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‘Where’s your cleaning trolley?’
‘In the corridor.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Molly.’
‘Your real name?’
She frowns, less certain than before. ‘Addie Murdoch.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘Ah’m on holidays.’ She looks at the door, as though wanting to escape. ‘Ah didnae take anything. I’m not a thief.’
‘Clearly you are.’
A fake tremor enters her voice. ‘Don’t tell Maureen. She’ll murder me.’
‘Who’s Maureen?’
‘She’s like my grandma.’ Addie presses her hands together. ‘Ah won’t do it again. Ah promise. Please.’
Another lie, but this one makes me smile because I’ve been there and done that – been caught red-handed and begged for forgiveness. Addie frowns, unsure of my reaction. There is a general skewness about her: her eyes not quite level, her mouth drooping on one side, even her shoulders look crooked.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Really?’
‘Almost thirteen.’
‘Don’t come into these rooms again, OK?’
‘What about making up the beds?’
‘Not today.’
After she’s gone, I dress in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and I put on my sunglasses, even though it’s a cloudy day. I leave through the side door, avoiding the breakfast room, which is crowded with families and at least one crying baby.
Walking towards the harbour, I pass shuttered shops, and those just opening. A team of builders are putting up scaffolding in front of a house. One of them whistles at me and yells, ‘Cheer up, love, it probably won’t happen.’
Fuckwit!
Head down, hood up, hands in my pockets, I pass a solicitor’s office with a window sign advertising ‘criminal defences’. Next comes a dog groomer, a bakery, a tobacconist and a pharmacy. None of it looks familiar. Cyrus thinks I might have been here before, but he must be wrong.
At a café on Queen Street, the waitress tries to upsell me a ‘bacon butty’, which sounds like a skin condition. She has to explain what it is. Why not just call it a bacon sandwich? I choose a muffin and a hot chocolate and take a seat outside. The street is slowly waking up as more shops begin to open.
On the far side of the road, I notice a signpost pointing out local services, including the public library. It gives me an idea. Brushing crumbs off my lap, I cross the street and turn the corner, arriving at a red stone building with a blue-painted door. The foyer has mosaic tiles on the floor and a strange doorman – a life-sized polar bear wearing a kilt with a tartan beret.
‘That’s Paul R. Bear,’ says the librarian, a pretty woman in flared trousers and a white blouse. ‘The kids love him.’
I think he looks creepy, but let it go.
‘How can I help you, pet?’ she asks.
‘I’m researching my uncle’s family tree.’
