The Carrier

by Sophie Hannah

  “What the fuck is this?” she says, looking around. “Oh, someone’s taking the piss now! There’s only one bed. What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to make the best of it, because we have no choice,” I tell her. At home, Sean and I sleep in a bed that’s seven feet wide, a super-king. When we were buying it, Sean said he thought a king-size would do. I laughed and overruled him.

  I consider telling Lauren she can have the bed and I’ll have the floor, then change my mind. I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, and I need to; even three or four hours would be something. I have no idea what tomorrow has in store. I need to look after myself so that, whatever happens, I’ll be able to deal with it.

  I am having the thoughts of a disaster survivor, trying to think no further ahead than the next small chunk of time and what actions and decisions it requires.

  “I’m not sleeping in a bed with a woman.” Lauren folds her arms in protest. “Or with a man, unless it’s my Jason. He’d go apeshit.”

  “Sleep on the floor, then,” I say, praying she’ll agree.

  “Fuck off! Look at the state of that carpet. There’s chewing gum been stamped into it over there. It’s filthy. What about finding another hotel, like you said?”

  “That was a good idea two hours ago.” In the time it took the receptionist to arrange for all the rooms to be made up and to allocate keys, we could have driven back to Düsseldorf Airport. Not that there’d have been any point. Somehow, it feels as if there’s no point being here either, in the vicinity of Cologne Airport. Getting home, at any time, by any means, feels very unlikely, though logically I know it will happen. “I’m too tired now,” I tell Lauren. “I’m not willing to lose any more sleep time. The coach is collecting us at seven.” Allegedly.

  Lauren’s lower jaw starts to twitch. “You can have the duvet and the pillow,” I tell her. I’ll use my coat as a blanket.”

  “No! I’m not having this! They’re bastards, doing this to us.” She tries to push past me. “I’m going down to the lobby to tell that woman . . .”

  “She’s not there anymore. Once we were all sorted with rooms, she left.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you not know?” I snap. “She told us that was what was going to happen . . .”

  “I didn’t hear her.”

  “. . . and then we saw her leave. Until six a.m., this is an unstaffed hotel.” One of my favorite details of our situation that I intend to include in all future tellings of this horror story is that breakfast is scheduled to start at seven on the dot: exactly the time that our coach will be departing for Cologne Airport. The receptionist smiled as she presented us with this news, knowing that it didn’t affect her; she would be able to have breakfast.

  “All right, prove it!” Lauren’s eyes light up suddenly. “If there’s no staff here now, let’s smash the place up,” she says in a rush of excitement. “Smash down doors until we find another bed!”

  I cover my face with my hand and rub my forehead hard with my index finger. “Lauren, I want you to listen carefully. You have a choice now. I’m going to get into that bed”—I point to it—“and go to sleep. You can either do the same, or you can fuck off and do whatever you want, on your own. What you can’t do is anything that prevents me from sleeping, because if you do that, I promise you, I will make you sorry you ever met me.” That would have sounded more threatening if I hadn’t yawned while saying it. Oh, well.

  I brace myself for the inevitable flood of tears. Instead Lauren says, “If we’re going to share a bed, you have to swear you won’t lay a finger on me. And I’m not taking my clothes off.”

  I hold up my hands. “I promise to make no romantic advances. Really, you couldn’t be safer. Even if lesbianism overpowers me in my sleep, my good taste will hold firm and protect us both.”

  Lauren’s eyes widen. She backs away from me.

  “What? You’re shocked to hear the word ‘lesbianism’ spoken aloud in polite society? Sorry, I forgot to brush up on my bigotry before I set off this morning. If I’d known I’d be meeting you, I’d have given it my all.”

  “Can’t you talk in a way I’ll understand?” Lauren says quietly.

