Room 23

I am changed.

Under the shower, running my timid fingers over the intrusion, the new
intrusion on the back of my neck, I'm half weeping and it feels like
I'm going to faint for a few seconds as the water fountains over my
head in the closed cubicle, and the stained shower floor sways beneath
me like a space shuttle taking off. I steady myself against the wall.
'What have I done to myself?' is the thought that's tearing through me,
making my whole body tremble, but I'm cool too, like it was inevitable,
like I had not choice. And it's true: I had not choice.

My fingers return to it, feeling their way round the circumference,
testing the indents on the skin, the slim metal protrusion at the base
of the circle. Flashbacks. I don't usually get them, didn't think
anyone did. They're like explosions going off in my head. A rack of
knives and drills and other stuff. Her. A green mask in my face.
'You'll tell me if you have any interesting dreams.' Him, glimpsed over
the back of her shoulder. Waking up shivering, under a sheet, wondering
if anyone's picked up the sheet and stared at my naked body, touched
me, wondering if she's touched me while I slept.

Getting out of the shower, I cover my head with a towel and lean
forward slightly, till I get scared of falling and pull it off. The
back of my neck feels sore all the way down to the shoulder blades and
I really need to scratch it. Shouldn't have taken that shower. He told
me not to, but I needed to, needed the purification. My forehead itches
too, right in the centre. Don't know why that should be.

I realise my mobile's ringing. It's lying on the table in the living
room, next to my laptop (which is on idle), a half-empty pack of
Marlboros, my lighter, and the keys to the room. My clothes are on the
floor. No blood on them, I notice, half surprised. But why should there
be? My black rucksack's sprawled on the seat of the chair, one strap
dangling floorwards like a loose leg.

'Yes?'

'Where are you?'

I stare at the room number on the door: 23. Snap, I'd thought, when the
receptionist had given me the key, and it had felt like a good sign. 'A
hotel. Near Paddington.'

She pauses. I can hear her breathing. 'Is it done?'

'Yeah.'

Pauses again, never one to make the first move if she can help it. 'Can
I see you?'

'No.'

'No?' That posh inflexion. Christ, she's so posh. Angry thoughts, how
she always makes me feel guilty. I think about how she clings to me
after we've fucked, and practically hate her for it.

'No ? Don't call me again ? don't call me yet.'

I hang up, reach for a cigarette. I shouldn't be smoking. He told me
not to. Careful of the chemistry, he said. But I need one. I need one
now. And try to say it. 'P ? P ? Po ? Po ?' But can't get the words
out. Don't know why. With my cigarette-free hand, I pull the lead out
of my computer to check the modified port and I'm running my index
finger round and round it in a circle, thinking about the smell of
hyacinths in April for some reason. My laptop, a V3009, is the most
expensive thing I own, technology the only stuff I'll shell out for. I
got it second hand for 20 grand. The op cost a lot more than that, of
course.

I go back into the bathroom. The mirrors in there are grubby and
unclear. I want to take a look at it, but I don't want to. I'm afraid.
I look at my face. I look like myself but, today, all of my 23 years
are on show. Christ, I look old. Usually, I look younger. My forehead's
got a slight dip in it now. That's odd. Wonder what they did there? If
I tilt my head, I know I'll be able to see it, reflected into the main
mirror via the one that's standing behind me to my right. I grit my
teeth. I'm going to do it. No I'm not. Yes I am. But I can't bear to. I
keep thinking about doing it, thinking about shunting my head to the
left, forcing it to move, forcing it to move in my mind. But it's like
it's someone else's head, and I'm practically shouting at myself now,
'MOVE, you bastard!'

I walk out of the bathroom, sit down on the wooden chair, away from the
window, away from the light, stub out my cigarette in the ashtray and
stretch for another one, but stop myself. In a bit of a daze, my eyes
go round the room, come to rest on a low glass table in the corner, on
the vase that sits on it. The vase is empty. No flowers, just an empty
vase. It's all like this, all impersonal this room, not my room, not
anyone's room, just a room. I guess all hotel rooms are like this, but
I feel lonely, except that it's more than that, because I feel
completely alone. At the window, the curtains seem to be moulting in
the humidity. They look completely shagged out, like they want to
collapse but brute willpower is keeping them up, or maybe they need to
get my approval before they can do it.

Christ. I can't believe it's this muggy in November.