TWENTY FOUR SEVEN

‘It was unprofessional,’ I said tomorrow morning.
I’ve been around town. Birmingham. I know it a little, family here. It’s a big city with a busy centre, I like it. Why don’t I live somewhere else? Why didn’t go when I had the chance? I stayed when I had the chance and became a friend in a high place.
Women walking on high heels and pulling short skirts down. Men walking with them protecting hopeful, together or not.
‘Paranoids can be cunning,’ he said.
‘Vigilant,’ I said. A psychopath is cunning, looking for advantage.
The receptionist signed me in was on duty when I left the hotel. Crossed a couple of roads the first in front of a bus broken down at the lights before lighting the joint I’d rolled earlier in my room. Kept to the edge of the crowds until I finished the smoke.
‘Hey mate,’ said the young man with ash blond hair and carrying a holdall over his shoulder. ‘You know where the National Express bus station is?’
Stop. Look like I’m thinking. ‘Er, no.’
‘Okay,’ he said.
Taxis, a bus, a burger bar. The same four people I’d seen on my way out.
The double doors open on my way in. Collar up, attention on the carpet, my reflection in the mirror adjacent to the lift. They can’t see me, did they see me?
She asked if I had room service and I told her, ‘Twenty four seven.’