We are the hotel of the lost. There are no maps on the front desk, because none of you would read them. There isn’t a street sign on the wall outside. The door has no number. You found us anyway. Welcome.
*
Sinead has been running. Two minutes late is okay. Five is a problem. She is at eight minutes past the hour, auditions so rare, bar jobs inflexible, but she is here now. No spotlight. No curtain. Four boxes on the stage. One dressmaker’s dummy peeking from the wings. The sleeping hush of a theatre in the daylight. The lights up, showing the gaffer-taped marks, the cable ties.
She can breathe. Everything is fine.
Marco strides up to give her a quick hug, half-pulling her over the front row seats. “Glad you could make it, darling. Freddie’s out but we have roped in Paul to read. He’s marvellous. Such a generous presence.” His eyes are actually wet. “We all love Paul.”
Sinead is sweating in her tight top. The theatre is dusty-cool. “I’ve run over it a few times now. It was so good of you to think of me.” The last time she’d seen Marco he had been shoving her out of his front door at six in the morning, her good shoes in her hand. Marvellous, darling, he’d said then, too.
“Well, we are always looking for the next breakthrough and have heard wonderful things. We’re on a schedule, so are you ready? Paul is ready, aren’t you, darling?” That smile. “We all love Paul.”
Sinead pulls her stomach in. The test had been negative, so she’d deleted his number. Had been surprised when her agent had given his name.
“And we must go for a drink.” Eyes on her breasts. “We’ll be making up our minds for a while, but it’ll be so lovely to reconnect. You must tell me everything you’ve been up to. I’m hearing marvellous things.”
*
We serve porridge in the morning. We prepare you a sandwich for lunch. Evenings are baked potatoes, chips or rice, with one choice of vegetable and a protein source exactly half the size of your fist. There is no salad. There is water in plastic jugs, to be drunk with plastic beakers.
*
Sun cream. Baseball cap. Headphones. Comedown. Connor stabs another polystyrene tray stained with mustard. Stabs another paper cup. Stabs some yellowed leaves, even though they are not really rubbish but he’s into it now, the clearing, the sense of achievement at leaving a clean swathe behind him, marking his route through the arena where yesterday the music had given him that leg-up-and-over the wall of his mind. There is money on the floor. The ends of joints. Dropped baccy tins with sweet-pill extras. There are pairs of torn knickers, bandanas, flags and flip-flops. People have stumbled back to their tents one-footed, naked, cashless and kissing. They left the things for Connor to find. A treasure hunt as payment for his ticket. A lawnmower-stripe action, up and down, up and down. Putting the rubbish away.
He feels a tap on the shoulder, so he pulls out his right earphone, cocks his head.
“What do I do with the bottles full of piss?” The lad is unhappy, red faced, no sun cream, no hat. He is stabbing wildly, without precision, without a plan.
“Just leave them there,” says Connor. “Someone will clear them up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, mate.” Connor turns away, screws his headphone back in, and gets back inside the smooth beat of the morning’s morning-after tunes. It’s not the rush, but not quite normal. He should really eat something soon.
*
We do not have a television. We do not have any books. There is no wifi. There is no bar.
*
The sound of dropped money rings through the shop. The girl with the black curls has dropped her coin purse, so now there is silver, gold and copper stippling the floor, round scars like those on the chewing-gum-covered pavement outside. Reddening, she apologises to the checkout girl, who doesn’t seem to mind but doesn’t smile. It’s Saturday.
With cracking knees, the man bends to pick up as many coins as he can, but it’s difficult with bitten nails. He hands them over, feeling good about himself, like he has done the right things, and praises himself for the good boy he his. He will go home and tell his wife. She will say something to annoy him, probably, her hair up in that ponytail, her little white mouth.
But this time he will let it go. Sit on his hands till they tingle and die.
*
There are no expectations of conversation. If you desire morning pleasantries, please be sure to order them the night before. You will not receive them.
*
The woman is pulling at a pasty in a greasy bag. The smell of the food makes the girl feel sick, but it’s more than the eating: it’s the need. With her phone away and her knees spread, the woman is looking for someone to talk to. The girl can tell, because she knows the signs. When people sit next to you at bus stops they observe you out of the corner of their eye, let you know that they know you’re aware of them. They make the secret looking obvious. They intrude with their unobtrusiveness.
Then they will sigh one deep, drawn-out sigh that prepares the lungs for the pauses of speech, that gets vocal chords tremoring in preparation for the comments: the description, the enquiry, the whatever-it-will-be, those few words lined up and delivered, that are nothing more than the envelope in which they hand you their woes, their loneliness.
