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For Karen, with love.

Contents

Fifteen minutes till showtime.

Waiting doesn’t bother me, never has. It comes with the territory. Killing time … yeah, I’m good at that. The room is oppressive and smells of disinfectant and piss, rented by the hour rather than the day and not much bigger than the bed. There are no Gideons in the bedside drawer, no mints on the stained pillows. The mattress is lumpy and covered with a dirty grey sheet. No duvet. The headboard is screwed to the plasterboard wall to stop it banging, the screws going in at all angles. Paper-thin curtains hang raggedly across the window, the hint of a floral pattern barely visible; tracings in pink, red and green. A garbage-strewn alleyway can be glimpsed through the crack. There’s no wardrobe, no chest of drawers, no point, really.

I’ve rented the room for two hours and paid in cash. The desk clerk was caged behind the wire mesh and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a baseball bat or a gun hidden back there. A shock of electrified white dreads hung halfway down his back and a fat joint was clamped between his bluing lips. Late sixties or early fifties, difficult to say. He was staring through the sweet-smelling smoke at a black and white portable, screwed-up bloodshot eyes taking it all in. On the screen, Arnie was waving a big gun. Half man, half cyborg … come with me if you want to live! The clerk took the money and shoved a key through the slot without turning from the TV.

‘Uhm,’ I said. ‘A friend … a female friend. She’ll be, er, turning up shortly. Could you send her to my room?’