A new terror fills me. Fighting for breath, I drop to my knees, close my eyes, remind myself of all I have already been through. I can get through this, I have to.
I push to my feet, put my back to the door, and walk carefully across the wooden floor in a straight line, my hands outstretched, counting as I go. After seven small steps, my fingers touch something wooden. Another three small steps, I’m flush against it. I reach down, find a handle. It’s as I thought: the bathroom door is directly opposite the main door. Satisfied, I drop to my knees and begin a painstaking crawl back and forth along the floor, checking that there isn’t anything else in the room. Apart from the mattress, there isn’t.
My energy drains from me. I crawl to the mattress, pull it to the floor, sit down. After a moment, I look toward the door; I can’t see it, but I know where it is. I think about the mattress, about where it’s positioned, and then I think about the door. When I had stood facing it, the handle was on the left, which means that the door opens—from the outside—to the left. For the first time, something makes sense: they’ve placed the mattress on the right-hand side of the room so that when they open the door, I am there, like waiting prey.
Standing, I take hold of the mattress and drag it past the door to the toilet, to the corner on the opposite side of the room, and lie it along the wall. Now, anyone coming in will have to walk around the open door and across the room to get to me.
I sit down, wrap my arms around my knees, and do the only thing I can do. Wait.
CHAPTER FIVE
PAST
I slowly sipped my coffee, hoping it would take the hunger pains away. I’d been in the café for an hour already and it was so cold outside that I couldn’t face leaving. But there were only so many free refills I could have before they’d ask me to buy a new drink, or leave. So far, nobody had come to disturb me.
I’d been in London for seven months now, and everything had been going well until a few weeks ago. I’d found a job in a restaurant and at first, I’d stayed in youth hostels. But because of the two-week stay limit, I’d had to move to a new one every couple of weeks, and moving from hostel to hostel had also meant moving farther and farther away from where I worked. My transportation costs had become so expensive that one of the waitresses at the restaurant, who’d been struggling to pay her rent, said I could sleep on her floor for ten pounds a night. It meant that I’d finally been able to start saving money for my college fund.
Three weeks ago, I’d been called by my manager at L’Escargot. The Christmas season was over, he explained, and so few people were coming into the restaurant that he could no longer justify my salary. “You only pay me five pounds an hour!” I’d wanted to shout. But I hadn’t, in case I needed him to employ me again. I’d tried to find another job but no one was hiring until the spring, another three months away.
The money I’d saved was almost gone. Last week, I’d had to move out of the apartment because I couldn’t even afford the mattress on the floor, and I’d been sleeping outside since. The first night, I’d sat near a group of young people and it had been fine; they’d ended up inviting me to join them, explaining they’d come to London for a rock concert and had missed the last train home. But since that night, my experiences hadn’t been great. The previous night, as I’d lain on a bench, my belongings tucked under me, I’d been bothered several times, and I’d had to fight off another homeless person who tried to pull me off the bench for my place or possessions, I didn’t know which. And the cold night meant that I’d spent most of it shivering.
I was scared to sleep outside again—and if I did, I would need to buy a sleeping bag, which would mean dipping into the little money I had left. There were hostels for the homeless but my conscience wouldn’t let me go there, not when I had a hundred pounds tucked into my money belt. But maybe I would have to.
I took another small sip of coffee. It was warm and cozy in the café and for a moment, my eyes closed.
The door opened, waking me, and I blinked my eyes as two women entered. One was tall and beautiful, with long limbs, flawless skin, and short peroxide-blond hair. Her coat, black, belted at the waist; her red ankle boots; and matching bag, all looked expensive. The other woman, shorter, pretty, dark-haired, was wearing a beige raincoat and as they made their way to the table next to mine and draped their coats over an empty chair, I saw that it had a faux-fur lining, and wished it were mine. She was wearing a navy business suit underneath and a white silk shirt, and in my jeans and sweater, I felt horribly shabby.