Waterhouse And Zailer: The Carrier Part 5

FRIDAY, 11 MARCH 2011.

There is only one bed in this airless attic room. Its a small double, the size of a sofa bed, and partly covered with a single duvet. Only one pillow. No cupboards or drawers, just open shelves, on which I see no spare blankets, no cus.h.i.+ons, nothing useful. I conduct an anti-inventory: no minibar, no kettle, no sachets of tea or coffee, no telephone, no bedside tables, no reading lamps, no television, no room service menu. In the far wall, theres a door that has had one of its corners shaved off and been squashed in under the eaves. I a.s.sume and hope this means we at least have an en suite shower room. I know without looking that if we do, it will be roughly the same size as Laurens brain.

"What the f.u.c.k is this?" she says, looking around. "Oh, someones taking the p.i.s.s now! Theres only one bed. What are we going to do?"

"Were going to make the best of it, because we have no choice," I tell her. At home, Sean and I sleep in a bed thats seven feet wide, a super-king. When we were buying it, Sean said he thought a king-size would do. I laughed and overruled him.

I consider telling Lauren she can have the bed and Ill have the floor, then change my mind. I wouldnt be able to get to sleep, and I need to; even three or four hours would be something. I have no idea what tomorrow has in store. I need to look after myself so that, whatever happens, Ill be able to deal with it.

I am having the thoughts of a disaster survivor, trying to think no further ahead than the next small chunk of time and what actions and decisions it requires.

"Im not sleeping in a bed with a woman." Lauren folds her arms in protest. "Or with a man, unless its my Jason. Hed go apes.h.i.+t."

"Sleep on the floor, then," I say, praying sh.e.l.l agree.

"f.u.c.k off! Look at the state of that carpet. Theres chewing gum been stamped into it over there. Its filthy. What about finding another hotel, like you said?"

"That was a good idea two hours ago." In the time it took the receptionist to arrange for all the rooms to be made up and to allocate keys, we could have driven back to Dsseldorf Airport. Not that thered have been any point. Somehow, it feels as if theres no point being here either, in the vicinity of Cologne Airport. Getting home, at any time, by any means, feels very unlikely, though logically I know it will happen. "Im too tired now," I tell Lauren. "Im not willing to lose any more sleep time. The coach is collecting us at seven." Allegedly.

Laurens lower jaw starts to twitch. "You can have the duvet and the pillow," I tell her. Ill use my coat as a blanket."

"No! Im not having this! Theyre b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, doing this to us." She tries to push past me. "Im going down to the lobby to tell that woman . . ."

"Shes not there anymore. Once we were all sorted with rooms, she left."

"How do you know?"

"How do you not know?" I snap. "She told us that was what was going to happen . . ."

"I didnt hear her."

". . . and then we saw her leave. Until six a.m., this is an unstaffed hotel." One of my favorite details of our situation that I intend to include in all future tellings of this horror story is that breakfast is scheduled to start at seven on the dot: exactly the time that our coach will be departing for Cologne Airport. The receptionist smiled as she presented us with this news, knowing that it didnt affect her; she would be able to have breakfast.

"All right, prove it!" Laurens eyes light up suddenly. "If theres no staff here now, lets smash the place up," she says in a rush of excitement. "Smash down doors until we find another bed!"

I cover my face with my hand and rub my forehead hard with my index finger. "Lauren, I want you to listen carefully. You have a choice now. Im going to get into that bed"-I point to it-"and go to sleep. You can either do the same, or you can f.u.c.k off and do whatever you want, on your own. What you cant do is anything that prevents me from sleeping, because if you do that, I promise you, I will make you sorry you ever met me." That would have sounded more threatening if I hadnt yawned while saying it. Oh, well.

I brace myself for the inevitable flood of tears. Instead Lauren says, "If were going to share a bed, you have to swear you wont lay a finger on me. And Im not taking my clothes off."

I hold up my hands. "I promise to make no romantic advances. Really, you couldnt be safer. Even if lesbianism overpowers me in my sleep, my good taste will hold firm and protect us both."

Laurens eyes widen. She backs away from me.

"What? Youre shocked to hear the word 'lesbianism spoken aloud in polite society? Sorry, I forgot to brush up on my bigotry before I set off this morning. If Id known Id be meeting you, Id have given it my all."

"Cant you talk in a way Ill understand?" Lauren says quietly.

"Yes. Night night-do you understand that?" I kick off my shoes. Fully clothed, I lie down on the far side of the bed, cover myself with my coat, and close my eyes. Id have liked to brush my teeth, but the receptionist ran out of toothbrush-and-paste packs before Lauren and I reached the front of the queue.

"Gaby?"

"What?"

"Im starving. I feel sick and dizzy. I need something to eat."

I wonder if I can get away with pretending to have fallen asleep after I said, "What?" Its worth a try.

