Free Cannonbridge by Jonathan Barnes

assumes that she has been mistaken for one of them. She pushes through the crowd, slips through the bustle of the kitchen and makes her way to the corridor beyond. She doubts that the large gentlemen in green will fare so well as her in that place—anonymity, ironically, perhaps, having never been their strongest suit—and wonders if she might not have bought herself some time.
    After that: more good fortune. Had she not long since given up the practice of prayer she would certainly have murmured a catechism of gratitude to her neglectful deity. Instead, she simply acknowledges her own quick thinking and hurries on. Along the corridor she goes, bowing her head and adopting an air of subservience which was once, with considerable cruelty, instilled into her. She passes easily as a servant of some description, out of uniform or newly arrived and overwhelmed; the place is so big and the staff so numerous that few who are employed there are likely to know the face of every one of their peers. Besides, the young woman is lucky: she does not cross the paths of many of the staff and it is not long before, taking a steep flight of stairs which rise up at the end of the little labyrinth of corridors, she finds herself out of the servants’ quarters altogether and into the realm of the guests.
    Up she climbs, floor after floor, passing bell-boys and men carrying food and flagons of wine, past women with laundry and uniformed children clutching messages and telegrams. Often, she looks behind her but she sees and hears nothing to suggest the continuance of the chase. Nevertheless, she climbs, like an animal in a forest fire seeking the sanctuary of the tree-tops.
    She stops only when there are no more stairs to ascend, on the very highest floor of this monstrous old hotel, stepping out of a concealed door at the end of another long corridor, though one far more sumptuously furnished and laid out than that which she had navigated below. Here there is the unmistakable scent of money: thick, port-coloured carpet, walls hung with seascapes and hunting scenes, the musical tinkle of chandeliers overhead. Stealthily, she moves along the hallway, passing closed door after closed door, hoping, perhaps, to find some obscure berth in which she might lie low for an hour or so.
    Then, from behind her, she hears the thunderous approach of men upon the stairs. Two of them by their tread—heavy, implacable. For the first time in that long day, she hesitates. The sound of them is unmistakable—dogs closing in upon the kill.
    Others might have screamed at the sound or have begun to weep but our girl gives only one sign of her true emotions; the blood drains from her face and she seems still paler than before, the most delicate of blooms in this place of wealth and pleasure.
    The sound of boots upon the stairs grows louder still. Still, she hesitates. Is she exhausted? Defeated? Might she be ready, at long last, to submit?
    Then, without warning, the door that is nearest to her opens (she catches a glimpse of the words that are stencilled upon it: THE CHRYSALIS SUITE) and a man steps abruptly into the light. He is a tall man, expensively dressed and impeccable in his demeanour, although there exists a certain harried aspect in his eyes.
    He takes her arm. “You must come inside.” His voice is like coffee, like chocolate, like cream.
    She does not resist but only allows herself to be drawn into the room. Once they are within, he pulls shut the door.
    “Who are you?” she begins to ask but he enjoins her to silence by placing a finger to his lips.
    From outside, she hears the frustrated tramp of boots upon the carpet, the hungry, bitter conversation of the men in green. For a long minute, they wait as the sound of her pursuers disappears once more. She thinks that she hears them begin to speed up again, doubtless believing themselves to have temporarily lost their spoor.
    Only once the noise has disappeared entirely does the man who saved her