Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Forty-Seven: Borrowed Time

With such rich heritage – her dad the president of an international publishing corporation – Kate was able to afford a designer condo on Manhattan Island. It was a block down from the nearest pizza outlet and a ten minute stroll from Central Park; my idea of a fantasy home.

Her apartment building was deluxe; the stairwells had polished white floors, pure white walls and smelt like fresh cut grass and lemons as opposed to pee. No damp sunk the corners of the hallways, no dents were in the bannisters and no dirt was on the floor.

She unlocked the door with a jab of the key in the lock and a twist to the left. I was hit by a gust of crisp cool air conditioning, it felt like any icy embrace enveloping me.

She opened the door and I rushed into the open space.

Leather couches, glass coffee tables and framed David Bowie vinyls on the walls. The place was modernist, with splashed of colour in the form of feature walls and furniture accented purple; the sofas, the picture frames and the curtains.

I dropped my possessions by the door: weaponry and loot.

"Are those original Bowies?" I trod mud into her indigo rug and placed my grubby hand on the glass. "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, and Life on Mars?" Brown fingerprints stained the glass.

"Yes, now please don't touch them!" Kate rushed over and pulled me away. "It's nothing personal, it's just that's not hygienic..." She winced and used the sleeve of her blazer to polish away the prints. There was an amusing squeaking sound as she scrubbed away, and I couldn't help but chuckle as she growled at the opaque smear.

I backed away and plonked on the sofa. "Hey, it's cool..." I sunk into the seat. Having had nothing but hay bales to sit on for the best part of two years, it was divine. Flakes of dried mud cracked off my soles and showered the cushions as I kicked my feet up and I left a murky mark like a shadow under me where I lay. It was like lying on a marshmallow.

"Clint, get off the sofa!" She flapped her arms at me like an owner trying to usher a cat off the furniture. "Please!" She half-sobbed, head in her hands.

She pulled me by the ankle and I rolled off, landing in a heap of shredded carnival costume and limbs, only shedding more mud into the carpet.

"That's it!" She fretted. "You're having a shower." She gracelessly hauled me to my feet and shoved me through a door into a bathroom. "Right now." She slammed the door and barricaded it shut, me cooped up inside with a cubicle and my whiffy clothes.

In the enclosed space I could smell myself. Christ. It was like wet dog. I had just gotten used to it, showers being as infrequent as they were.

Perusing the selection of shower creams and shampoos, I concluded I was going to smell worse after. "Katie, these are all girly shampoos! I don't want to smell like a walking strawberry!" I protested, hammering on the door. "Have you not got anything more neutral?"

"Don't be such a big baby, get in the damn shower; I'm not letting you out until you've had a wash!" She called back through the door.

Reluctantly, I twizzled the dial and the water came rushing down from the faucet. I evaded the waterfall of icy droplets and awaited the condensation on the glass as my cue it was hospitable. Stepping into the steaming stream of heat, my muscles became lax and a sense of relief overcame me. It was glorious.

At the carnival, showers were limited to buckets of cold water chucked over me outside, or if I was lucky, the water tank on my caravan would've been filled up and it was a cold shower in the cubicle.

Hunched over to let the jets blast the grime out of my greasy strands, I watched a dismal puddle of grey and brown dirt swirl down the drain, some clumps and particulates in the pool of filth. There was an odd satisfaction about washing myself clean.