"Gaby? Gaby! Wake up!"

Fooling a fool is no fun. Its too easy. I open my eyes. "Theres a petrol station across the autobahn from the hotel," I say.

"Across the what?"

"The road. Its lights were still on fifteen minutes ago. It must be open twenty-four hours. Why dont you go and buy something there? Take the room key."

"Im not going on my own!"

"Why not?"

My callous suggestion that she should plunge herself into solitude for the next five to ten minutes has activated Laurens inner sprinkler system: shes crying again. "They might not speak English. Ive never been to a foreign shop on my own."

If I had the energy, I would kick myself. I knew she was hungry-she mentioned it earlier. I should have sent her to buy food while I waited in the queue.

"Please, Gaby. Come with me. Then I swear Ill let you sleep."

I sit up. Dizziness makes my head spin. I clutch at what might be the corner of a silver lining: I can eat something too. I havent noticed my hunger until now. Ive been trying to lull myself into an insensate trance state in order not to notice how I feel about whats happening to me.

"Okay. Lets go," I say, pulling my shoes back on. "What are you going to get? I hope theyve got hot fattening things and a microwave. I fancy a burger, and a Yorkie bar for pudding."

Lauren screws up her face in distaste. "Theyll have something English, do you reckon? Foreign food turns my stomach."

"Thats ridiculous. Cheeseburgers dont have pa.s.sports."

"What, so liking the food in your own countrys ridiculous, is it?" She turns on me. "Its the Germans who are ridiculous! The only music Ive heard all day since I got here is English music-every car stereo that drives past. Theyve got their own language, but they listen to our music. How daft is that?"

Well, you know the Germans-no nationalistic pride, thats their problem. Thats what I say in my head. To Lauren, I say, "I think Im going to get a can of c.o.ke as well." I am slowly learning the rules of moronic dialogue: when answering feels impossible, present an unconnected random statement as if its relevant to the topic at hand.

Inside the petrol station, soaking wet from the rain, Lauren and I are reunited with the three football s.h.i.+rts from boarding gate B56 at Dsseldorf, the ones who were hoping to get drunk at Fly4Yous expense. This is what I like to see: ambition steadily maintained until the goal is reached. These men have not allowed exhaustion, depression or a better idea to divert them from their course. They are at the till, euros out, sixteen cans of beer stacked up on the counter in front of them, still joking about how legless they will soon be. I wonder if this is the way it works for most heavy drinkers: that its not so much the alcohol itself thats the attraction, but rather the comedy gold mine it represents, the opportunity to say a dozen times, "How f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t-faced are we going to be after all these?"

"Theres sod all here I can eat," Lauren says, looking around miserably.

I pull open the fridge door and take out the only two remaining sandwiches. There is nothing potentially hot on offer, and no microwave. "Ham or tuna mayo?" I say. "Im happy with either."

"I dont eat sandwiches," says Lauren.

"On principle?"

"What?"

"Why dont you eat sandwiches? A ham sandwich, on white bread: about as English a snack as you could hope to find. Whats the problem?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Dont know whos had their dirty fingers all over it. Im all right. Ill just get some Pringles."

"You need more than Pringles," I say, spotting my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Remember: you dont care about this woman. You dont care if she eats weeds from the petrol station forecourt, or drinks five liters of diesel.

I will not slip up again.

"Ill get the big size," she says. "Its ma.s.sive. No way Ill be able to eat all them Pringles."

"Im going to get the tuna sandwich, because its the most nutritious and filling thing here," I say in my capacity as positive role model. "And some Hagen-Dazs as a treat." I open the freezer and pull out a tub of Cookies & Cream flavor.

"Whats Haggenda.s.s?" Lauren asks, unable to make the connection between the word and the thing in my hand that isnt a sandwich.

"Posh ice cream," I tell her.

"Ooh-ooh!" she says sneerily, loud enough to turn the heads of the beer collectors. "How la-di-f.u.c.king-da are you?"

"Better la-di-f.u.c.king-da than mardy-f.u.c.king-brat, thats what I always say. Actually, I dont say it, ever. Normally, I say things like, 'So, what are the optimal kinematics for the end-effectors? Except tonight theres no point saying any of the things I might normally say, because the only person listening to me is a thick parochial bigot."

"You mean me, dont you?" Lauren says with a triumphant glint in her eye, as if shes caught me out.

One of the football s.h.i.+rts elbows another and says, "Sounds like its about to kick off over there. With those two la.s.ses, over there."

No, actually, it sounds as if the brief kickoff has already fizzled out. And your friends shouldnt need directions, being neither blind nor deaf. If they cant work out which argument youre referring to, what makes you think pointing will make a difference?

Am I the odd one out-not only in this petrol station but in the world? Are most people more like Lauren than like me? Its a scary thought.

