“Wait, Raymond,” I said, scrabbling for my new bag, “I’ve got some money in here...”
“Come on,” he said, pulling me down rather gracelessly from my stool.
“We can sort it out later.” I trotted after him in my kitten heels.
“Raymond,” I said, tugging at his sleeve. He looked down at me. “I’m not going to get a tattoo,” I said, “I’ve decided.”
He looked puzzled, and I realized that I’d forgotten to tell him that I’d been considering it, ever since I’d spoken to the barman at The Cuttings.
He sat me down in a window seat off the corridor—not the same one he’d been in before—and left me there.
I looked around, wondering what time it was, and whether they would have burned Sammy by now,
or whether they kept all the bodies back till the end of the day to get a really good blaze going.
Raymond returned, a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of savory pastries in the other.
“Get this down you,” he said, “and don’t move till I come back.”
I discovered that I was ravenous. Mourners kept wandering past, but no one noticed me in my hidey-hole.
I rather liked it. The seat was comfortable and the corridor was warm, and I felt like a little dormouse in a cozy nest.
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