Swan Songs, page 14
Flashing a gold tooth as he opened his mouth, “How can I help you mate?” he asked, in a theatrical cockney accent. The top four buttons of his navy shirt were purposely left unbuttoned to show off the thick gold chain dangling around his neck.
“Err, how much is a bed mate?”
He stopped smiling, “£12 mate.”
“Nice watch,” I said, pointing my eyes at his gold Rolex.
“This old thing,” he said rotating his wrist out in front of him. I dug deep into my pockets, remembering I was broke. Playing it off like I easily had £12, I dug even deeper. All I could produce was lint.
“Ah man,” burning up and nervous again, I felt as though my entire body was coated in a giant film of sweat. Some inoffensive piano music played quietly somewhere. Police sirens zoomed past outside, dogs barked. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and relax. Dropping my bag, it hit the floor with a thud and I rummaged through it. Fully aware there was nothing of any universal value inside.
The double doors swung open and slammed shut. I ignored who or whatever entered as I repacked my bag. I stood up; the receptionist touched his slicked-back brown hair to check it was still in place and then turned his attention to the woman that had just entered.
“How can I help you love?” he asked. She hesitated, looking at me to see if I was OK with her jumping the queue. I smiled and motioned towards the receptionist with my hand.
She was dressed like an eccentric 80s children’s presenter: yellow baseball cap and baggy pant suit with a T-shirt and shell-toe trainers.
“Do you have any private rooms available?” she asked with a French accent, taking off the baseball cap and holding it between her thighs while she pulled out a purse from the bum-bag around her waist. Her steel, carry-on suitcase was covered in stickers from all over the world: an Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, some other towers I didn’t recognise, a Sphynx, a surfboard with Aloha written on it, Mt Fuji, a Las Vegas sign, a Danish flag, etc.
The receptionist, obscured by the counter, fiddled around on a computer and said “Hmm,” over and over. Finally, he popped his head up, “We have one double room left love, twenty-four quid if you want the whole room?”
“Two nights, if that’s OK?” she said, and the man said “Yes”. She went into her bum-bag, pulled out three crisp £20 notes and slapped them into his hand. While she was distracted, fixing the strap of her baseball cap to the handle of her suitcase, the receptionist took it upon himself to pocket the change.
Holding up a keychain with two keys on it, the receptionist looked at her intently. “Right, this key is for the room door,” he said, showing her which key he meant exactly, “and this one is for the locker in the room.”
He dropped the keys into her hands, which were held out like a hungry beggar.
“That’s room 16 then, yeah?”
He waited for her to nod. “Up the stairs, first left, second right, second left, straight down the hall, right to the very end and that’s you on the right love, OK?”
“Oui, yes,” she said, zipping the bum-bag up and shuffling off with her suitcase in tow.
Elated, the receptionist flashed his eyebrows at me and nodded sideways at the French woman. I nodded in mock agreement. Her suitcase bounced off each step behind her and he turned to watch her struggle. Once out of earshot he let out a gasp of air as though he had been holding his breath until she left.
“Blimey mate, she was a bit of alright wasn’t she ay?” he said laughing. “Ay?” he said again.
I did my best to join in, doing my finest impression of a laugh. “Haha, yes,” I said, even though I didn’t agree or care.
I lazily picked up my bag from the ground in defeat when suddenly he held out another keychain. “This one is for the room, this one is for the locker yeah?” he explained, demonstrating which key was which, even going as far as to do a twisting motion with each key in case I was unsure.
“OK,” I concentrated, going along with it.
“Room 14, it is alright?” he said.
“Room 14,” I repeated, suspiciously.
“That’s up the stairs, first left, second right, second left, straight down the hall, right to the very end and that’s you on the left mate, OK?”
I took the keys. “Thanks,” I said, and waited while he poked through the mess behind the counter, murmuring like he had something to add.
“There it is,” he said, pinning a name tag to his shirt pocket reading “Mike Smith.” He reached out to fist bump me.
