It was tucked into a new development of glass and yellow brick, near St Paul’s Cathedral. The staff knew him, and his credit card, and they knew not to ask too many questions. They even avoided looking appalled at my smell, though the receptionist’s eyes watered. The theme of the hotel was purple leather inclining to black, with polished copper fittings and low orange lighting. In that nothing in it was made of plywood, it had class; but it made tiring work of being cool. Templeman gave me the key to my room, and a plastic bag containing lemon shampoo and antibacterial soap. He said, “Only you and I know you’re here.” We said, “We won’t hide.” I added, “Thank you,” as he left. Then we washed. First we washed away the stench of the sewer, and rubbed anti-bacterial soap into every inch of our skin until it burnt with septic heat. Then we washed ourself in lemon soap, rubbing it into our hair, our eyebrows, the gaps between our toes and; when we’d done that, we scrubbed again and thought of dust, dust under our nails, and for the first time since we had left the dusthouse and slid through the sewers of Soho, we were sick.