  “Yes. Night night—do you understand that?” I kick off my shoes. Fully clothed, I lie down on the far side of the bed, cover myself with my coat, and close my eyes. I’d have liked to brush my teeth, but the receptionist ran out of toothbrush-and-paste packs before Lauren and I reached the front of the queue.

  “Gaby?”

  “What?”

  “I’m starving. I feel sick and dizzy. I need something to eat.”

  I wonder if I can get away with pretending to have fallen asleep after I said, “What?” It’s worth a try.

  “Gaby? Gaby! Wake up!”

  Fooling a fool is no fun. It’s too easy. I open my eyes. “There’s a petrol station across the autobahn from the hotel,” I say.

  “Across the what?”

  “The road. Its lights were still on fifteen minutes ago. It must be open twenty-four hours. Why don’t you go and buy something there? Take the room key.”

  “I’m not going on my own!”

  “Why not?”

  My callous suggestion that she should plunge herself into solitude for the next five to ten minutes has activated Lauren’s inner sprinkler system: she’s crying again. “They might not speak English. I’ve never been to a foreign shop on my own.”

  If I had the energy, I would kick myself. I knew she was hungry—she mentioned it earlier. I should have sent her to buy food while I waited in the queue.

  “Please, Gaby. Come with me. Then I swear I’ll let you sleep.”

  I sit up. Dizziness makes my head spin. I clutch at what might be the corner of a silver lining: I can eat something too. I haven’t noticed my hunger until now. I’ve been trying to lull myself into an insensate trance state in order not to notice how I feel about what’s happening to me.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” I say, pulling my shoes back on. “What are you going to get? I hope they’ve got hot fattening things and a microwave. I fancy a burger, and a Yorkie bar for pudding.”

  Lauren screws up her face in distaste. “They’ll have something English, do you reckon? Foreign food turns my stomach.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Cheeseburgers don’t have passports.”

  “What, so liking the food in your own country’s ridiculous, is it?” She turns on me. “It’s the Germans who are ridiculous! The only music I’ve heard all day since I got here is English music—every car stereo that drives past. They’ve got their own language, but they listen to our music. How daft is that?”

  Well, you know the Germans—no nationalistic pride, that’s their problem. That’s what I say in my head. To Lauren, I say, “I think I’m going to get a can of Coke as well.” I am slowly learning the rules of moronic dialogue: when answering feels impossible, present an unconnected random statement as if it’s relevant to the topic at hand.

  Inside the petrol station, soaking wet from the rain, Lauren and I are reunited with the three football shirts from boarding gate B56 at Düsseldorf, the ones who were hoping to get drunk at Fly4You’s expense. This is what I like to see: ambition steadily maintained until the goal is reached. These men have not allowed exhaustion, depression or a better idea to divert them from their course. They are at the till, euros out, sixteen cans of beer stacked up on the counter in front of them, still joking about how legless they will soon be. I wonder if this is the way it works for most heavy drinkers: that it’s not so much the alcohol itself that’s the attraction, but rather the comedy gold mine it represents, the opportunity to say a dozen times, “How fucking shit-faced are we going to be after all these?”

  “There’s sod all here I can eat,” Lauren says, looking around miserably.

  I pull open the fridge door and take out the o
nly two remaining sandwiches. There is nothing potentially hot on offer, and no microwave. “Ham or tuna mayo?” I say. “I’m happy with either.”

  “I don’t eat sandwiches,” says Lauren.

  “On principle?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you eat sandwiches? A ham sandwich, on white bread: about as English a snack as you could hope to find. What’s the problem?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t know who’s had their dirty fingers all over it. I’m all right. I’ll just get some Pringles.”

  “You need more than Pringles,” I say, spotting my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Remember: you don’t care about this woman. You don’t care if she eats weeds from the petrol station forecourt, or drinks five liters of diesel.

  I will not slip up again.

  “I’ll get the big size,” she says. “It’s massive. No way I’ll be able to eat all them Pringles.”

