The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

he thought his bowels might betray him. Four days without home cooked food, and his system was shutting down. They’d eaten pastries, tinned food and chocolate (the bitter type with a special ingredient to prevent it from melting).

The young woman frowned for the first time, and he felt a twinge of regret. She was only doing her job, but why did she continue to stare at him? He was weary and grimy and desperately needed a bath. His hold on his bag was becoming greasy, and he longed to find himself in a situation that was familiar to him, and one that he could control.

‘Yes, Sir, here we are, Room 521. I’ll set up your keys now.’ She walked away to a machine behind her and came back with two credit cards. He looked baffled.

‘You slip them in the door of your room and it works like a key.’ Her voice dropped, and he was grateful. He took the cards and went to leave.

‘Your luggage, sir?’

‘It’s mine,’ he asserted.

‘I know, sir, would you like it taken to your room?’

‘No, thank you. I will carry it.’

‘Of course, sir. The lift to the fifth floor is around the corner over there,’ she said.

He thanked her and walked towards the direction she’d pointed. There were five lifts and all were empty. He stepped into the first and pressed the number five. The doors closed, and he gripped his key cards tightly. He peered into the long mirror covering the whole back panel of the lift and felt uncomfortable. He looked how he felt: unclean and inferior. The lines around his eyes were packed with tiny grains of sand, and he cursed himself for not cleaning his face to a better standard in the MacDonald’s bathroom. He licked his hand and wiped away the worst of it. His dark brown eyes were unfathomable, as they had been since he was fifteen years old and the news of the death of his father, killed in a mine deep in the heart of the Saharan desert, where his body still lay. Nightmares about whether his father had remained alive for days if not weeks in the dark shaft, alone and terrified, slowly starving to death, had plagued him ever since.

The lift halted and the doors opened, and he stepped out into the cool corridor. He breathed deeply but still dared not believe that a room was waiting for him in this palace. He found the correct door and stared at the card in his hand. There was a small card-shaped receptacle attached to the door above the handle, and he slipped the card in, like it indicated: stripe to the left. The light above the handle turned green, and he heard a click. He turned the handle and went inside.

The room was vast and overlooked the sea. He approached the huge window and stared out beyond to where he imagined Europe. He dropped his bag and explored. An envelope sat on the colossal bed and he took it and tore it open, absorbing the luxury around him. Everything was white and clean. He wandered into the bathroom as he pulled out a mobile phone from the envelope, as well as a USB stick. His eyes darted about and he spotted a laptop set up on a table by the bed. He quickly peered around the bathroom door and stood mesmerised by the opulence. The shower was big enough for four men, the bath could hold ten children, and a tiny strange sink was positioned next to the toilet.

He was torn between filling the tub and smelling the range of products lined up neatly on the side, and plugging in the USB. He decided that he could do both: a bath that size would take an hour to fill, he thought. He placed the items back on his bed and went back to the bathroom to choose what to put in the warm running water. He poured everything under its stream and went back to the bedroom. Logging on to the computer was easy, and he soon opened the USB file and read further instructions left by Fawaz. He was to meet somebody at the port tonight and supervise the loading of the cargo. He was to take the phone with him, which was loaded with one number only. He was told which cab company to use and which route to take, how long to stay there, what to confirm as loading was underway and instructions on calling the number when he could see the ship depart.

He nodded to himself and was thankful for such simple instructions.

Leaving the phone on the bed and the laptop open, he checked the bath, which to his amazement, was nearly full. The water steamed, and he sat on the edge, circling his hands in the soapy mixture. It smelled like a type of heaven: the heaven where he imagined going to. He undressed quickly and checked the temperature, before stepping in and submerging his whole body beneath the water. He closed his eyes and allowed the soap to begin its work on the dust and muck clinging to his body. He moved about in the water and rubbed his skin, feeling the grainy desert sand wash off. Emerging from the water, he lay there, steaming. He stuck his foot out of the water and examined his toenails, picking out dirt and doing the same with his fingernails. Had the woman at reception noticed them?

After twenty minutes or so, he was ready to get out, and he pulled out the plug, reaching for the shower head to rinse the bath of grime; the bottom was now covered in brown sludge and he washed it down the plughole. He reached for a towel and pushed his face into the softness, rubbing his fatigued limbs. He realised that he was extremely tired, and he looked at his watch: he had time for a nap. He got into bed, dry, clean and thankful, and wrapped