In Real Life by Chris Killen

of hard, starchy sheets and a room key with a grubby, green plastic handle.
    Here were a few questions that Lauren asked herself as she climbed the much less glittery, much more piss-smelling concrete stairs at the back of the hostel, up past the vending machines and the shared toilets and a row of industrial laundry baskets, to room 464:
    Am I really doing this?
    Am I enjoying myself?
    Is this an exciting and valuable new life experience?
    Am I making a massive mistake?
    Are the Norwegian boys all staring at my arse?
    She could, she knew, just get a real hotel room: a clean one, with just her in it.
    The fourth-floor corridor smelled of a mixture of rotting vegetables, dirty washing and – possibly – marijuana. Their room was even worse; a wave of warm, rancid air attacked Lauren the moment she opened the door.The others didn’t seem to mind or notice it, claiming their beds and talking in Norwegian. They laughed loudly in unison, then turned to look at her, grinning.
    â€˜What?’ Lauren said.
    But they just carried on chattering, and she felt her cheeks begin to burn.
    There were three bunks in the room – six mattresses in total – two of which had already been claimed by strangers; by their stained hiking rucksacks and their balls of dirty socks and their damp, dangling sports towels.
    Lauren held her breath and wished she’d never agreed to this.
    She wished again that she was in a hotel room instead, a proper one.
    You could do it, you know .
    You have the money .
    You could say, ‘Fuck this,’ and leave, right this second .
    â€˜You smoke? Drink?’ Per asked softly, tapping her on the arm, miming taking a swig from a bottle with one hand and then puffing on something with the other.
    She looked down at her horrible bottom bunk, at the thin roll of bluey-grey sheets that she couldn’t quite bring herself to fit onto it, and nodded.

IAN
    2004
    A s I wait for my name to be called, I have a go on one of the Jobsearch machines. I tap through the listings on the greasy, smudgy touchscreen, but there’s almost nothing that I can realistically see myself doing. Either you have to already have a specific qualification like animal care or a foreign language or a PGCE, or else you have to be prepared to do something really, really awful, like harass people in the street or clean their offices at five in the morning. I print out only two listings: one seeking someone willing to dress up as a large top hat to advertise a city-centre printing company, and the other for a part-time general assistant in a funeral home. I fold the long waxy printouts and put them in my jacketpocket, making sure to leave the edges poking out far enough so that Rick will see them. Then I wander back over to the seating area.
    The Jobcentre is open plan, and from where I’m sitting I can see Rick chatting enthusiastically to a woman in a burka. He’s leaning across his desk and smiling at her, occasionally tonguing the sore red corners of his mouth. The whole place is heaving. It’s like a really depressing Argos. There must be over a hundred people milling around this large grey-and-red room.
    Eventually I hear my name (‘Ian Wilson?’) and I look up, and there’s Rick waving me over.
    â€˜So how are we doing today then, mate?’ he says once I’m sat down.
    Up close, his mouth looks even worse than before. I almost want to ask him about it.
    â€˜Not bad,’ I say.
    â€˜Any luck on the old job front?’
    â€˜Not really,’ I say, feeling my mind suddenly shed itself of all the fake information I’d stuffed it with. I’d spent all morning going over my story, making sure I’d filled in a decent number of boxes on the What I’ve Been Doing To Look For Work booklet and then memorising all the things I’d made up.
    â€˜O–kay,’ Rick says, peering at his computer screen, double-clicking his mouse. ‘Call centre. I’ve got