I woke up to the sound of voices.
"Open it."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"I'll tell my mum."
"I'll fuck your mum."
Someone started crying.
I looked out of the pipe. It was daylight. All I could see was two pairs of feet: one wearing a small shiny pair of shoes and the other scuffed black boots. I crawled out.
The crying boy was seven or eight. He was hugging a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bag to his chest, and a long goober of snot hung from his nose – it swayed gently back and forth, like a trapeze. His cheeks were red and wet, but apart from that he was one of the whitest people I'd ever seen. He was so white you could see the blue veins through his skin. When he saw me he made a sound like a donkey.
The older boy had his back to me, but he must have known the donkey sound meant something, because he whipped around. He held a knife in his hand. It was a short, stubby knife with a black handle.
"Who the fuck are you?" he said.
Before I could answer there was a scurrying, and the crying boy was racing away towards the street. With a final donkey bray he vanished into the trees.
"Hey!" the older boy said, spinning towards the street. He didn't give chase though. His shoulders just slumped, and he turned back to me. "Good one cunt."
He was about my age. His eyes were set too far apart, and his mouth was too narrow, like the lips of a fish. He was wearing dirty blue jeans and a black T-shirt with METALLICA written on it. He smelled like a wet ashtray.
"The fuck you do that for?" he said, waving the knife in time with his words, like he was conducting an orchestra.
"I didn't do anything."
He hitched up his coat and slipped the knife into a plastic scabbard attached to his belt. He pulled the coat back down over it. "Thanks," he said.
"Sorry," I said. "You woke me up."
"What?"
I pointed at the pipe.
He burst out laughing. "You sleep in a pipe?"
I got down on my knees and pulled my bag and everything out of the pipe. He watched me with interest as I stuffed my clothes into my bag.
"Why were you in there?" he said as I zipped the bag up.
"It was raining."
"Where you from?"
"City," I said, pointing vaguely. "I'm hungry. Where can I get something to eat?"
YOU ARE READING
Hotel Ambrose
FantasyTwo runaway children steal a baby and attempt to raise it themselves in the world's most haunted hotel. To Ben and Sophie the abandoned hotel seems like the perfect place to hide. No adult will ever find them there. Within its strange walls they ca...