  “I’m going to get the tuna sandwich, because it’s the most nutritious and filling thing here,” I say in my capacity as positive role model. “And some Häagen-Dazs as a treat.” I open the freezer and pull out a tub of Cookies & Cream flavor.

  “What’s Haggendass?” Lauren asks, unable to make the connection between the word and the thing in my hand that isn’t a sandwich.

  “Posh ice cream,” I tell her.

  “Ooh-ooh!” she says sneerily, loud enough to turn the heads of the beer collectors. “How la-di-fucking-da are you?”

  “Better la-di-fucking-da than mardy-fucking-brat, that’s what I always say. Actually, I don’t say it, ever. Normally, I say things like, ‘So, what are the optimal kinematics for the end-effectors?’ Except tonight there’s no point saying any of the things I might normally say, because the only person listening to me is a thick parochial bigot.”

  “You mean me, don’t you?” Lauren says with a triumphant glint in her eye, as if she’s caught me out.

  One of the football shirts elbows another and says, “Sounds like it’s about to kick off over there. With those two lasses, over there.”

  No, actually, it sounds as if the brief kickoff has already fizzled out. And your friends shouldn’t need directions, being neither blind nor deaf. If they can’t work out which argument you’re referring to, what makes you think pointing will make a difference?

  Am I the odd one out—not only in this petrol station but in the world? Are most people more like Lauren than like me? It’s a scary thought.

  “Go and get your Pringles. I assume I’m paying for them?” She hasn’t brought her bag or a wallet with her.

  “Got no euros left,” she says. “I need a drink too. Can I have a Diet Coke?”

  “No. You can have a normal Coke. If I’m paying, I’m choosing.”

  “You what?” She laughs at my outrageousness. “You’re a cheeky cow, you are.”

  “You’re pin-thin, and you haven’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours. You could do with the calories. Plus, Diet Coke’s full of aspartame, which is bad for you. Side effects include acting like a dick at Düsseldorf Airport.”

  Worry shrivels the smile on her face. “I drink Diet Coke all the time. It’s all I drink.”

  “Forget it. I was kidding.”

  “You what?”

  “I was making a joke. Don’t you know anyone who does that? You don’t have a sense of humor, but Jason does—that sort of thing?”

  “You don’t know Jason,” she says suspiciously, as if she fears that I might.

  “I know. Forget it. Really. I’ll stop . . . verbally sparring with you and just accept that there’s no way to make tonight fun.”

  “So can I have a Diet Coke?”

  “No. I was serious about that. In fact, forget Coke as well. Get a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. And grab two toothbrushes and some toothpaste from over there.” I point.

  She picks up a can of Diet Coke and holds it defiantly.

  “It’s orange juice or nothing,” I say firmly. “In twenty years’ time, when you’re on your deathbed, you’ll be able to tell your great-grandchildren that you once tried vitamin C, one rainy night in Cologne.”

  I choose a Coke for myself and pay for our food and drinks. It’s raining even harder as we run across the empty dual carriageway back to the hotel. In our room, I sit down on the rancid carpet and tell Lauren to do the same, so that we can dry off a bit before getting into bed. It would make sense for us to dry our clothes on the radiators overnight—one of the best features of this room is that it has radiators—and sleep in our underwear. What are the chances of my being able to suggest this and not be mistaken for a sexual predator whose sole aim is to supplant Jason in Lauren’s affections? If I have to sleep in a tiny bed with a cretin, I’d like not to have to do it in wet clothes.

  No. Damp and dressed is better. I don’t want to see any more of Lauren than I’ve already seen. She’s probably got a Union Jack tattooed on her stomach, or the word “Pringles,” or “stummack.” Or something even worse that I’m not barbaric enough to imagine. I don’t want to find out.

  She spits a mouthful of orange juice back into the bottle. “I’m not drinking that,” she says. “It’s disgusting. Got stuff floating in it.”

