Outside, somewhere beyond the alley and chimneys and rows of soot-dark houses, the town went on with its light. Men drank below them. Doors opened and shut. A car grumbled past. Farther off, a whistle sounded from the direction of the railway. Wakefield did not know them yet. It had not asked their names, nor where they had come from, nor what had driven them here carrying all they owned in one battered suitcase.
But for this one night, there was respite.
The woman lay still, eyes open in the darkening room, listening to her son breathe.
At last, she reached out and touched the curve of his cheek with two fingertips, as though to reassure herself that he was still with her, that after all the miles and fear and closed doors, she had managed to bring him to a place that had walls and a lock and a blanket against the cold. Only then did she drift away. The shadows under her eyes remained, like bruises left by a life that was not yet finished with her.
Chapter 3
The grey morning light slithered through the gaps in the curtain.
The room had grown colder in the night. The windows did little to keep out the chill, and what little warmth had gathered beneath the blanket had long since faded. When Asha opened her eyes, for a moment she was disoriented, like she was trapped between a nightmare and reality. A nightmare where a strong hand closed over her mouth and a warm body pressed down on her, squeezing the breath out of her even as her little son slept next to her. For a moment, she lay still, listening out of habit. The muted sounds of the pub below had quieted to the occasional footfall and the creak of floorboards, a chair dragged, a door opening and closing somewhere far off.
Beside her, the boy slept curled into her, his small body seeking warmth. She eased herself up carefully so as not to wake him and carefully tucked the blanket around him.
Her limbs felt stiff, her back tight from the long journey and the narrow, lumpy bed. She had slept in her clothes, though at some point in the night she had removed her outer layer andfolded it beneath her head. Now she reached for it, shaking it out quietly before slipping it back on. The fabric felt cold against her skin.
She moved to the basin.
The water in the pitcher was icy. She dipped the cloth anyway, wringing it out with steady fingers. She wiped her face, her neck, her arms—quick, efficient motions. She couldn't afford to linger. She did not look at herself in the small, clouded mirror on the dresser.
Behind her, the boy stirred.
“Amma…”
“I’m here,” she said softly.
He blinked at her, disoriented, then seemed to remember where he was. That they had escaped. His mouth turned down slightly.
“I need to go,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
So did she. But the night before, she had not dared venture out into the corridor.
For a moment she stood very still, eyes flicking toward the door. It felt safe in this little room. The corridor beyond felt vast and unfamiliar in the morning light. But there was no choice.
“Come,” she said, picking him up. He was getting heavier.
She helped him into his shoes, her fingers quick despite the chill, then lifted his coat from the chair. It dwarfed him. The sleeves fell well past his hands, the hem nearly to his knees. She folded the cuffs back as best she could and buttoned it to his chin.
“Too big,” he muttered with a pout.
“It will keep you warm,” she replied. “We’d better go or your pee will freeze.”
That made his eyes go round and put a stop to his arguments. She fished out a small travel pouch and opened the door a fraction first, listening. The corridor lay quiet, the weak morninglight the only illumination. A popular Elvis Presley song floated up from below. Someone had the radio on.
They stepped out together.
The floorboards complained even under their careful steps. The boy stayed close to her side, clutching at her hand now, his earlier sleepiness replaced by a small, alert tension. It squeezed her heart to see how young he had learned to be afraid.
At the end of the hall, she pushed open the bathroom door.
The smell met them at once.
The boy recoiled, covering his nose. “Amma… it stinks.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But we have to go.”
The room was cramped, the tiled floor damp in places, the sink stained with limescale and rust from years of use. The toilet itself had a flush, though the chain hung at an awkward angle, and the basin held a ring that no amount of scrubbing seemed to have ever removed. Someone had used it and had forgotten to flush it.
