anonymous-looking pile except for a blue neon sign that said Country Hotel. He was about to protest, but Nazreem was already opening the door in the stationary traffic and hoisting her rucksack from the back seat.
Marcus found it surprisingly easy to find a free parking space with a meter until he read its extortionate rates per minute and the reminder that he would also have to pay the £8 daily central London congestion charge. He hurried into the hotel lobby, a dingy placewith a smoky, down-at-heel atmosphere peopled by men in tweed jackets or anoraks and women in sturdy shoes. The concierge shot a shifty glance at him as he came up behind Nazreem.
‘Two rooms was it then, miss? Adjoining okay? Shared facilities,’ with an insinuating smile. Marcus decided the hotel clientele was probably used on an equal basis by out-of-town farming folk and adulterous couples looking for a cheap venue for illicit trysts.
‘That’ll be £40 each for the night then. Cash upfront will do nicely. Oh, and sign the register, would you. As you like.’ It was obviously a pro forma rather than official request.
Marcus managed to edge Nazreem aside and get his wallet out – he was determined to pay if nothing else – and was bemused to see Nazreem fill in the registration forms in the names Marie Mathieu and John West. He said nothing and grabbed her rucksack with one hand, only to put it down again suddenly, surprised by the weight.
‘I take back what I said about you travelling light. What’s in here anyway?’
Nazreem spun round and shot him a dark look. ‘Leave it alone. It’s books. Important ones.’
‘You’ve brought them with you.’
‘Yes, for a friend. At the museum. I told you.’
He was about to say she hadn’t but thought better of it. Nazreem hoisted the rucksack onto her back and gestured at him to follow her towards the lift.
‘Is there a reason why you gave them false names?’ he said as the lift groaned to a halt at the fourth floor. ‘Protecting our modesty?’
Nazreem gave a long, weary sigh and turned to him with a ghost of a smile, the first he had seen on her face since that initial moment of meeting at the airport: ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a reaction to not having to produce identity documents every five minutes.
‘Look, Marcus, you’re right. There’s lots we need to talk about. But just right now, I need to freshen up. A good long soak in the bath to wash the desert sand away.’ She leaned forward and gave him the slightest of pecks on the cheek. ‘Just let me wind down a bit. I’ll knock on your door in …’ she looked at her watch. It was just gone five p.m. ‘… two hours’ time?’
Marcus smiled back and shrugged: ‘Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’
The room was even dingier than the lobby, with peeling wallpaperin one corner and a low, metal-framed cot with worn sheets. Marcus shook his head and wondered how he was going to pass the time. There was an ancient-looking fourteen-inch television but he couldn’t find the remote control. He heard the lock turn on the other side of the door to the bathroom which the two rooms shared, then the sound of water running. He turned the television on manually and pushed buttons to see what was on. There was no cable or satellite, just the five terrestrial channels, and reception on the fifth was fuzzy, but BBC2 was showing highlights from the British Lions’ rugby tour of South Africa. He sat back relatively contentedly to watch.
The room was stifling however and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. There was no air conditioning and after a few minutes, he got up, crossed to the window, pulled the flimsy net curtains aside and opened it. The sound of the street rose to meet him, a dull cacophony of traffic noise. The air was not much cooler, but at least it was relatively fresh, if you discounted the exhaust fumes. He leaned out to push the window wide and immediately caught his breath. There on the pavement below
Marcus found it surprisingly easy to find a free parking space with a meter until he read its extortionate rates per minute and the reminder that he would also have to pay the £8 daily central London congestion charge. He hurried into the hotel lobby, a dingy placewith a smoky, down-at-heel atmosphere peopled by men in tweed jackets or anoraks and women in sturdy shoes. The concierge shot a shifty glance at him as he came up behind Nazreem.
‘Two rooms was it then, miss? Adjoining okay? Shared facilities,’ with an insinuating smile. Marcus decided the hotel clientele was probably used on an equal basis by out-of-town farming folk and adulterous couples looking for a cheap venue for illicit trysts.
‘That’ll be £40 each for the night then. Cash upfront will do nicely. Oh, and sign the register, would you. As you like.’ It was obviously a pro forma rather than official request.
Marcus managed to edge Nazreem aside and get his wallet out – he was determined to pay if nothing else – and was bemused to see Nazreem fill in the registration forms in the names Marie Mathieu and John West. He said nothing and grabbed her rucksack with one hand, only to put it down again suddenly, surprised by the weight.
‘I take back what I said about you travelling light. What’s in here anyway?’
Nazreem spun round and shot him a dark look. ‘Leave it alone. It’s books. Important ones.’
‘You’ve brought them with you.’
‘Yes, for a friend. At the museum. I told you.’
He was about to say she hadn’t but thought better of it. Nazreem hoisted the rucksack onto her back and gestured at him to follow her towards the lift.
‘Is there a reason why you gave them false names?’ he said as the lift groaned to a halt at the fourth floor. ‘Protecting our modesty?’
Nazreem gave a long, weary sigh and turned to him with a ghost of a smile, the first he had seen on her face since that initial moment of meeting at the airport: ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a reaction to not having to produce identity documents every five minutes.
‘Look, Marcus, you’re right. There’s lots we need to talk about. But just right now, I need to freshen up. A good long soak in the bath to wash the desert sand away.’ She leaned forward and gave him the slightest of pecks on the cheek. ‘Just let me wind down a bit. I’ll knock on your door in …’ she looked at her watch. It was just gone five p.m. ‘… two hours’ time?’
Marcus smiled back and shrugged: ‘Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’
The room was even dingier than the lobby, with peeling wallpaperin one corner and a low, metal-framed cot with worn sheets. Marcus shook his head and wondered how he was going to pass the time. There was an ancient-looking fourteen-inch television but he couldn’t find the remote control. He heard the lock turn on the other side of the door to the bathroom which the two rooms shared, then the sound of water running. He turned the television on manually and pushed buttons to see what was on. There was no cable or satellite, just the five terrestrial channels, and reception on the fifth was fuzzy, but BBC2 was showing highlights from the British Lions’ rugby tour of South Africa. He sat back relatively contentedly to watch.
The room was stifling however and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. There was no air conditioning and after a few minutes, he got up, crossed to the window, pulled the flimsy net curtains aside and opened it. The sound of the street rose to meet him, a dull cacophony of traffic noise. The air was not much cooler, but at least it was relatively fresh, if you discounted the exhaust fumes. He leaned out to push the window wide and immediately caught his breath. There on the pavement below
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