"Go and get your Pringles. I a.s.sume Im paying for them?" She hasnt brought her bag or a wallet with her.

"Got no euros left," she says. "I need a drink too. Can I have a Diet c.o.ke?"

"No. You can have a normal c.o.ke. If Im paying, Im choosing."

"You what?" She laughs at my outrageousness. "Youre a cheeky cow, you are."

"Youre pin-thin, and you havent eaten for more than twenty-four hours. You could do with the calories. Plus, Diet c.o.kes full of aspartame, which is bad for you. Side effects include acting like a d.i.c.k at Dsseldorf Airport."

Worry shrivels the smile on her face. "I drink Diet c.o.ke all the time. Its all I drink."

"Forget it. I was kidding."

"You what?"

"I was making a joke. Dont you know anyone who does that? You dont have a sense of humor, but Jason does-that sort of thing?"

"You dont know Jason," she says suspiciously, as if she fears that I might.

"I know. Forget it. Really. Ill stop . . . verbally sparring with you and just accept that theres no way to make tonight fun."

"So can I have a Diet c.o.ke?"

"No. I was serious about that. In fact, forget c.o.ke as well. Get a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. And grab two toothbrushes and some toothpaste from over there." I point.

She picks up a can of Diet c.o.ke and holds it defiantly.

"Its orange juice or nothing," I say firmly. "In twenty years time, when youre on your deathbed, youll be able to tell your great-grandchildren that you once tried vitamin C, one rainy night in Cologne."

I choose a c.o.ke for myself and pay for our food and drinks. Its raining even harder as we run across the empty dual carriageway back to the hotel. In our room, I sit down on the rancid carpet and tell Lauren to do the same, so that we can dry off a bit before getting into bed. It would make sense for us to dry our clothes on the radiators overnight-one of the best features of this room is that it has radiators-and sleep in our underwear. What are the chances of my being able to suggest this and not be mistaken for a s.e.xual predator whose sole aim is to supplant Jason in Laurens affections? If I have to sleep in a tiny bed with a cretin, Id like not to have to do it in wet clothes.

No. Damp and dressed is better. I dont want to see any more of Lauren than Ive already seen. Shes probably got a Union Jack tattooed on her stomach, or the word "Pringles," or "stummack." Or something even worse that Im not barbaric enough to imagine. I dont want to find out.

She spits a mouthful of orange juice back into the bottle. "Im not drinking that," she says. "Its disgusting. Got stuff floating in it."

Im glad she made us go out; I feel better now that Im eating. The tuna sandwich is chilly and soggy, but its tackling my hunger, and Im able to get through it knowing that theres Hagen-Dazs at the end of it.

I ought to switch on my phone, see if Seans left the string of messages I switched it off to avoid. I dont have to speak to him. I can send a quick text giving him the basic facts. h.e.l.l have gone to sleep by now, anyway.

I look up and catch Lauren staring at me. "What?"

"In twenty years time, Ill be forty-three," she says. "Why would I die when Im forty-three?"

Im so shocked, I nearly inhale the tuna thats in my mouth. I manage to swallow it instead. She must have remembered what I said from the petrol station and worked it out. I want to say well done, but that would be patronizing, and I dont want to be-not at the moment. Though Im sure I will again soon.

"No forty-three-year-olds have great-grandkids," Lauren announces.

"No. Youre right. See what happens when you switch on your brain? You can win arguments."

"So what were you on about?" she asks, stuffing a handful of broken Pringles into her mouth.

"I was joking."

"Hows that funny, saying something thats not true?"

I balance whats left of my sandwich on my wet trouser leg, unwilling to let it touch any part of the hotel room. "I was mocking you for being a working-cla.s.s cliche, and being generally sarcastic and horrible. Me, I mean, not you. Its a way of keeping my mind active. I could read my book instead, but youd keep interrupting me."

"What dyou need to read a book for?" Lauren asks.

"Hanging around with you makes me feel as if my IQs dropping," I explain. "Id like to give it a boost."

"Your IQ-listen to you!" She grins suddenly. "I cant wait to tell my Jason about what youre like. Two things Im going to say: shes a snooty cow, Ill say, but shes all right really. Underneath."

"h.e.l.l feel as if hes known me all his life." I smile back. Me, all right really? Its an appealing idea. "Look, Lauren, youre not going to die when youre forty-three, but if you carry on smoking at the rate you do, and if you dont eat healthy stuff, ever, you might well die younger than you otherwise would. And . . . you also might have children too young, and get trapped with your Jason. He doesnt have to be yours, you know. He could be somebody elses."

"What are you saying?"

Exactly what I was wondering myself. "You have choices. You dont have to do what all your friends do."

"What do you mean, Ill get trapped with Jason? Hes my husband. I want to be with him."