  I’m glad she made us go out; I feel better now that I’m eating. The tuna sandwich is chilly and soggy, but it’s tackling my hunger, and I’m able to get through it knowing that there’s Häagen-Dazs at the end of it.

  I ought to switch on my phone, see if Sean’s left the string of messages I switched it off to avoid. I don’t have to speak to him. I can send a quick text giving him the basic facts. He’ll have gone to sleep by now, anyway.

  I look up and catch Lauren staring at me. “What?”

  “In twenty years’ time, I’ll be forty-three,” she says. “Why would I die when I’m forty-three?”

  I’m so shocked, I nearly inhale the tuna that’s in my mouth. I manage to swallow it instead. She must have remembered what I said from the petrol station and worked it out. I want to say well done, but that would be patronizing, and I don’t want to be—not at the moment. Though I’m sure I will again soon.

  “No forty-three-year-olds have great-grandkids,” Lauren announces.

  “No. You’re right. See what happens when you switch on your brain? You can win arguments.”

  “So what were you on about?” she asks, stuffing a handful of broken Pringles into her mouth.

  “I was joking.”

  “How’s that funny, saying something that’s not true?”

  I balance what’s left of my sandwich on my wet trouser leg, unwilling to let it touch any part of the hotel room. “I was mocking you for being a working-class cliché, and being generally sarcastic and horrible. Me, I mean, not you. It’s a way of keeping my mind active. I could read my book instead, but you’d keep interrupting me.”

  “What d’you need to read a book for?” Lauren asks.

  “Hanging around with you makes me feel as if my IQ’s dropping,” I explain. “I’d like to give it a boost.”

  “Your IQ—listen to you!” She grins suddenly. “I can’t wait to tell my Jason about what you’re like. Two things I’m going to say: she’s a snooty cow, I’ll say, but she’s all right really. Underneath.”

  “He’ll feel as if he’s known me all his life.” I smile back. Me, all right really? It’s an appealing idea. “Look, Lauren, you’re not going to die when you’re forty-three, but if you carry on smoking at the rate you do, and if you don’t eat healthy stuff, ever, you might well die younger than you otherwise would. And . . . you also might have children too young, and get trapped with your Jason. He doesn’t have to be yours, you know. He could be somebody else’s.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Exactly what I was wondering myself. “You have choices. You don’t have to do what all your fri
ends do.”

  “What do you mean, I’ll get trapped with Jason? He’s my husband. I want to be with him.”

  I abandon the remains of my tuna sandwich and move on to the tub of Häagen-Dazs. For once, I think Lauren might have made an excellent point. “Sorry, I mistook you for me,” I say. “I’m the one who should ditch her partner and definitely not have a baby with him.” I can’t believe I said that out loud.

  Only to Lauren. It doesn’t count.

  Still. I’ve never even said it to myself before.

  “What’s your husband called?”

  “We’re not married. We just live together. Sean.”

  “Don’t you love him?”

  “I don’t know if I do anymore. Even if I do, it’s not enough.”

  Lauren laughs. “You say some freaky things, you. How can love be not enough? It’s, like, the most you can care about someone, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t find him impressive or admirable. I can’t convince myself that I don’t deserve better.” A proper, self-sufficient grown-up. Someone capable of spending up to four evenings a week alone without complaining. A sudden surge of anger makes me say, “If I weren’t so busy with work, I’d have got my act together and left him by now.”

  Have I turned myself into a procrastinator for Sean’s sake? To spare his feelings, because I know I don’t want to be with him anymore?

  Thank God I’m not pregnant. Thank God my flight home was delayed. This is a chance.

  “Maybe you deserve better than Jason,” I tell Lauren. “Is he kind to you? Does he treat you well?” Or is he a bully, or violent? Is that why you mistake verbal abuse from a stranger for the comforting care of a new friend?

  “He’s just a bloke, isn’t he?” Lauren looks away. “They’re all pretty much alike.”