More fun for Peter.

Peter stepped out the lift. A few people passed him and put their thumbs up. He regarded the printed piece of paper and eventually came to a glass fronted doorway with A3 painted in a sober white bold font.  He was just about to knock or reach out to press the buzzer when a jovial thin man came to the doorway and let him in.

            ‘Hello, you must be Mr Van Winkle. We’ve been expecting you. Come in, this is your home now too.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘I’ll just show you to your room and let you settle in for a while. I suppose I’d better take you on a tour of the place and go through the rules and schedule with you. Don’t worry about everything. It’ll take a few days to get used to but once you’ve adapted it’ll be just like you haven’t been away.’

            Peter didn’t like the idea of being adapted or managed.

            ‘By the way. My name’s Rantzen.’

            Rantzen put his thumb up.  Peter was tempted to reply with a slow thumbs down.

            ‘I thought that this was my apartment. I didn’t know I’d have to share.’

            ‘But that’s the best thing. It’s better this way. You’ll never get lonely. There’s always someone to talk to and come home to. It’s safe. It’s a bit like being in Big Brother! They have a room which is like the diary room, where you can ask for things, talk to someone and report the odd funny business you suspect.’

            But Peter liked being lonely. In the thoughts of Sartre, this was hell. He thought about his beloved books. His routine. His life. His sister.

            ‘I want to find my sister.’ 

            ‘Oh, they’ll know in the Caretaker’s suite.’

            ‘Caretaker’s suite?’

            ‘The diary room to you and me, ha, ha, ha!’

            Up the thumbs went. Peter wanted to murder Rantzen in cold blood. Here and now.