“Thanks… Mike,” I said, glancing down at the name tag, meekly touching my fist to his.
“Len…?” he responded, tilting his head in three directions as he did, eyes squinted as though he was trying to recall the name I had not given him.
“Yeah, well, Leonard but Len is fine,” I said, confused but not wanting to make too much of a scene. Maybe I just look like a Leonard.
“Let me know if you need anything then Len, yeah?” he said, fist-bumping me a second time.
“Of course,” I said, playing along, and “will do mate, nice one,” then I pulled the long strap of my bag over my head and disappeared up the stairs to find room 14.
I had no clue as to whether cockney Mike was feeling charitable or just got so distracted by the small pokey-nosed French woman, he thought I had paid for the bed. Either way I felt confident in my delusion again.
Door number 14 creaked open, the room was empty. There were four bunkbeds squeezed inside, running parallel to each other with just enough space down the middle to do a cartwheel through the window. Relieved to be alone, I shoved my bag beneath the bottom bunk furthest from the door and lay down on top.
The next day, the other beds were still empty. Excited at the sight of my fully charged Nokia, I tore it out of the wall and turned it on. The little digital clock display informed me it was midday. Almost fully recharged myself, I yanked a small towel from the bottom of my bag along with a change of clothes and set off to find a shower. In the hallway I walked past the little French woman who wished me a good afternoon before continuing with her heated yet hushed French phone conversation. I looked back and watched her disappear into the room opposite mine.
Each of the grim, windowless shower rooms were dimly lit with single, buzzing yellow lightbulbs that flickered to life upon entering. I imagined they kept the rooms dark in a vain attempt to obscure the year-round gallery of limescale, dirt and rust. I poked my head into each of the rooms and settled on the one I deemed the least rancid.
Locking the door behind me, I studied my face in the cracked, toothpaste-stained mirror, unshaven and sullen, eyes sunken and dark. I dismissed myself and brushed my teeth with water. The shower seemed to spit every which way but downwards, but I had experienced worse.
Despite my appearance, I felt at least 99% ready to venture off into the day and drain the Jobcentre and country for everything they were worth. I knew I could get myself to 100% if only I had some toothpaste. Lifting my hand out to twist the door handle for room 14, a lightbulb turned on over my head; unlike those gloomy shower room bulbs, this one was bright and powerful. I wondered what it could mean and if somebody else were here could they see it. Then I remembered it’s just what happens when people have ideas. I turned to knock on room 16, the French woman was shouting things in French, opened the door without looking at me and turned back into the room. She continued her phone conversation at the window.
I held the door open with my foot, awaiting her acknowledgement. She continued on ranting in French, throwing her arms around, swapping her phone from ear to ear. Eventually she turned to face me, pausing mid-conversation. She said one last thing in French then hung up, confused by my presence.
“Sorry, I just wanted to ask you…”
“Yes, yes, come in,” she cut me off, rushing over and ushering me inside, peeking out into the hallway before closing the door behind me. She manoeuvred around me and stood as far away from me as possible. “Yes?” she asked.
She noticed me glancing at the collection of colourful baseball caps neatly laid out, side by side, on one of the two beds and a look of horror splashed across her face as she reached up to pat herself on her dainty little head with two hands. “Mon dieu!” she said, and then apologised for some reason and quickly put on one of the caps, an orange one with “mon dieu!” written across the front in white embroidery. Patting my own not so dainty head I tried to remember what I was doing in her room. “Toothpaste!” I suddenly blurted out, startling the little French woman. “That was it,” I said, “do you have any? I could really do with brushing my teeth properly and I haven’t got any toothpaste.”
For a few long seconds, she stood there, thinking about my question. “Yes, toothpaste, oui!” she said, producing a small transparent toiletry bag from the bum-bag around her waist. She held it up in front of her and gave it a shake, studying the contents before smiling and handing me the whole thing. I gave it a shake of my own and studied it further, once satisfied I nodded in approval, took out the toothpaste and handed the bag back to her. Standing at opposite sides of the room, her at the window, me at the door, we looked at each other, both wishing I would leave now.
