Sleeper – Part four.
I cross Orange Street, skirt Leicester Square and make my way to the church I’ve known for years, but never visited. It nestles amongst the Chinese grocers and cafes in Lisle Street, its neighbour the Prince Charles cinema. A frieze of the Virgin Mary over the doorway welcomes the faithful and I step gingerly through the outer and inner doors to find a service in full flow. The modest entrance belies the church’s impressive size and a scattering of worshippers sit or kneel in the pews. The priest leads the prayers in French whilst several of the congregation, in the outer circle, wait for the next service. I sit for a while in a pew at the rear, resting with the bag on my lap, hearing but not listening to the events around me and not taking in the famous mural by Jean Cocteau which is framed in glass to my left. I am tired and ready for home.
I force myself to my feet, leave the church as quietly as I’d arrived and head slowly and sluggishly north up Charing Cross Road, back to the Charlotte Street Hotel. My welcome this time is not so warm. The door is not opened for me and the doorman follows me to the seat I had happily occupied only hours before,
“Can I help you madam?”
“I’m waiting for someone, a gentleman friend, he has a room here.”
“May I ask the gentleman’s name to let him know you’ve arrived?”
“Actually, I’m not sure what name he’ll be using.”
Although tired, I am quite excited, having seen him in the Square, and still confident that the plan will work out. Satisfied with my ambiguous response, the doorman returns to his sentry point.
For a while I am left alone and I study the lobby for signs that friends are around: by now some in Trafalgar Square will have Googled out of curiosity and the agents will have played their part. In fact hasn’t the cat statue now changed orientation, facing into the hotel? Then I overhear the receptionist on the phone talking about a booking for the library that evening – yes, that must be us, how apt, a party in a library.
Another man approaches and quietly asks who it is I am waiting for. This one is not happy with my coy response and firmly asks me to leave. I do, confident that friends will ensure that things still work out.
Whilst in the vicinity, a quick trip back to the office is possible, so I struggle north through Fitzrovia and seek refuge in the lift to the fifth floor again. Parking the bag on the table is a great relief and I take some time re-packing it with items I’d left behind earlier in the day when I become aware of being watched.
A young man and woman are looking at me through the internal windows. I open the door, fumble in my pocket to produce my staff ID and introduce myself. Since they are locking up the library for the day, they are keen to see me out and offer to help with the bag. Much as I would have liked this, it would be cheating, so I clutch it with both hands and follow them into the lift. I leave the building and move on to the Law School in Little Titchfield Street but they are closing up too, so I take a seat on the entrance steps just as it is getting dark. Suddenly I am euphoric. I play with my phone, deftly changing the names of contacts into code then deleting them altogether. The one remaining entry, Voicemail, becomes “Bon ton roulet”, yes, let the good times roll I smile. I drop items from my bag and pockets down a drain hole, so that I cannot be identified or traced.
It is time to go home and I step out into the street and hail a taxi.
Sitting safe in the back of the cab I realise that the driver is blind and that he is being directed on his journey by his mum. She is sitting at the kitchen table with a sophisticated satnav-meets-Streetview device, directing him with her soft lilting Bajan voice through his earpiece, like a rally driver’s mate.
On arrival outside my house I am flustered when I cannot find my purse. Confidently I instruct the driver to keep the bag with its literary tomes as security and to come back tomorrow at 7pm for payment. As the taxi rolls away, I cross the road and open the gate, walk to the front door, only to find I don’t have my keys.
(To be continued)