I carry the kid under one arm, my workman’s holdall in the other hand. Old-w***e walks in front of me. “Straight on through to the living area.”
It’s just what you’d expect in a budget motel. Basic, in the way of such places. Bland paint. Bland wallpaper. Bland drapes. An open space with cheap furniture. The kind that doesn’t show damage, or cost too much to replace when it’s been knocked about. A drop-leaf Formica-topped table. A settee, L-shaped, heavyweight, well-worn on the arms, cushions half-collapsed. Probably second-hand when it arrived here, it dominates a whole quadrant of the room, from the entrance to the kitchenette. Matching armchairs dangle threads as though a cat’s been at them.
The ‘kitchenette’ consists of a small sink and drainer, with a microwave, mini-fridge, and tea