The girl used to allow them to use her like this. She doesn’t any more because she has become too thin to take it, too weak to tear open the envelope and exclaim over its contents. When the sigh comes, the girl is ready: she pulls out her own phone. Checks today’s calorie deficit. Decides to walk home and record it as exercise. The red numbers improve her value. She will pick up stones, put them in her pockets. Let gravity help her decrease.
*
We do have a complaints procedure. You will find paper and a pen (chained) to the shelf by the bin. Write your concerns and then place them in the bin. PLEASE NOTE: We do not allow items to be placed in the bin. Please do not write on the paper.
*
“I was expecting you to ring first. I haven’t tidied up.”
He leans into the intercom. “That’s okay, Nikki. You should see my house. But we are here now and just need to come in to take a quick look at the boys, see how they’re getting on in the new place.”
“Can you give me five minutes?”
“We can give you five, but then we have to come in, Nikki.”
“Wait there, then.”
His colleague shuffles his feet, muttering, “Give her time to hide the drugs, get the boyfriend out of the window…”
He shrugs. Nikki is tiny, young for all those babies. Her makeup is thick, applied like greasepaint, like playing a role. But it can’t hide how pretty she is, how her skin is unmarked, unlined, no puffs or crevices of care. When she lets them in, she grins and there is a tooth missing from the side of her mouth, but it seems charming. She talks a lot.
The house smells. There are plates in the sink. There is a spilled can of lager in the corner of the room. There is a takeaway carton with half-eaten noodles, sad grey tiny prawns, little scraps of meat and vegetables; the special-fried-whatever in the kitchen, thrown into the pan and called dinner.
Among the mess, the split bin bags, her children are rosy. They are clean and bright-eyed. They sit on their mother’s lap and stare. They giggle at his voice, at his rolling r’s when he says the words: required, removal, rehome.
*
In your bedroom you will find a bed for sleeping. You may occupy this space from ten to six, eleven to seven or midnight to eight. There are no other slots. There are no clocks. There is no time.
*
It’s a first kiss. Well, not really. There have been others, many others, throughout the years, with other people. It’s not even the first kiss with him. There have been others there, too – precursory kisses of greeting and growing familiarity. A connection of lip to skin, not lip to mouth. And now the walk to her car, the end of the evening, the dinner disappointing in its amount, its price, its flavour, its presentation, but all of that is simply the climb up the steps to the diving board, careful on the wet floor, knowing what is coming and hoping that it will be executed well, that she remembers the right moves, when to curve, how far to leap without danger, how to not let go of the rail until that time comes.
It’s a good kiss. He is no tongue-jabbing mouth claimer, no faux-shy hesitator. There is whiskery spice-smell, clean undertones, the correct covering of teeth. There is a gentle pressure on the arms, around her back, that gets more forceful before she can pull away.
The diving board is bouncing. She has forgotten her training. Hopes she won’t drown. Knows she might.
*
When you leave after breakfast please remember that other guests are also leaving. Do not impede each other on the conveyor. Do not forget to keep your arms at your side, your gaze straight ahead. This helps ensure a smooth transition.
*
Crabbs folds his flame-retardant jacket into the locker. Slams the door. “Did you lot hear? Solomon’s wife lost the baby. Sixteen weeks.”
One of the Daves sighs. Another one says, “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” Crabbs shoulders his bag. “Don’t say anything, mind.”
The other Dave walks out of A-Building to the bike shed. Sees Solomon bent to undo his lock, deflated rucksack like a shell over his back. Calls over to him. “All right, mate?”
“All right,” replies Solomon.
Dave jingles his car keys. Thinks about fitting the bike in the boot. Thinks about the pub. Sniffs around the parameters of the interaction. Wards himself off. “Friday tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” The clunk of gears. The click-click of the chain. “Fridays are the best. See you tomorrow, Dave.”
*
While you enjoy your day, you may find you forget about us. Please do not worry. You will find your way back.
*
You built this place. It is yours.
Annabel Banks‘s work can be found in literary journals and anthologies including Shearsman, The Manchester Review, Litro, The Stockholm Review, Under the Radar and 3:AM, and was included in Eyewear’s Best New British & Irish Poets 2016. She was also a core poet on the Enemies Project/Arts Council South West Poetry Tour. Her poetry collection, DTR, was nominated for the Forward Prize.