“OK, thanks?” I said and left.
“Oh yes,” she answered, rushing over to open the door and politely push me out. This time, to brush my teeth, I opted for the sink precariously crammed into the corner of room 14. I looked at myself in the small mirror above the sink, and smiled with sparkling, slightly crooked teeth.
Happy with the result, I dragged my holdall out from under the bed and shoved it into locker number one. The awkward, ill-thought-out placement of the lockers, squashed between the sink and room door, preventing it from fully opening, made me feel at home.
Leaping down the stairs, I floated into the reception area, feeling light but powerful now I had finally shed my belongings. It must have been the red woman’s turn to play the role of receptionist as she dilly-dallied about behind the front desk. Or maybe she was doing something of great importance, I will never know. Either way, upon seeing me, she stopped whatever it was that she was doing and followed me to the door with her eyes.
Reaching the Jobcentre in record time, I nodded at the serious security guard and told him I needed to use the phones for as long as it would take to make a new claim. He pointed me in the right direction and told me to press 6. I made myself as comfortable as I could, cracked my fingers in front of me and picked up the phone.
Half an hour of Vivaldi’s “Spring” later, a quiet, uncertain man answered. I started my blag, expertly reeling off each chapter. With the man now thoroughly invested in my stories I shook a fist at my side in celebration as he asked me for my address. “Yes, my address is blah blah; the address of the hostel, whatever, yea yea,” mission successful. I hung up and punched the speed dial number for crisis loans. Another half an hour of Vivaldi later a spritely voice answered. They sounded like a very happy person; I played up to it, making jokes as we went through the motions. “Yes, I have just started a new claim but I won’t receive any money until next week and I’m penniless,” I told them, oh how we laughed. Ten minutes later, my new friend Gerald at the Jobcentre call centre was laughing and apologising for my current situation, assuring me things would get better.
“Leonard, I really hate to ask this but it is procedure and I have to do it because the sneaky bastards listen into our conversations, so forgive me…” he paused to clear his throat. “OK, so, Leonard Swanson, will you die if you don’t get this crisis loan?” he asked, regretfully.
“Of course I will, Gerald!” I exclaimed.
Gerald agreed and said he would be more than happy to grant me the loan of £80 and he demanded I take care. I thanked him using my sincere voice and hung up.
The serious security guard led me to the room allocated for collecting crisis loan cheques. He held the door open for me and I trod across the hard-wearing, rough, grey carpet and took a seat until I heard my name.
“Leonard Swanson,” a muffled voice finally called.
A short, evil-looking old man sat slouched behind a Perspex screen, grimacing as I approached. I slid my passport through the opening and waited while he inspected it. He held it up to the light, peering over it to see if I was who I was claiming to be and sighed in disappointment as he slid it back. He slid a form under the screen with no explanation. No need for one, I thought, does this poor old fool not know who I am? I signed the form and slid it back to him, glancing around the room at a young woman shushing a crying baby cradled in her arms. The other crisis loan winners successively shook their heads, releasing mumbles of annoyance under their putrid breaths. Personally, I was never really bothered by a crying baby human. I wouldn’t say I was a fan either, but I never found them any less annoying than the non-baby humans that breathe amongst us, and at least the crying baby kind don’t tell me their opinions when I haven’t asked.
My liberal train of thought was interrupted by the grumpy old grimacing man knocking on the screen that protected him from desperate doleites. Pointing down at the cheque he must have slid to me while I was thinking about how good of a person I was, unenthused, he called out the next name: “Sandra Something.” The room was glum and I tucked the cheque into my sock for extra safe-keeping and left in a hurry. The woman with the baby bumped into me. “Watch where you’re fucking going dickhead!” she snapped.
I froze, flabbergasted. “Wow,” I said quietly, after all those nice thoughts I had.
