Late afternoon, the London skies beginning to turn to lead as, slightly unsteadily, Craig wound his way out of Dean Street Townhouse, along Dean Street and then left onto Old Compton Street. He’d left Vanessa chatting to some friends at the bar. They’d put away two bottles of wine during the lunch/interview. The girl could definitely drink, no question.
Almost unconsciously he found himself wending his way towards Denmark Street, the guitar-shop epicentre of London. He had done this walk many times during his homeless years and it felt strange and unnerving to be doing it now, when he was able to actually buy something, when he had the cash card for his new deposit account in his pocket. (He hadn’t been able to get a credit card or a current account yet as he had no credit rating, but he had a debit card with the Visa symbol on it, the first time in over a decade that he’d possessed such a thing.) There was just under thirty thousand pounds in there, the money he had left after paying his lawyer and paying Alan back for his short-term loans. He took his mobile (Katie’s old mobile) out of his pocket and rang Katie. ‘Hi, Craig,’ she trilled. ‘How did it go with Vanessa then?’
‘Aye, fine. She’s lovely. Felt a bit weird, mind. Doing an interview again after all these years. Listen, Katie, I’ll not be home tonight. Got some flats to look at later and then again first thing in the morning. So I thought I’d walk up to Bloomsbury and book a wee hotel for the night. OK?’
‘Sure.’
‘Just wanted to let you know in case you were cooking or something.’
‘No problem.’
‘Any word from our friend in the North?’
‘Just a quick text. Apparently some problems with Andy Jacks running a bit late.’
‘Oh aye. I bet. OK. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, I guess. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Craig wandered up and down Denmark Street, looking in the shop windows. The guitar shop – where dreams began. Yes, it was definitely an odd feeling, knowing he could go into one of these places and buy pretty much anything on the wall. He’d been enjoying playing Tom’s wee Tele copy through his practice amp. It had been such a long time since he’d done it. The physical sensation of playing electric guitar – it was a very specific thing. You didn’t get exactly that feeling from anything else. He hadn’t realised he’s missed it until he’d done it again. Like you don’t realise you’ve missed tropical holidays until you go on one again.
From Denmark Street he wound his way north along Tottenham Court Road and then made a right towards Tavistock Square, towards the Tavistock Hotel, one of those old, slightly down-at-heel London hotels beloved of the budget-conscious tourist. He wandered into reception and had a chat with the girl behind the desk. Yes, they did have a room available for the night. There were only twins left but she could give it to him for the single-room rate of £83 without breakfast. That would be fine.
Craig lay his knapsack containing fresh socks, T-shirt, notepad and his new laptop on one of the beds and lay down on the other. It was quiet. It was nice.
It felt like a while since he’d been on his own. He needed some time to think. To plan. He reviewed his journal and checked the pages he’d bookmarked on the laptop.