A New Life
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Everyone's life has a turning point.
_____________________________________________________________________
She drove in silence. It was 1 o’clock in the morning, but the roads were full of cars heading into the city. There was something on the radio, Bon Jovi. I asked her if that kind of music was popular here. Western music. She glanced at me, then reached down to increase the volume.
We eventually reached the centre. I couldn’t believe how many people were out. There were traffic lights every hundred yards. We stopped at all of them. She cursed under her breath. I was beginning to suspect she was lost when she turned sharply into a side street. She pulled up next to a parked car.
‘We’re here,’ she said. The radio was still blaring. I looked at her. She was making no move to get out.
‘Will you come in with me?’ I said.
‘No need,’ she said. She reached behind me and unlocked the back door. ‘Tell them who you are. They’re expecting you.’
I got my suitcase off the back seat and leaned inside.
‘Do they speak English?’ I said.
‘They’re expecting you,’ she said. The car started moving. I threw the door shut.
The Hotel Continental. A man in suit trousers and a vest showed me to my room. It struck me that the place was either very clean or very dirty; it stank of bleach. We dodged second floor puddles of what I assumed was Domestos, or the local equivalent. He had the key in his hand, and pushed it into the lock. The door creaked open. He reached inside and flicked on the light, then stood to the side to let me in.
‘Voici la guerre!’ he laughed.
‘Ah, you speak French,’ I said.
‘E, no, no,’ he said, then muttered something in his own language. I laid my suitcase at the foot of the bed. He was still standing in the doorway. He had his hands in his pockets, moving his weight from foot to foot. ‘You want anything?’ he said.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. I looked round the room. A bed, table and chair. There was nothing else I needed. I had everything.
His left hand moved to his chin. He scratched. It sounded like sandpaper.
‘You want girls?’ he said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘No.’
His fingers moved to his ear. He slowly rubbed the lobe. ‘Boys?’ he said.
I shut the door in his face. Through the gap at the floor I could see his shadow. He was still there, shuffling. I stood in silence. After a moment he left. I heard him splash to the other end of the corridor, then the slam when he got into the lift.
She had told me to phone in the morning. I had her number somewhere. It wasn’t a problem. I suddenly realised where I was. I was alone in a small, cold room. The bed, table and chair. Through the window there was a partial view of old men playing billiards, the angle of shoulder, elbow and cue, and laughter I could only see. And smoke, so much smoke, rising from ashtrays and from cigarettes jammed between lips.
I found what I knew would be there; I knew it all along. My cliché (despite the bleach): the squashed bug on the wall. On closer inspection, it was two bugs, superimposed, still wet. The previous guest, reviled by their twitching copulations, had recently voted with his shoe.
I got the sheaf of paper from my suitcase and squared it on the table. Wasn’t this why I came? A new life.
My God, what have I done?
I don’t know how long I sat there. Perhaps I was trying to work out the meaning of the words I had written. And what of that exhortation to God? How strange. I looked to the window again, but the billiard room was dark. No more silent laughter, only the imagined stench of smoke remained. I stared back at myself in the glass, the pencil poised in a hand that wasn’t mine.
A slam from the lift. Splashing. Footsteps. They paused for a moment outside my door, then continued. I don’t know where. But it wasn’t here. Here was somewhere else.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Everyone's life has a turning point.
_____________________________________________________________________
She drove in silence. It was 1 o’clock in the morning, but the roads were full of cars heading into the city. There was something on the radio, Bon Jovi. I asked her if that kind of music was popular here. Western music. She glanced at me, then reached down to increase the volume.
We eventually reached the centre. I couldn’t believe how many people were out. There were traffic lights every hundred yards. We stopped at all of them. She cursed under her breath. I was beginning to suspect she was lost when she turned sharply into a side street. She pulled up next to a parked car.
‘We’re here,’ she said. The radio was still blaring. I looked at her. She was making no move to get out.
‘Will you come in with me?’ I said.
‘No need,’ she said. She reached behind me and unlocked the back door. ‘Tell them who you are. They’re expecting you.’
I got my suitcase off the back seat and leaned inside.
‘Do they speak English?’ I said.
‘They’re expecting you,’ she said. The car started moving. I threw the door shut.
The Hotel Continental. A man in suit trousers and a vest showed me to my room. It struck me that the place was either very clean or very dirty; it stank of bleach. We dodged second floor puddles of what I assumed was Domestos, or the local equivalent. He had the key in his hand, and pushed it into the lock. The door creaked open. He reached inside and flicked on the light, then stood to the side to let me in.
‘Voici la guerre!’ he laughed.
‘Ah, you speak French,’ I said.
‘E, no, no,’ he said, then muttered something in his own language. I laid my suitcase at the foot of the bed. He was still standing in the doorway. He had his hands in his pockets, moving his weight from foot to foot. ‘You want anything?’ he said.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. I looked round the room. A bed, table and chair. There was nothing else I needed. I had everything.
His left hand moved to his chin. He scratched. It sounded like sandpaper.
‘You want girls?’ he said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘No.’
His fingers moved to his ear. He slowly rubbed the lobe. ‘Boys?’ he said.
I shut the door in his face. Through the gap at the floor I could see his shadow. He was still there, shuffling. I stood in silence. After a moment he left. I heard him splash to the other end of the corridor, then the slam when he got into the lift.
She had told me to phone in the morning. I had her number somewhere. It wasn’t a problem. I suddenly realised where I was. I was alone in a small, cold room. The bed, table and chair. Through the window there was a partial view of old men playing billiards, the angle of shoulder, elbow and cue, and laughter I could only see. And smoke, so much smoke, rising from ashtrays and from cigarettes jammed between lips.
I found what I knew would be there; I knew it all along. My cliché (despite the bleach): the squashed bug on the wall. On closer inspection, it was two bugs, superimposed, still wet. The previous guest, reviled by their twitching copulations, had recently voted with his shoe.
I got the sheaf of paper from my suitcase and squared it on the table. Wasn’t this why I came? A new life.
My God, what have I done?
I don’t know how long I sat there. Perhaps I was trying to work out the meaning of the words I had written. And what of that exhortation to God? How strange. I looked to the window again, but the billiard room was dark. No more silent laughter, only the imagined stench of smoke remained. I stared back at myself in the glass, the pencil poised in a hand that wasn’t mine.
A slam from the lift. Splashing. Footsteps. They paused for a moment outside my door, then continued. I don’t know where. But it wasn’t here. Here was somewhere else.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.