Hotel World

Else, a homeless woman, sits on the pavement outside the Global Hotel, positioned near a metal grating that leaks heat from the building’s interior. She is cold, sore, and tired. The coins she’s collected for the day lie beside her in a small pile. They’re dull from handling, but she notices a single penny nearby that’s still bright, possibly new. Reaching for it would require leaning forward, which is too much for her aching body. Else tucks herself into the wall, choosing her spot carefully, far enough from the hotel entrance that the staff will not make her leave but close enough for warmth and visibility.

Else glances across the street and sees a girl (Clare) sitting on the steps of a store called World of Carpets. It is the same girl who has been appearing here regularly now. Else recognizes her despite the hood she wears—her posture, size, and presence are familiar. The girl is clearly young, maybe 14 or 15, and does not seem to be homeless. Her coats change from day to day, and her hair looks clean and brushed. Else feels possessive of her territory; this pavement outside the hotel has long been hers. But the girl does not seem to acknowledge that she is intruding. She draws attention with ease, sitting quietly, not asking for money, but still drawing it in. Else knows from experience that silence can be just as lucrative as begging.

Clare’s appeal lies in her appearance—soft, passive, and pale. Else watches her interactions with pedestrians. Some bend to offer her coins, others hand her notes. Her face gives off an air of helplessness, a kind of grey, stunned sadness that makes strangers project concern onto her. Else notes that the hood she is wearing today conceals her features, which probably makes her appear genderless to some and therefore less sympathetic.

Else tells herself that Clare would make more money with her hood down. But regardless, she is doing far better than Else today. Still, Clare does not respond to the people or their kindness. She sits there, disconnected, while coins clink near her boots. Else knows she will approach Clare’s spot later, after she leaves. It has become a routine between them.

Else distracts herself from pain by remembering a night with Ade, a man she was once close to. She remembers them both laughing and filling their mouths with coins, stuffing them in like children playing a game. Ade could fit more than she could; his cheeks bulged, and the metal showed through his beard. He eventually spit the money into her hands. The coins were warm and sticky with spit. She remembers him kissing her and passing a coin into her mouth with his tongue.

Else still remembers the taste of the coins, even if Ade’s face has faded in her mind. She can still feel the grooves on the edges of coins. Sometimes, when she is alone, she rubs coins clean on her jumper and holds them in her mouth to remember what that closeness felt like. Her tongue remembers textures even her brain forgets. She thinks about the phrase inscribed on the edge of a pound coin—Nemo me impune lacessit (“No one provokes me with impunity”)—and how she used to trace it with her tongue, letting the weight of the money settle against her teeth.

Looking back across the street, Else watches Clare again and considers her youth. Else imagines a backstory: she might be waiting for someone she is not supposed to be seeing. Maybe she snuck out of her house, escaping locked doors and prying eyes, trying to find a man who told her to wait here. Else’s mind runs through possibilities—was he staying at this hotel? Did he once meet her at a conference or event and now she has returned to wait for him?

The idea builds. Else pictures a traveling salesman—middle-aged, paunchy, tired—glancing out of a hotel window and spotting Clare waiting below. She imagines that their connection began casually: a few flirtatious remarks at a conference. Maybe something happened between them in a hidden room, something fast and hush-hush. Then, Else recalls things people, mostly men, have said to her since she has been homeless: crude sexual invitations, offers of money, quiet confessions from strangers who crouch beside her as if she were a priest. One woman even placed her arm through Else’s and stayed there for half an hour, spilling secrets. Else let her stay, moved by the moment. But those moments always pass.

Back in the present, Clare is gone—she vanished in the time Else spent remembering. A hotel worker must have approached. Clare fled quickly, taking her silence and sadness with her, but leaving behind what matters most to Else: the money people gave her. Before Else can cross the street to collect it, her cough returns. It seizes her entire body. She can barely breathe, and her limbs go stiff. When she regains control, she sees the Global Hotel receptionist, Lise, approaching—not to evict her, but to kneel beside her. This surprises Else. Lise is young, dressed in a hotel uniform stitched with “GLOBAL HOTELS” and the slogan “we think the world of you.” Lise asks softly if Else would like a room for the night. She insists that the room would be free: “no charge, no strings.”

Else hears “no strings” and immediately distrusts it. She has heard it before. She remembers London, 10 years ago. A man offered her 30 pounds if she would just come to his hotel room. He looked normal, well-groomed, even respectable. She agreed, desperate. But the room he brought her to was empty except for a man standing near the window. The two men made her sit while they hovered over her, holding a book, chanting prayers for hours. They never touched her, but they did not listen to her either. They called it salvation. Else left the room as soon as she could and immediately threw up once she was outside. Then, she used the money the man gave her to buy food.

Another memory rushes back. Else was only 14, just home from school. Her mother was upstairs, out of earshot in the shower. A man her family knew—a trusted family friend—had been installing blinds in the house. Although the details are fuzzy, the man coerced Else into performing some kind of sexual act with him. While it was happening, Else did her best to dissociate and try to pretend that what was happening was not real. It was the only way she felt able to get through the experience.

Back in the present, Lise hands Else the coin she could not reach earlier. Else takes it. She feels its value not just in money but in timing, as if it confirms her luck tonight. She gathers herself, waits for a break in traffic, and crosses the street. Clare’s abandoned coins are still there. Else picks them up, counting as she goes. The total is over 30 pounds—more than she has made in weeks. The street is quiet now. She looks up at the hotel, grand and carved with architectural flourishes. While looking at it, Else remembers a girl at school who fell onto iron railings and died. The memory makes her shudder. She wonders who sculpted the hotel facade, and what they were paid.

The street empties and rain begins to fall. Else thinks about shelter options: the Winter Shelter, with its strict rules and overcrowded floor; the multi-story car parks, quieter but still cold. Then she remembers Lise’s offer and wonders if she should take it. She fantasizes about detaching her head and sending it flying into the sky, leaving her tired, aching body behind. She pictures herself looking down from above, seeing her own shape hunched on the pavement like discarded rubbish. Then, she stops herself because she feels such fantasies are dangerous. She chooses to act instead. She pushes open the hotel’s revolving door and steps inside.

Inside the hotel, warmth closes around Else like a heavy blanket, almost too thick after the cold outside. The air smells rich—roasted meat, spiced sauces, the faint tang of wine and polish. The carpet beneath her feet swallows the sound of her boots, soft and plush, so unlike the concrete she knows. The lights glow low and golden. She walks slowly toward the reception desk, uncertain, bracing for someone to stop her. Lise looks up and freezes for a second, surprised. Then she recovers and speaks as if Else were any other guest. Lise gives Else a key to her room and then Duncan appears and silently leads her upstairs.

At the room, Duncan opens the door and disappears. Else enters and locks it behind her. Alone, she lets her body collapse and begins coughing uncontrollably, her chest tearing, her throat raw. She staggers to the bathroom and fills the tub. The room is pristine. She peels off her layers, runs a hand over the sealed soaps and shampoos, and opens one to taste. To her, it tastes sweet, like medicine. Else bathes until her skin prickles. She does not use the towels because she thinks they are too white and clean. Instead, she dries off with her jumper, which is already damp from rain. Then she sits on the edge of the bed and looks around the room, noting its tidiness. After a short time, she starts to feel uncomfortable in the room and after closing her eyes for a minute, she plans to get up and leave.