Episode 9

The rain was thick and heavy making the faded grandeur of the streets of Kings Cross more claustrophobic. Summer thunderstorms reminded him of what he was running away from. The moonlit sky adding to the gloom and darkness that seemed to be enveloping his life once more. They had to be close behind him. He had to stop running.

It had all gone wrong again. He should never have made this trip to London. London is a bad place to hide. They can find you almost anywhere. They could tap into any system and use it against you. He had taken a chance when he cleared out his bank account, but he figured they knew where he was anyway and he needed to escape.

He ran down Grays Inn Road toward the station, his lanky frame weaving through the late evening travellers making their way to their hotels and apartments. With his heart racing his mind was trying to think faster than his feet were moving. He was getting closer to freedom. They weren't stupid, he thought, they'll cover themselves and figure that I'm bolting. He noticed he was running past a number of side streets. I'm on the main street, he realised. There are probably camera's everywhere and I'm the only one running. He pulled up and looked around.

He could see the Scala ahead where he and Jimmy had gone most nights for the last few weeks. The old NUJ building was near too. He decided to duck into one of the anonymous looking streets.

Forcing himself to stroll down the street, he took in every detail. The dark doorways, high fences and deserted pavement made him feel claustrophobic. He was no longer running, but his heart seemed to drown out all noise in this busy city.

The night seemed electrified. Every sense heightened. He was passing by some blocks of flats similar to those he had just left. He wondered if the same tragedy he had seen would ever visit themselves upon these houses. He took that thought back immediately. These were decent, honest people. Not screw-ups like him. They didn't deserve the kind of life he had and he didn't want to be the one to wish it upon them.

He put his hand inside his jacket pocket to make sure his charm was still there. The old style Pepsi Cola bottle top felt good in his hand. The smooth, shiny side. The serrated edge. The rubber inside. Focusing on this grounded him, rooting him in the time before his world went crazy.

He came to a little square with the same name as the street he had just come down. It had a scottish feel to it. Argyll. There was a little, fenced patch of grey in the centre of the square which he assumed was one of those surprising areas of green that were occasionally found in this world of brick and concrete.

All around the square were a dozen Bed & Breakfasts. Their yellowing plastic signs lit up and standing out like beacons calling out to him in this foul weather. He paused. Tomorrow. I'll get away tomorrow.

He walked up to the first B&B he could see. They all carried the word Hotel in their title as if the mere fact of them being situated in the heart of London allowed them to rise above all the other B&B's in the country. "We're grander than you're used to", they stated in a grubby, not-so-subtle kind of way.

He tried the door of the Park Lodge Hotel. He tried to imagine how on earth that tiny scrap of grass could be thought of as a park.

Walking up to one of the hotels he pushed at the door. It was shut. He looked through a glass panel and could just see a head behind the desk at reception. He located the doorbell and rang. At the sound of a buzzer allowing him in, he entered and approached the desk.

There was an elderly gentleman there. The kind of guy you would expect to be a doorman at a more upmarket hotel. He looked in his eighties but fairly fit with it.

"Jamal's not here. He's gone out to get some sugar. I'm just looking after the desk." said the octogenarian eyeing his visitor with eyes that seemed to look right past him

"I'll wait" came the reply. His body's senses were starting to calm down. He was inside, out of sight. He was safe.

"I'm just looking after the desk you know. I live next door. I'm a volunteer"

His jaw was clenched so tight, talking was impossible without great effort.

"He's just gone out to get some sugar. I live next door. I'm a volunteer. I won't be here for much longer though"

His attention was briefly drawn away from his current turmoil. This guy seemed gentle enough, but he wasn't quite all there. Maybe it was past his bedtime.

"I'll be going to the Chelsea home in a few months. I fought in the war."

War? He knew all about that. No-one would believe him though. They never did.

"I'll be going in a few months. I fought in the war, so I can go there."

"I need a room."

"Jamal's not here. He's gone out to get some sugar. I can't get you a key as I live next door. I'm just volunteering. Doing my bit."

The voice faded in and out revisiting the same theme. The repetition just seemed to stretch the time out into an eternity.

After what was, in reality, only a few minutes there was a key in the front door and in walked a young, middle-eastern guy in a baseball cap and a Bench sweatshirt. He wasn't that wet, so maybe the rain had quietened down.

"Did you get the sugar?" the old guy enquired as he stood up.

"No. There was no sugar, old man."

"Did you try the shops?" he asked as Jamal came behind the counter and flopped into the seat his elder had just vacated.

"The shops were shut, and nobody had no sugar". The young man's tone of voice suggested he had little patience for the old guy, let alone having to answer his questions.

"Do you have a room for the night?" At the question Jamal totally forgot about the octogenarian war veteran as his attention was focussed on business. No-one noticed the senile veteran as he slipped away.

"We have a few. What's your name?"

"Carter. Mr Thomas Carter."


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