Room Seven Is Listening

The bed in room seven stood a hand's width from the wall. Liv pushed it back because her pillow kept falling through the gap. Behind the headboard was a round brass grille, smaller than a beer mat. Cold air came through it, carrying the smell of damp coats.

The boarding house had eight rooms. Six were empty that week. A travelling salesman occupied one downstairs and had breakfast at half past six; Liv knew him only by the shoes outside his door. The owner, Els, left a bowl of mandarins on the reception desk each evening.

Liv had come to work. She was restoring a collection of old interviews, twelve tapes of fishermen disagreeing about a harbour that no longer existed. At home, her roof was being replaced. Els had promised quiet, except when the wind came from the west. Then a downpipe rattled. The wind had been westerly ever since Liv arrived.