Free TheRapist by J. Levy

moment.
    A smartly dressed doorman opened the taxi door. The Berkeley s tood before her in all its ston y-beige splendour. A London matriarch, situated regally on the cusp of Knightsbridge and Belgravia. There was no better location in this city, thought Devon as she eased herself out of the taxi. Had she forgotten all of the other places? Those places of long, long ago. The ones her mind dare not remember?
    After mere moments at the reception, Devon found herself in her room with its sumptuous décor and enormous fluffy pillows on a bed that looked beyond inviting. She tipped the bellman ten pounds and had already stripped naked by the time he had closed the door behind him.
    Shame, she thought. He was rather nice. Tall and dark, with an Eastern European accent and he smelt clean too.
     
    She stood beneath the shower and let the water wash away that strange, indeterminable, almost acrid ‘plane smell’. The one everyone smells of after any flight. Luggage seems to temporarily take on that smell too. It’s a smell like no other. Horrible. She was glad to be rid of it. Slathering the hotel body lotion on her soft, still damp skin, Devon threw on the puffy white robe, flossed and brushed her teeth, tied her hair in a knot on top of her head, moisturized her face and almost fell down onto the bed, literally sinking into its comfort with a sigh. There really was nothing like the luxury of a good hotel room when you were clean and hungry. Scanning the menu, she punched the room service button and ordered.
    ‘Double fried egg and chips, not runny, not hard. White toast. Tea. Extra hot water. Biscuits. Please. And hurry please, I’m starving.’ It was not exactly Berkeley Fare, but they were obliging nonetheless.
    ‘Yes maam, that should be with you in 20-25 minutes.’
    Devon popped the remote control and set the channel to Sky News. It was the weather report. Apparently, England was chilly. No kidding? Maybe rain tomorrow. This country was so predictable. Then they showed a sky cam pic filled with clouds so that you could barely make out what was beneath.
    ‘Three degrees overnight in town, dropping to minus two in Greater London…….’ A pretty, meteorologist with dark shiny hair and high heels droned on and on.
    Greater London. Her mind began to travel back in time. Dropping down into the underground, boarding a train, lingering in the carriage as it jolted through the city, the eastern outskirts of London , carrying her through stations on a red line, further and further, to Essex…
     
    Knock, knock. Two loud raps at the door.
    Food.
    The waiter delivered and Devon devoured with gusto. She tore her toast into uneven rectangles, soldiers slightly askew and dunked them into the slightly mobile perfect yolks. She put salt on her chips and scoffed them down, chasing down mouthfuls with hot, burning slugs of tea with white sugar. She mopped up her plate with a waiting soldier, filled the teapot with hot water and dunked biscuits into the steaming dark brown drink. Bitter with sugar to sweeten.
    Saited. Devon closed her eyes and escaped to dreamland.
    She awoke three hours later with dried egg yolk across her bottom lip. Scraping it off with her teeth, she peeled herself off the bed, reached into her case and punched a text into her Blackberry, pulled out a silky black sheeth dress and a brigh t red wig styled into a chignon, held together with crystal-studded chopstic ks . She climbed into the dress, piled up her hair, fastening it with pins, pulled on the wig and slipped out of the room.
     
    3am. Soho. Windmill Street. In a dingy alley that stank of piss and rotting food, Devon handed something over to a spindly tranvestite wearing a vibrant orange mini-skirt and a black velvet cape.
    Within a short space of time , time seemingly devoid of minutes and seconds that stretched like a heat sodden fog, despite the chilled night air, i n a room rented by the hour above a sex shop, a man was grunting like a pig. His face was