He tucked the collar of his shirt in, noticing, without bothering to notice in particular, that the collar was dirty. He had worn the shirt for four days and should have known better than to sleep in it the night before. It had been his last clean shirt. Not that that had made a great deal of difference. It was frayed at collar and cuff.
He soaped up with the lukewarm water, carefully applying the lather. He took the blade out of the safety razor and stropped it in the palm of his hand. He couldn’t remember how long he’d used the blade but it was far from sharp.
He cut himself two or three times, a result of poor blade and shaking hand, washed the remnants of soap from his face and stood back and looked again. The view wasn’t reassuring. He remembered the night, years ago, when he had once spent over a hundred British pounds on vintage champagne—and snorted.
He didn’t know what time it was. Long since he had pawned his watch. Pawned? Both he and the pawnbroker knew full well that he had sold it. There would be no redeeming.
He’d have to get down to the dining room and see if he was still in time for breakfast. If he wasn’t, he suspected that it was going to be a hungry day. In an Irish hotel, at this level, one paid for bed-and-breakfast. A far cry from the Continental breakfast of coffee, croissants and marmalade, an Irish breakfast could tide you over for the better part of the day. You got two fried eggs, two or three rashers of bacon, largely fat, little lean, fried tomatoes, fried potatoes, several slices of thick, heavy toast and butter, along with your tea.