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‘Why me? What’s so special about you?’
I ask myself the same thing. All the time.
The receptionist wakes up as soon as I mention his name. The magnet pull of notoriety.
‘Matty Melgren?’
‘When’s convenient?’ I ask, as if making a dentist appointment.
Down the line; a keyboard tapping, the cluck of a tongue.
I think of the girl from Hogarth Road, what they say he did to her tongue. There isn’t a bridge big enough to traverse the years.
‘You’ll need to arrive half an hour before your check-in time. Bring identification. A passport or driver’s licence,’ the receptionist says. ‘And a pound coin for the lockers. Tuesday. Four thirty.’
It’s not a question, she’s not asking if that works for me.
As usual Matty is calling the shots.
