There were noises of general agreement, and the crane-haired girl dropped her cigarette and led Timothy a little way down the sidewalk. “Here,” she said, pointing up the street. “Go two streets that way, then left and down about…” She counted silently on her fingers. “Four more. It’ll be on the right, just past the fish-and-chips shop. Used to be a church, so you can’t miss it.”
A church. Timothy’s heart sank a little, but after what the others had said about the Old Victoria, it seemed he didn’t have much choice. “Thanks,” he said, and set off.
Some time later, Timothy stood gazing up at a pillared entrance with the words GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH carved over the lintel. A scrap of greasy newspaper tumbled by and plastered itself against his shoe; he shook it off, and it whisked into the street and was gone.
He shouldn’t have come here, Timothy realized with a flicker of apprehension. The street was too quiet, too dimly lit. Besides, the old church looked deserted: No light shone from its windows, and the battered wooden doors were closed. He was wondering if he should go back and look for the Old Victoria after all, when the door swung open, flooding the step with honeyed light. From inside he heard laughter, and the faint, lilting notes of a guitar. “You looking for Sanctuary?” said a cheerful voice.
Suddenly the place seemed transformed, no longer a haunted church but a haven of worldly welcome. “Yeah, I am,” said Timothy, and hurried in.
Brushing past the smiling boy at the door, he found himself in a vestibule plastered with posters advertising bus tours to Stonehenge, offering discount coupons for a local cafe, and announcing the opening of a new twenty-four-hour launderette, international visitors welcome. A wall rack that had once held gospel tracts was now stuffed with tourist brochures, while the shelves built for hymnbooks were full of visitors’ muddy shoes. Reassured, Timothy made his way through a second set of doors and into the noisy bustle of the hostel’s common room.
His eyes found the guitarist at once: a young man with a lean face and fox-colored hair, eyes half closed as his fingers plucked out a Spanish melody. He sat alone on a dilapidated sofa in one corner, while by his feet two bored-looking and nearly identical boys in leather jackets played chess. In the opposite corner a small crowd had gathered, of varying ages and ethnicities; he could see a pair of Japanese girls giggling over a laptop, while two Arabs and a lanky Ethiopian carried on a passionate, hand-waving argument in French.
The reception desk stood against the far wall, beneath a cracked stained-glass window. After giving his card to the hair-twirling girl on duty, Timothy got a locker key and a set of linens, and she pointed him through a second set of doors to look for Cubicle Nine.
It didn’t take him long to find it. There were four bunks in the room, none occupied, so he dropped his backpack on the floor and started making up his bed for the night.
“There you are!” said a delighted voice from behind him, and Timothy jerked to attention, nearly cracking his head on the upper bunk.
It was the girl who looked like Miriam.
Why Veronica hadn’t told him about Sanctuary the moment he’d admitted he was looking for a hostel, Timothy couldn’t imagine-but on the other hand, there was something special about meeting her again. It made him feel almost as though there were some greater purpose at work, and he hadn’t felt that way for a long time.
“Look who’s turned up!” she announced as she tugged Timothy and his guitar back into the common room. “Another musician!”
This was greeted by cheers, and Timothy was bemused. “What’s going on?” he whispered, but Veronica only laughed.
“I love music, that’s all,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and show Rob what you can do?”
Rob turned out to be the foxlike young man on the sofa, who set his own guitar aside and regarded Timothy with shrewd dark eyes. “How long have you been playing?” he asked.
“A few years,” said Timothy.
“And where are you from? I can’t place the accent.”
“Uganda. But I’ve been here since September.”
“Ah,” said Rob, leaning back and slinging his arm across the back of the sofa. “Well, then, troubadour, why don’t you play us a song?”
Half the people in the room seemed to be watching Timothy now. Veronica pulled a chair around and sat down across from him, eyes fixed eagerly on his face; even the black-haired twins set their chessboard aside, though they still looked bored and a little contemptuous. Timothy’s cheeks heated, but he lifted his guitar from the case and tuned it, trying to pretend that he was just practicing and that there was no pressure, no hurry. At last he lowered his head over the strings and began to play.
He’d meant to start with something everyone would recognize, like the Beatles or Elvis Presley. But Veronica still reminded him of Miriam, and before he knew it, his fingers had started plucking out a Ugandan song instead. At first he played cautiously, unsure of his reception. But when he glanced up he saw Veronica smiling, and took courage.
His thumb tapped the guitar’s hollow body, weaving percussion into the melody, and his confidence swelled as he saw the onlookers nodding and tapping their feet. Moving closer, they formed a loose circle around him, surrounding him with the warmth of their bodies and the rhythm of their hands, and when Rob picked up his own guitar and began thumbing a bass line, it seemed so natural that Timothy didn’t even falter.
He’d never played this well before, every fingering perfect, every note vibrating clear and true. But after the first couple of numbers, playing other people’s songs wasn’t enough for him anymore: He wanted-no, needed — to improvise, and when he shifted into a different rhythm and a chord progression that was all his own, the crowd whistled and clapped as though they knew. Rob cocked his head to the side and cast him a swift glance, then joined him on the new melody.
A pair of bongo drums appeared from nowhere. A bleached-looking Nordic girl conjured up a flute from the depths of her purse. Soon half the room was playing, dancing, even humming along with the tunehis tune. Timothy felt an incredulous warmth in the pit of his belly. It had been months since he’d felt wanted and valued, instead of like an outsider. But these people were happy to be near him, and they seemed to love every song he played… It was intoxicating. Nothing mattered but the music, now; he could forget where he was, who he was, and simply be.
Veronica slipped onto the sofa beside him, so close that he could smell the spice of her perfume. Timothy’s heart quickened and his fingers flew across the strings as the melodies kept pouring out of him, each more brilliant than the last. Where were they all coming from? Would he even remember any of them tomorrow? He had no idea. All he knew was that he never wanted it to stop All at once Rob played a sour note, a discord so loud and obviously deliberate that it startled Timothy and the others into silence. Then he thrust his guitar aside and stalked away.
Fatigue washed over Timothy as his exhilaration faded. He could feel the strain in his arms and shoulders, and his fingertips had throbbed. How long had he been playing?
“Never mind him,” said Veronica, her eyes shining. She touched his shoulder, adding playfully, “Poor boy, we’ve worn you out. I’ll walk you to your room.”
“You played so well tonight,” she said softly as Timothy fumbled the door open. “And such wonderful music…I do believe Rob was jealous.”
It would have been flattering to think so, but Timothy wasn’t sure. Rob hadn’t looked envious when he’d stopped the music-he’d looked angry.
“Those songs you played,” Veronica went on, “were they from Uganda?”
“Some of them,” he said. “And some”-he ducked his head self-consciously-“I just made up.”
Her wide mouth spread in a smile. “I thought so,” she said. “I have met musicians of all kinds since I came to Sanctuary, but seldom ones as gifted as yourself. Players are easily found, but composers…those are rare.”