Free The Neon Court by Kate Griffin Page B

about footballers and their indiscretions, the plight of pensioners and the failure of local government, about a disgrace in the NHS and Charleen’s operation to have her bust size increased to change her life. No one ever said that free newspapers were any good.
    At Hammersmith I changed to the District Line, a slow, cumbersome rumble of a train that seemed to sit forever at Sloane Square and was for ever delayed by signal failures. The crowds that boarded at Victoria were a strange mix: men and women in suits, carrying briefcases and smart shoulder bags, girls in sparkly shoes with bunny tails on their backsides, young men in hoodies bopping along to an invisible beat, broad-necked blokes red-faced from the pub, theatregoers in pearls and stiff beige jackets earnestly reading the programme notes written for some profound piece. A woman with the ‘mug me’ bum bag and camera of a tourist sat down next to me, a frown on her face, clutching a bag from the Science Museum close to her chest. I watched her reflected in the opposite window, and she watched me, eyebrows knitted for a long while. Then she turned, and looked me straight in the eye and said in broken, lisping English, “‘Scuse me?”
    I smiled the patient smile of all Londoners tolerating tourists.
    “‘Scuse me,” she repeated. “But you know where son’s gone?”
    My smile wavered.
    She half shook her head, and looked away. “Sorry,” she added. “Sorry. English not good.”
    At Westminster, I changed to the Jubilee Line, a swish new extension, the train cut off from the platform by a great glass barrier with doors set into it, against which the driver had to meticulously align. The platform was growing empty; I could taste the hour of the Last Train nearly coming, the perpetual last train that went round and round the Circle Line for ever, never stopping, and almost never seen. The Jubilee Line carried me to London Bridge, a grey low slab of a station set only a few metres back from the river, whose platforms stuck out from its back like a raccoon’s tail. The shutters were half up, half down over the platforms, the men in blue waistcoats blowing the final whistles for the final trains.
    Something wrong.
    I headed for the bus shelter. A night bus pulled away as I approached. On the back window, in tiny letters, someone had scratched with diligence and a sharp object,
    help me
    I could smell the river, catch a corner of its magic in the palm of my hand with the cool breeze that came off the waters. I caught the firstbus headed for Greenwich, sat at the very back, above the hot buzz of the engine, feet stuck up on the lip of the window by the emergency exit, arms wrapped round my chest, right hand aching, eyes tired. Back east again, down the Jamaica Road, Canada Water and its dull yellow shopping mausoleums, sprawling grey car parks, gleaming glass stations, smart, soulless apartment blocks overlooking the water. Greenwich again: I caught a glimpse of the drawings of the Whites on the walls, of
    half cat, half squirrel, blue eyes raised towards the sky, ice cream cone in one hand, finger pointing east
    and of
    child holding a wilting flower, face sad
    or of
    copper in a copper’s hat, face smeared out, fingers twisted into broken twigs
    I got out a few streets away from the hotel, half ran the short distance to it, didn’t know why, had to resist the urge to drag flame to our fingertips.
    The front door was locked.
    The sign in the window said
    HOTEL VACANCIES
    I hammered on the door, buzzed the buzzer, tapped on the windows.
    Dark inside. Not a light burning, not even in the hall.
    I rummaged in my satchel until I found my set of blank keys, dozens of them, every kind of make, and picking the nearest make that matched, coaxed it into the lock and then into the right shape, soothing the lock to obey my commands until, with a reluctant snap, it came undone.
    The door swung open.
    Darkness inside.
    Not a telly hummed, not a radio blared, not a bulb