Hotel Sanguinaria

Chapter One

Shiloh’s black hair was sticking up stupidly.  She growled, her dark green eyes narrowing as she ran her hand through her stubborn, spiky pixie cut.  The artificial butter-yellow of the toilet lights lifted her wine-red highlights from the dark mess that – once in a blue moon – resembled her hair.  A huff of frustrated air left her as she gave one last attempt to right the wrong that had currently taken the form of an agitated sea urchin, stuck to the top of her head.

Running her hands under the tap and carding them through the bird’s nest she now had to deal with, Shiloh gave up.  She turned on her heel and stalked out.  The Costa Coffee was busy, far busier than it should normally be at seven o’clock on a Wednesday evening.  Slinking through the crowd – and pausing only briefly to curl her lip at a pair of ten-year-olds whining at their mother for the cookies sitting on the countertop – she forced herself out into the street.

So many people complained about the city noise but to Shiloh, it was a comfort.  Nothing in her mind could beat the soft rushing of tyres on the roads, or the constant movement that made her feel like she was a part of something.  A little way away was a man playing one of the most bizarre instruments she’d ever seen: a sort of cross between a xylophone and a piano that was being played as he plucked tightly stretched rubber bands with…a spoon?  She smiled.  Another one of London’s perks – the buskers were something else.  She’d never seen anything like what could be found in London, Manchester or other large cities out in more rural areas.

Rounding a corner left, she dropped easily into the pattern of footsteps needed to descend into the Tube station.  The high-pitched whistling and screeching of the trains was accompanied by the hollow rattle and they sped out of the station.  Underneath it all was the eternal hubbub of voices, the clattering of shoes, punctuated at intervals by announcements telling of arrivals, departures and delays.  The whole place was chilled and yet stifling, the stale air sucked back and forth through the tunnels by the movements of the trains.  Shiloh routed through her bag to find the day ticket she had purchased for herself that morning, slipping past the barriers and heading down onto the platform.

Glancing up at the lit board, she noted her train’s arrival – only three minutes to go – and took a seat on one of the benches at the wall.  The man sat next to her was drumming his fingers nervously – or was it excitedly? – on his knees, his eyes flashing round the platform as he curled the fingers of his other hand around the strap of his shoulderbag.  Shiloh could just see the hint of a slim gold chain around his neck, stark and glittering against the dark of his skin.  A woman with curly electric-blue hair was on her phone, and for a moment seemed to be lost, her face relaxed into what most would see as the natural configuration of features when texting and ignoring the world.  But then she smiled, wide and shy, and Shiloh noted that, when she laughed softly, a glint of metal could be seen in the dark cavern of her mouth, silver and a glimmer of deep purple resting on her tongue.

The train pulled up with a throaty rattle and a soft, piercing screech, and just like that, the moment was broken.  Shiloh stood, taking note of the young man who was gripping his shoulderbag with renewed vigour and rose with her, and made her way onto the train.  As luck would have it, there was a seat free, but as a businessman in a dark suit was about to take it he suddenly stepped back.  Shiloh forced herself not to roll her eyes at the way he knocked into her and made someone else step on her foot in their bid to get out of the way.  A man on crutches with a cast on his foot slumped down into the seat and offered his thanks.  The man in the suit simply nodded and took hold of a yellow support bar with the hand not holding his briefcase.

By the next stop the cast of her particular carriage had shifted and Shiloh dropped into a vacated seat.  She had no intention of getting off, at least until her line intersected with another that she could switch to.  The fact was she had no real idea of where she was going.  Eventually, she presumed, she would get off, and then the difficult task of finding somewhere to sleep for the night would have to be faced.  She supposed a hostel would do, and then perhaps she could try and work out what to do for the rest of her life.  Well, perhaps not that, but maybe at least for the next month or so.  After all, she wasn’t exactly in the best position for a nineteen-year-old: her parents had told her that she could go to university or make her own way in the world without them.  Angry as she was, Shiloh had told them not to call her; if she was willing to admit she was wrong, they would receive a call from her.  Until then, they should get used to not hearing from her.