02-Shifting Skin Read Online Free

advertising rooms for £39.95 a night. She set off across the tarmac, trying to keep some dignity in her step.
    A low hedge separated the two properties and she squeezed through a gap into a dark and empty car park. Directly behind the building she was just able to make out the greyhound racing stadium, unlit floodlights looming in the dark. She pushed open the motel’s front door, immediately noticing an ashtray on the counter overflowing with butts. To her side was a rack for holding pamphlets. ‘ Manchester’s Attractions ’, said the card at the top, but the shelves below were empty.
    She pinged the bell, then immediately placed her hand on the metal dome to stop its sharp echo. The office door opened slightly and a thin woman with lank brown hair slid through the gap. Her pale, narrow face emphasised her large brown eyes, which moved around like those of a frightened deer.
    The woman who had just walked in off the car park was immediately reminded of a girl from her school. She’d come from a poor home and always wore second-hand uniforms and jumble-sale shoes. Her stick legs were never clad in tights, and during cold weather the skin almost went blue. The girl constantly suffered from a runny nose – colds in winter, hay fever in summer. As a result, a hanky was always pressed to her face and the playground joke was that her thinness resulted from her losing so much fluid through her nose.
    She gestured towards the inner doors. ‘I just need to clean up. Can I use your toilets? Please?’
    The receptionist’s eyes went to the doors behind her as if she was expecting more than just a lone woman. ‘Jesus, you need more than a sink.’ She stepped back into the office and almost immediately re-emerged with a green first-aid case. ‘Here. I don’t think this has ever been used before. I’m pretty sure it’s full.’
    She put it down on the counter and unclipped the lid. Inside were bandages, plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream and a pair of blunt scissors. ‘The toilets are just through those doors. Wash the blood off and we’ll get you patched up.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    The hinge on the door into the toilets was stiff and the place smelled awful. She stood in front of the mirror and looked fearfully at her face. God. Her right eye was swollen half shut, dried blood caked her cheek and clotted her eyebrow. A fresh drip emerged from the split in her skin and caught in her eyelash.
    She looked around for paper towels but the dispenser was empty. So were the toilet-roll holders in the first two cubicles. The last had a small stack of tissues piled on the cistern.
    Five minutes later she stepped back into the reception, a tissue pressed to her eyebrow. ‘Seems it doesn’t want to stop.’
    The receptionist frowned in sympathy. ‘Was it a john?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Your face? Was it...?’
    Her mobile phone started to ring. Picking it out of her hand-bag, she saw her husband’s name on the screen. She turned it off and dropped it back. ‘Jeff. My husband.’ The admission brought tears to her eyes.
    The receptionist’s face softened further. ‘Let me see your face, you poor love.’
    ‘Really, you don’t need to. I can do it myself.’
    The receptionist peered at the cut. ‘These butterfly plasters might do it.’ She smeared antiseptic cream over the cut, then applied two of the plasters. ‘I’ve got some ice in the back. It will help with the swelling. You look like you could do with a cup of coffee as well. I’m Dawn, by the way.’
    ‘Fiona. Thank you so much for this,’ she replied.
    The back office looked as dilapidated as the rest of the motel, but the chairs were soft and the coffee hot. She sat down, and her resolve to return to her car instantly crumbled. Reaching for her handbag, she took out a packet of cigarettes and held it out to Dawn.
    ‘Cheers,’ she said, sliding one out.
    Fiona held a flame to it and then to her own, took a deep drag and sat back in the seat. Bustling around