Chapter Eight

Eight steps towards the centre of the room, and I stop. Filthy fibres sneak over my toes; I tip my foot back to escape them and spin around on my heel. I am alone, which was not the intention when I stood up. Or the insinuation. Looking to the table, it's easy to see why. He's slumped over the "wood" of the tabletop, lips slightly separated like a couple who aren't quite ready to be seen together. Sliding from between them, a silvery snail trail of saliva dampens the nearest beer mat. His fingers twitch slightly next to his glass, flickering. It takes eleven steps to get back to the table, side-stepping around the suits and whores. It's the tarts and vicars party of the business world.

I tug at his cuff. It's damp, and on closer inspection is the colour of piss and mustard. There are three holes in the button holding it together, tiny white thread meandering between them. The edge of the shirt is fraying. His wife has just left him. His eyes grog open with the look that one only has when regaining consciousness. Once, twice... five times his eyelids struggle against the light, a losing battle until I push the ice down his collar and steal the key from his pocket. His hand pushes back the pepper-dashed hair on his forehead, and I take it in my own. As I pull him to his feet and away from the table, he reaches out for the rest of his drink and downs it in one. It takes two and a half seconds for the liquid to slosh into his expectant mouth, and another three to get the balls to swallow it. It seems to work wonders; he's soon traipsing behind me, hands on my hips, letting me lead him through the scrum. The whores aim glances over my head, eyes flickering to me, the suit on my tail, the direction we're headed in. The looks aren't meant to be hidden, and they're not. The eyelashes can't hide the malice in their eyes, the green monster that has taken over. It may not be him they want. Maybe it's me. Who can tell.

I run my hand up the banister as the staircase falls behind us. Seven... eight... nine... he stumbles behind me and I lose count trying to hold his weight. I place his hands firmly on the banister, let his head join them; regain the lobby and start again. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten to where he's at, eleven... twelve... to the landing. I check the number engraved on the key, the ridges filled with the God-knows-what of the past. His palms slide from my hips and away from me. He starts to lag, but we're inches away. The door opens with ease and I push him in and onto the mattress. He looks up at me imploringly.

"This isn't seduction," I mutter. "This is salvation."