-haired girl dropped her cigarette and led Timothy a little way down the sidewalk. “Here,” she said, pointing up the street. “Go two streets that way, then left and down about…” She counted silently on her fingers. “Four more. It’ll be on the right, just past the fish-and-chips shop. Used to be a church, so you can’t miss it.”
A church. Timothy’s heart sank a little, but after what the others had said about the Old Victoria, it seemed he didn’t have much choice. “Thanks,” he said, and set off.
Some time later, Timothy stood gazing up at a pillared entrance with the words GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH carved over the lintel. A scrap of greasy newspaper tumbled by and plastered itself against his shoe; he shook it off, and it whisked into the street and was gone.
He shouldn’t have come here, Timothy realized with a flicker of apprehension. The street was too quiet, too dimly lit. Besides, the old church looked deserted: No light shone from its windows, and the battered wooden doors were closed. He was wondering if he should go back and look for the Old Victoria after all, when the door swung open, flooding the step with honeyed light. From inside he heard laughter, and the faint, lilting notes of a guitar. “You looking for Sanctuary?” said a cheerful voice.
Suddenly the place seemed transformed, no longer a haunted church but a haven of worldly welcome. “Yeah, I am,” said Timothy, and hurried in.
Brushing past the smiling boy at the door, he found himself in a vestibule plastered with posters advertising bus tours to Stonehenge, offering discount coupons for a local cafe, and announcing the opening of a new twenty- four-hour launderette, international visitors welcome. A wall rack that had once held gospel tracts was now stuffed with tourist brochures, while the shelves built for hymnbooks were full of visitors’ muddy shoes. Reassured, Timothy made his way through a second set of doors and into the noisy bustle of the hostel’s common room.
His eyes found the guitarist at once: a young man with a lean face and fox-colored hair, eyes half closed as his fingers plucked out a Spanish melody. He sat alone on a dilapidated sofa in one corner, while by his feet two bored-looking and nearly identical boys in leather jackets played chess. In the opposite corner a small crowd had gathered, of varying ages and ethnicities; he could see a pair of Japanese girls giggling over a laptop, while two Arabs and a lanky Ethiopian carried on a passionate, hand-waving argument in French.
The reception desk stood against the far wall, beneath a cracked stained-glass window. After giving his card to the hair-twirling girl on duty, Timothy got a locker key and a set of linens, and she pointed him through a second set of doors to look for Cubicle Nine.
It didn’t take him long to find it. There were four bunks in the room, none occupied, so he dropped his backpack on the floor and started making up his bed for the night.
“There you are!” said a delighted voice from behind him, and Timothy jerked to attention, nearly cracking his
