Being by Kevin Brooks Read Free Book Online Page B

not in London. Not that it mattered. The way I saw it, if I didn’t know where I was, neither would anyone else.
    The streets outside the station were busy with traffic. Cars, taxis, buses, vans, lorries, motorcycles, bikes. People were moving, going places. Going home, going out, going somewhere.
    No one cared about me.
    Why should they?
    I kept my head down and kept walking. Down wide pavements of grey-white concrete, past closed shops and noisy pubs and greasy little kebab places. Past bus stops and nightclubs, taxi ranks, wine bars…
    I kept moving, kept going.
    Away from the town centre, into the outskirts. Past black-glassed office blocks and leisure centres, past beggars and skateboard kids and girls dressed up for the night…
    I walked.
    The pain in my stomach dulled to an ache.
    The rain kept falling.
    I kept walking.
    Into the night.
    I walked for a long long time.
    Until, eventually, after walking forever, I finally reached Paradise.

6
    The Paradise Hotel was seven floors of dull grey concrete on the outskirts of a dull grey town. I didn’t know how I’d got there, and I didn’t know if it was a good idea to stay there or not, but I was bone-tired and wet, and my stomach was hurting, and I just couldn’t walk any further. But, most of all, I needed to be on my own. I needed to start thinking about things. I needed to do something.
    Without giving it too much thought, I opened the hotel doors and went inside.
    It was a fairly big place, and fairly smart. Smoked-glass doors, a dark-carpeted lobby, pillars and panels, plants in brass pots. There was a bar at the far end of the lobby and a restaurant off to one side. Both were quite busy. Men in suits, women in suits, everyone drinking and having a good time.
    I felt out of place.
    I’d never been in a hotel before. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know the procedure. So, for the next five minutes or so, I just stood in the doorway – glancing at my nonexistent watch now and then, as if I was waiting for someone – and I watched what was happening. How it worked. Where people went. What they said.
    Then, when I’d worked it all out, I smoothed back my hair, straightened myself up and crossed the lobby towards the reception desk.
    The young woman behind the desk was sleek and well dressed. She had a thin face, a false smile and slick blonde hair. As she watched me crossing the lobby, I wondered what I looked like to her. You’re just an ordinary young man, I told myself. You’re wearing an ordinary jacket and an ordinary shirt, and you’re carrying an ordinary briefcase and an ordinary rucksack. You’re ordinary, that’s all you are. That’s what she sees.
    ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘I’d like a room, please.’
    It was easier than I thought – the procedure.
    She asked me questions, I answered them.
    ‘How many nights?’
    ‘One.’
    ‘Single or double?’
    ‘Single.’
    ‘Smoking or non-smoking?’
    ‘Non.’
    ‘Newspaper in the morning?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘Which one?’
    ‘Any one.’
    The only tricky part was when she asked me for a credit card. I had credit cards. I had Ryan’s and Kamal’s credit cards. But I didn’t want to use them. Credit cards are traceable. I didn’t want to be traced.
    ‘There’s a problem with my card,’ I told the receptionist, giving her what I hoped was a weary smile. ‘It’s been playing up all day. I think there’s a faulty computer or something. Is it OK if I pay in cash?’
    She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded. ‘Cash? Of course, cash is fine. We’ll need some identification, though – credit card, driving licence, passport… something like that. And full payment in advance, of course.’
    ‘Of course.’
    I was thinking hard now, thinking fast, trying to work out what to do. What could I use for ID? And what would the receptionist do with it? If I gave her a credit card, would she swipe it? And if she did, would Ryan find out?