In between the last shown chapter and this one there has been a temporary guest at the hotel who is obsessed with a fading ex-TV cop from the seventies starring in a local production of Guys and Dolls. Setting up this chapter, Daniel has heard of a young woman who is a permanent resident, trying to escape her past and avoids all modern communication and social media. Chaper 9 Sally The dirt on the mirror was relentless. Every morning she would look in it and have to spread a cloth across the surface in order to get an accurate picture. Alex had brought her some special spray the last time she had complained of it, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. She was tempted to leave it but dust made her anxious. There was so much stigma attached to it, as though she was Miss Havisham rotting away in a fortress. She always kept the place immaculate, despite the fact that she didn’t think anybody would ever see it. At least, not in the near future. She refused any help, the 'Do Not Disturb' sign never leaving the door handle. *** She didn’t know how Alex had encouraged her to do it. Apart from he was so good to her, far too good. His request wasn’t even for himself, which was typical. Yet she felt herself catching her breath every time she thought about it. Exposure was exactly what she was running from. She had borrowed the hotel phone to talk to the writer guy in question. He sounded friendly and unassuming and something in her said Yes. She regretted it almost immediately when she handed the phone back. In fact, she had ran downstairs at 2am banging on Alex’s door to see if she could call the guy back and cancel. Alex, in his impossibly calm way had told her to wait until morning, that she could come downstairs and use the phone immediately on waking, that there was no pressure whatsoever. She had fallen, less restlessly back into bed where she found herself able to sleep. The next morning Alex had slipped a note under her door saying the phone was available if she still needed it. She surprised herself to find that she didn’t. The phone, the internet, cameras...they never used to scare her. It was a gateway to being herself. Away from the religious strict household she had only ever known. She didn’t want to leave her religion- she was an Agnostic not an Atheist despite what was whispered- but just to explore another side of herself without fear of her family thinking less of her. She needed to experiment, make mistakes. The virtual world seemed like the place to do it, rather than reality. She looked at Lily, one of the hotels residents and wished she was computer illiterate like her. Well, that was an assumption. Lily was incredibly old and if the whispers were to be believed, had very old fashioned views. She tried not to listen to whispers though. They were the equivalent of toxic tweets and messages. So she always made a point of saying good morning knowing full well she wouldn’t get one in return. But she couldn’t help looking at her and envying that her mistakes could be forgotten. There was likely no Google search of photos from Lily’s nights out, her drunken antics... Google Lily whatever her last name was and at the most there would be a photo of her helping at some coffee morning. Sally scolded herself again for being stereotypical. Lily, for all she knew, could be a pot smoking, club hopping maniac. She wouldn’t know. She hadn’t Googled anything in a year. As usual, she chose a mocha and two slices of toast for her breakfast. The full-English was neither full nor appetising. If Bradley was outside she would request it and then slip whatever was easy into a serviette to give to him. Her story was one of cliché but truth. *** She attended a Roman Catholic School when she was eleven. The whole experience had been heart-breaking because this meant moving away from her friends. She had begged, cried and locked herself in her bedroom [by pushing her bed and wardrobe up against the door]. Her parents had tried to get her into the school twenty minutes away- it wasn’t ideal but at least they wouldn’t have to move and she could still see her friends after school, but she didn’t fit the catchment area. She had felt hopeful that her parents would give up. Yet she should have known better. Religion was put before everything. If it meant moving house, so be it. She had, on occasion, found comfort in religion. The people, some of them, a blessing of sorts. They would hug her without questioning her. Ask her how she was without prying. She walked out the morning chapel service feeling fresh and new- Clean. She was always fascinated by a statue outside the church. It was an angel but it was shrugging. She had never seen an indifferent angel before. She used to draw it in the back of her Bible and felt comforted by the human emotion. She had even found a postcard of it for 45p in the church shop, the only purchase she had ever made there. University never really improved her independence. Her parents made sure she signed up for the local churches youth group before she even looked at accommodation and it was the first thing they asked about when they called. Two months into her new life at Manchester Met studying Theology, In Christ’s Eyes Youth Club had chosen ‘Love’ as their theme to explore in the creative fair. Love. Hadn’t Jesus and The Beatles covered that market? The meeting had been the same as ever. They had started with a welcoming prayer, followed by a live band rendition of ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine.’ Molly, who Sally knew from home, would insist on singing this louder than anyone [her father was a minster] which always infuriated Mike, a fully trained tenor in the local am-dram, until it became a bizarre screaming match, their eyes screaming, foreheads dripping but their faces still smiling in the way you only see in church. She missed, she realised with bewilderment, the old chapel on the hill. The old dears. The tea and coffee. The musty but comforting smell. The organ. The same hymns. No surprises. Her parents would ring every Wednesday evening to ask how the group had gone. Incidentally they would always slip in that they were in conversation with Molly’s parents often. They had suddenly been having weekly coffee mornings together. Big Brother was watching as much as God. The only thing she really looked forward to at the youth group was Lee. Everyone loved Lee. He was devout, funny, considerate. He drove to church every day rather than by the Magic Bus and would offer lifts home on a first come, first served policy. It was an unspoken thing that Lee was Molly’s. They had grown up together, their mothers meeting at antenatal classes. She pawed at him and would wait until he was ready to leave before hopping into the front seat of the car. Lee also seemed to effortlessly lead a double life on the club scene. His photos on Saturday night filled her Facebook feed, a red-faced Lee, a pint in each hand who still managed to turn up to the 9am service looking and smelling divine. Sally had tried going out. Lots of times. She went out into the city and tentatively picked out outfits and makeup and dressed herself up, painted her face like she used to do with dolls as a child. She tried to blast out music and shove vodka shots down her throat to get in the mood but had failed at the final hurdle and hastily cancelling taxis and telling her flat mates whom she barely knew that she might meet them later. Her own private form of rebellion, which she found she quite enjoyed, was to take herself off to The Whitworth Pub, a two minute walk from her student accommodation. It was down a jetty and was out of the way of the line of pubs and shops. It wasn’t popular, which was why she liked it. There were solar fairy lights around the entrance which occasionally blinked hopefully. Inside she felt safe and enjoyed the familiar regulars who would give her a courtesy nod but nothing more. She was surrounded by people but without the pressure to have to make conversation. She was both warmed and alarmed when the barman no longer asked what she wanted but reached for the sauvignon blanc and poured whilst she handed over the exact change. He had once said she was welcome to open a tab but she felt this could be a familiarity gone too far and a slippery path into the drunkenness she had always been warned against. She always sat in the corner of the pub on a slightly lower second floor next to a Queen themed slot machine. It had been out of order for as long as she had been coming to The Whitworth, but it would occasionally and sporadically offer bursts of ‘We are the Champions’, tinny and affected. She felt irrationally cross whenever anyone else was in her seat and she would catch herself looking into the corner willing them to leave. Best of all, she didn’t know anybody from university or church who had even heard of The Whitworth. ‘Molly?’ She almost choked on her wine. ‘Lee! I..’ She searched desperately for an excuse. ‘May I join you?’ ‘Yes. Of course!’ ‘Same again.’ ‘You don’t have to…’ ‘I insist.’ She looked at her almost full glass. ‘Sauvignon Blanc. Thank you.’ ‘I’ll be right back.’ They had spent most of that first meeting like an interview. Sally would stutter out a question and Lee would give a willing, detailed answer. He didn’t return questions which Sally thanked God for. Lee, at Sally’s both delight and odd annoyance, would show up every other day and join her without conversation, Sally pointedly putting away her book. Yet she was flattered. He began commenting on her hair, clothes, lips. He would order more drinks faster than she could drink them. She had found herself jumping into taxis with him, going to nightclubs, losing shoes and frantically deleting drunken Facebook posts and tweets the next morning, her face burning with embarrassment. It was a month in when he invited her to his, as drunk as she had ever been, her body leading the way like it had never done before. *** She had woken, her head pounding, naked, in an unfamiliar bed, empty bottles on the floor...and Molly Lawson standing in the doorway. What followed was two weeks of hell. She stopped going to her lectures and church, swearing that every eye was on her, accusing and hating. Molly wrote thinly veiled statuses aimed at her daily. She tried to read her Bible and would feel sick. She had been sat in her flat trying to find something that would calm her on television when she found herself calling her Mum’s number. ‘Hello sweetheart, are you okay?’ She had sobbed out everything. Everything. She said it fast in the same way you pulled off a plaster. Her mum didn’t interrupt or even make a sound. There was a pause after Sally finally stopped, heart thumping, her head sore from crying. ‘Sally...I love you, sweetheart. I’m so…’ her Mum’s voice had gone wobbly. ‘I am so pleased you’ve told me. We’ve been so worried. It’s all going to be okay.’ Sally had never felt happier...it was a release. Her mum was the angel, shrugging. The angel saying it was okay, It's okay, hey, you made a mistake but we can sort it. Her mum promised they were getting in the car this second. 'NOW sweetheart, okay, so you read a book or watch a film and then we’ll be with you…' She used to say the same thing to Sally when they were away and her grandparents were watching her What if I can’t sleep, Mummy? Then you play, sweetheart. Or read and before you know it you’ll be in my arms. She came off the phone and wept pure, grateful relief. She thanked God. Over and over she thanked Him. She slept- one of those bizarre naps when you sleep for ten minutes but it feels longer and she woke feeling a gorgeous warmth. So many mornings waking and feeling the dread of the day. The guilt... God, the relief. Sweet, relief. Was there a better emotion in the world than relief? She hadn’t been damned to hell. Her mother hadn’t wailed and declared herself motherless. They were coming to get her. Everything was going to be okay and her poor, battered brain would be soothed and made better. The warmth began to leave somewhat three hours later when her parents hadn’t arrived. Perhaps she had taken ‘now’ too literally. Or maybe there were more road works at Stockport. She breathed deeply, not wanting the relief and calmness to leave her. Her phone buzzed in her hands, a number she didn’t recognise. She always hated answering the phone not knowing who was on the other end. ‘Hello?’ ‘Is that Sally?’ The voice sounded old and shaky. ‘Speaking.’ ‘It’s Sylvia Lands from Church, honey. Listen, I have some very, very sad news. The police should be with you soon, love, but I wanted to catch you before they did. Couldn’t stand the thought of you finding out from strangers… ‘ Sally gripped the edge of the bed, unable to stand. ‘I saw it my love, they were just pulling off Main Street, I was getting off the bus… a little boy ran out in front of their car, they swerved and smashed straight into the tree on the corner, it happened so quickly my love… I’m so sorry...I followed the ambulance but the medic told me there was nothing to be done…’ *** She had accepted the first room they had offered her, not even really looking at it. She had sat on the bed and not unpacked any of the few possessions she had brought. A knock at the door made her start and she hesitated before answering- she noticed with a heavy heart, it didn’t have a peep hole. Why had she not checked? Her Dad would have checked.. ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s Alexander, miss. I work here. The night watchman.’ She paused and then undid the lock. ‘Hello’ ‘Hello, love. I was told we had a new resident and I just wanted to make myself known. I’m Alex- I’m the night watchman but I do a little bit of everything, really.’ ‘Oh.’ He looked friendly enough, a warm smile which was somehow familiar and a genuineness which made her like him immediately. His white, slightly fluffy jumper reminded her of one her grandad used to wear. ‘So anything you need- even if it’s just a natter over a cuppa, just let me know. I’d say come to my office next to reception but chances are I’ll be on my rounds so I’ll be here and there...oh, are you okay my love?’ Sally was ashamed to find the numb feeling momentarily leaving her. Her sadness at this underserved offer of kindness was too much .The tears fell and she angrily tried to brush them away. ‘Oh dear, sweetheart, what can I do to help?’ ‘Nothing.’ The tears just wouldn’t stop. ‘Nothing...I’m so sorry about this.’ ‘Don’t be sorry’, he said softly, his eyebrows creased in concern. ‘I’m sure you have a story to tell- and I’m all ears if you ever want to share it- but I’m also happy to talk about the weather, the book you’re reading, politics if we’re feeling brave.’ She gave a weak laugh. ‘It must seem very lonely at the moment’ he continued. ‘But it doesn’t have to be...okay?’ Without really meaning to, she found herself hugging this kindly man she had just met, burying her head into his jumper. He hesitated and then put his arms around her, returning the hug. ‘It’s going to be okay, poppet. You’ll see.’ *** Daniel stopped writing and looked at the girl in front of him. She was thin, wiry looking. She looked at least ten years older than she was. A black jumper fell limply over her body. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘Please, I don’t want sympathy. I just..I just thought it was time to talk about it to someone other than poor Alex. He’s heard it all enough times and it’s not as if he can change the outcome, is it?’ ‘You don’t… I mean I hope you don’t believe any of it is your fault.’ ‘That God was punishing me, you mean?’ ‘Well, yes.’ ‘That’s what I thought at first. Less so recently. But it never really leaves me. I often feel guilty for wasting mum and dad’s inheritance in this hotel now. So I can’t really catch a break can I?’ ‘Why don’t you leave?’’ She didn’t answer him immediately but when she did her voice was smaller. ‘It seemed too easy to delete Facebook. I felt free for a second until I thought of the screenshots, the whispers, the photos saved on people’s phones. I became obsessed with an old book I had read of published letters, postcards and unpublished writings from people long dead. They always seemed so classy and intelligent. But perhaps though, those poor dead writers and poets, had never intended them to be shared to everyone, these thoughts and feelings. They belong to a moment, a time in that person’s life and these letters bookmark as that person forever even though they had probably changed weeks, months, years after they had written it. It’s not how they would want to be remembered. Do you see? I just want to live without leaving a trace anymore. I don’t want to be remembered for my mistakes.’ Daniel drew his pen away from the page. ‘You think I’m crazy?’ Daniel shook his head. ‘No.’ ‘Then what?’ ‘Scared? ‘Paranoid’ ‘Hard on yourself. You aren’t very kind to yourself...but you know, I kind of felt free coming here. Free that you hadn’t looked me up to make an impression- because I suppose my Facebook is hardly a glowing character reference. ‘ Sally visibly relaxed. ‘I just felt by the end of my first week at the hotel...safe. Not happy, or that relief I spoke about before. But safe. This place...it’s like time has stopped. Just when I needed it to.’ ‘And if it closes?’ Sally smiled softly at him. ‘Then that is God’s will.’ * That night, after a couple of hours of pacing and worrying, she sat herself down and did her breathing. She kept waiting to panic specifically about Daniel and her confession in someone else’s notebook… but the panic never came. She looked into the bag she had arrived with six months before. At the bottom, where she knew it would be, was the image of the angel shrugging. Was it really that bad? Haven’t you served your time on that one? Did you NEED to serve it in the first place? She pinned the photo up on her bed post. She was comforted that it would be something she could look on often. That she might see it without noticing… that perhaps God was shrugging kindly too.
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