She rocked her baby and shushed it some more, turning her attention to the old man behind the counter. “Fucking cheer up mate,” she obnoxiously demanded.
I cashed the cheque at the post office round the corner, exchanging one bit of paper for more bits of paper. Now I had to survive until my dole came through roughly one week later when I would initiate phase two of the blag. First and foremost, I had to fill my belly with food it probably didn’t all the way agree with, so I headed back in the direction of the hostel, stopping at a little café on the way. I ate a full English breakfast with extra eggs instead of black pudding and drank some black coffee with too many sugars.
I thought about the album I was supposed to be working on, imagining once it was finished I’d sell ten thousand CD-Rs that I had burnt myself for maximum profit. My scruffy unshaven face on the front of prestigious music magazines no one cared about anymore. I would have enough money to rent a small flat in London without having to work in a factory or implement a complex long-con on the Jobcentre. I could see myself touring the album up and down the country and maybe even venturing out to perform in obscure towns of several European countries and maybe even the United States. After selling many more CD-Rs on my long successful tour, I would move into the then supposedly dying vinyl game, revitalising an industry. Upon selling too much for me to even account for, I would employ a bunch of generic suited humans or blurry-faced green folk to do mathematics while I disappeared deep into the sticks to smoke cigarettes, drink spirits and ride quad-bikes on my own land. And just as the glorious mud was splashing up onto my visor, I was pulled from the quad-bike and thrown high into the air landing in that wood-panelled room. Once again I was looking out of that same grand window into that same field and I was bored of it. I felt as though I was sighing, even though the body I was occupying did not sigh with me. Out in the field, I could see a girl that made me think of June, she was standing over a body lying face-down in the grass. They flickered in and out of my vision like weakly transmitted holograms before fading away.
I could hear someone calling my name in the distance, then suddenly it felt like my soul had been snatched up and dropped back into the body of Leonard Swanson. For a few seconds I questioned if it was even my body.
“Leonard?” I looked up to see Mike. He wasn’t wearing his name tag but I knew it was him because he still had on the same blue shirt with the gold chain on display and well, it was him.
“You alright there Len, you looked a bit err, spaced out then mate,” he said laughing, looking over at the woman behind the counter for encouragement, nodding sideways toward me. “Ay?” he said to the woman.
She joined in and laughed along. “Oh leave him alone you Mike!” she said jokingly.
Uncomfortable and somewhat abashed by Mike’s familiarity, I responded with a coy “Yeah, I’m alright,” looking down at my empty plate.
“Alright then mate, I’ll see you later yeah?” he said before turning back to the woman, thanking her for the coffee. “See you later Rita, yeah?” he said.
“Yeah, see you Mike,” she giggled.
I waited for Mike to leave, paid Rita and left.
A Brief History with Mike.
With a few days left until my dole money came through, I aimlessly wandered through the streets, rehearsing my lines for the next phase of my Jobcentre scam, never straying too far from the hostel. A couple of hours later, the script was memorised and ready for any curveballs thrown my way. I swung the double doors of the hostel open and stepped in, hoping to sneak past the reception desk, only to be caught by a dubious-looking Mike.
“Len,” he whispered. I pretended not to hear but he leant forward over the counter before I reached the stairs. “Psst, Len, Len,” he whispered again, louder.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there, sapnin’?” I reluctantly responded.
Leaning further over the counter he looked left and right to make sure the coast was clear of potential eavesdroppers.
“Er mate, help me with something will you?” he said secretively.
“What is it?” I responded, wary of becoming too friendly with a man that insisted on leaving the top four buttons of his shirt undone in less than ten degrees Celsius on a Tuesday. Plus I feared he would realise he had not charged me.
He took one last look around, making sure nobody other than me was paying attention. “Follow me,” he said, and stepped backwards until the trapdoor was between his feet. He reached down and pulled it open with both hands. “Come on,” he whispered, looking up at me, sounding more urgent like I might give the game away if I didn’t comply immediately.
