05 The Golden Arcade 4

4

She was a rugged looking woman called Barbara. She didn't give a surname but she had checked his driving licence and photographed his debit card. She was somewhere between forty-five and sixty-six. But  she had the chaotic manner of a drinker. The unstable gaze and herky-jerky movements of the head. It made her difficult to age.

'It said on the website you had broadband?'

'Best not to trust the agents. Check in the book.'

It wasn’t so much a book as three stapled, crumpled sheets. There was a coffee stain in one corner, and not mention of broadband. The room itself wasn't cheap but it had been available and he hadn’t shopped around. It was big.  Big enough.  The bed had varnished pine foot and head boards, cut like gentle hills. The duvet was covered with a salmon velour throw, a quilted cover, cream and floral. And the bed had been caged with a D.I.Y four poster frame, draped in what looked like net curtains, a drooping cover, turned cream with age. The walls were covered in a striped wall paper and the carpet a muddy brown. There was a small TV on a wall mount in the corner, the wires sprawling from the back like the legs of a staggering spider. Bart tried to imagine someone loving this room, finding it charming, quint, tasteful, romantic. He tried for quite a while. He thought Granddad wouldn't mind it. No. Granddad would accept it without comment and never come back. Not the same thing.

'Remember. You can have the room for five days. I need you out by Friday. Got a family coming in from the council. Are you here for work or visiting?'

Her voice fluctuated between bullish aggression and fawning politeness.

'Just visiting,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine. Zack Richards. I doubt you've heard of him.'

'No. I haven’t. Still that's nice. Friends. I’ve got a boy about your age you know? You'll have a lovely time I'm sure. Don't forget the form if you want breakfast.'

He saw the line of her underwear through her green leggings as she turned away and he pulled out his phone. Swiped away notifications. And as she descended it was hard to tell whether the creaking came from the stairs or from Barbara’s tired old joints. Bart wondered if there was a man on the scene. If there was, he thought, looking down at the dark stains on the carpet only partially hidden by a heavy rug, he probably drank even more than she did.

He could hear a child running around the room in the next room with feet like someone trying out a roll on a bass drum and Bart went downstairs, hoping to sort out the wi-fi. Barbara was nowhere to be seen. He rang the bell at reception but there was no response. He could hear shouting. A man's voice. Something about money. Either money owed or money not lent. But the man was clearly younger than she was, and clearly more aggressive. Barbara's voice had the hysterical wail of the drunk. It was not yet eight o'clock. Bart strained to hear. He pushed his face as close to the glass that separated Barbara’s quarters from reception as he could without marking it. Then there was a crack. Then a bang, then a sound like an avalanche. Bart instinctively backed away from the door as the banging became louder. The stud wall on the other side of reception vibrated. Closer and closer.

Then the door flew open so hard it smacked against a side table. Vibrating like a diving board. It banged shut and banged open again as a tall, gaunt young man crashed past. He had pasty skin like Johnny Rotten and greasy hair dyed black and clumped up messy on top, biker jacket, grey jeans. He shoved Bart hard in the chest. He fell to the ground. And the young man shouted as he left.

‘Go fuck yourself!’

From the ground Bart looked up at the door as Barbara appeared. The same green leggings. The same grey slippers. The same crocheted cardigan. But hair more dishevelled, left cheek redder than the right. A cut above her left eye and tears streaming from both. 
He pushed himself to his  feet. She had something stuck in her teeth.

'Are you all right, Mrs...'

'Feathers,' she said. 'Barbara Feathers. It’s in the guide book.'

Her face twitched three times and she broke into a full flood of tears. He touched her on the shoulder and she pulled him close. Embracing him. 

'You're such a good boy!,' she wept. 'Such a good, good boy!'

She held him tight. When she had lunged at him he thought he would hate it. He was surprised to find that in just a few seconds he too was crying, cool tears welled on his cheek. After three minutes and fourteen seconds she collapsed and he guided her onto the spongy maroon chair behind the desk.

'Would you like me to tidy up for you, Barbara?' he asked.

She shook her head.

'Really. Look, I'm going to tidy up. You're in no state...'

She turned away, wiping her tears on her sleeve and Bart went in. There wasn't so much to do. The young man's anger more theatre than rage. Bart picked up ornaments. Most were still in one piece. Horrid crystal and china ornaments. And photos too. Some of the glass in the frames had cracked. He saw that the young man was in some of them, but younger, a boy, younger than Bart, thirteen or fourteen. His smile either looked forced or was entirely absent. His eyes dark and blank looking. Papers in the hall by the back entrance. Tumbled from a cupboard. There were school reports and medical appointments. The reports were about a boy called Raymond Feathers. They weren't exactly glowing. 

Bart stacked the papers as neatly as he could on the sideboard. Then he jumped, Barbara standing so close behind him he felt her breath on his ear. Her lower lip was protruding. He head was bowed her eyes were big, soft and kind.

'Oh you are good boy,' she said. 'Such a good boy.'

She didn't hug him again. Part of him wished she would.

'That's all right, Mrs Feathers,' he said. 'If there's anything else I can do. I mean if you want to call the police... or...'

Her body straightened and her eyes hardened and her lips became taught.

'I think you had better go now,' she said.

Bart photographed the WEP key as he left.