by John Larkin
I practically skip up the stairs.
Thank you, Alistair McAlister.
It takes three swipes with the keycard for the lock to flash green. After that I push against the door and enter my safe haven. I’ve stayed in a couple of hotels before with Mum and my father, but they weren’t anything like this. My father didn’t like spending money – not on us, anyway.
The heavy door closes behind me with a reassuring clunk. I flick the latch. Safe at last.
After three nights sleeping (or not sleeping) rough, this is heaven. Heaven minus the praising.
The bathroom fittings are seriously expensive. Gold-plated taps, yet more granite and a shower screen so clean it may as well not be there. There’s a stack of plush towels, and behind the door two robes hang ghostlike on hooks. In the room itself there’s a widescreen TV and two huge beds. I chuck my stuff onto one bed and go on a treasure hunt around the rest of the room. The minibar doesn’t just have drinks, it also has chocolates. Although it’s tempting, I leave the Mars bars alone. For now. I’ve got to eat properly when I can.
I pull back my curtains, unlatch the door and step out onto a small balcony that overlooks the pool. The water looks so inviting, but I’m too tired and hungry to float, let alone swim. I slip back into my room and latch the balcony door, shutting out the fresh air and danger. Although Creepo doesn’t have a clue where I am, I’m not taking any chances. With anyone.
I run the bath and pour in all the complimentary cleaning gels and oils. I don’t even know what they’re all for. While the cauldron of foam is building up I phone Alistair McAlister to let him know that I made it. He seems genuinely happy and avoids an awkward moment by not asking for my room number, which I wouldn’t have given him anyway. He asks me to call him if I need anything and even if I don’t. I have to keep in touch or he’ll worry about me, he says. After that I unload my backpack, which stinks of stale wee. My own. I put my books, writing pad and my backpack outside on the balcony table to air and stash the money in the room safe. After that I strip off and hang my tracksuit pants, shirt and sleeping bag over the rail and chuck the rest of the clothes from my backpack into the bubble bath and climb in after them. I lie back and rest my head as millions of tiny bubbles burst against my skin. I have to keep my cast out of the water, which is a bit awkward, but I’m still so comfortable in the bath. This is the first time I’ve been able to relax in God knows how long. Not just the four days that I’ve been homeless; all the way back to year three, now that I think about it. Maybe my entire life. No fist and knife fights downstairs in the kitchen. No perverted paedo uncles trying to slither into my room. Slither into me. I hadn’t realised how stressed I was until now. I can feel the tension being drawn out of me and dispersed into the water. Apart from the small strip of light beneath the door, the bathroom is in total darkness. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m in here naked. Force of habit, I guess.
Off in the distance there’s a strange gurgling sound. The bathroom door swings open and Creepo’s standing there with a ‘gotcha’ leer etched across his face. I’m too terrified to even move. To fight back. It’s over. He stalks into the bathroom and slides his hands around my neck, slowly strangling the life out of me. I can feel my eyes bulging as my existence begins to leak away.
I sit up and gasp, sucking oxygen and life back into my lungs. When my pulse has dropped a little I look around the blackness, trying to figure out where the hell I am. Where Creepo has got to.
The water’s stone cold and it seems that in sheer exhaustion my head had slumped to the side and slid underwater. I could have drowned.
I haul myself out of the bath and slip on one of the plush robes from behind the door. And, just because I can, I drag on my fake Mum’s too. I simply couldn’t be arsed washing my clothes so I leave them in the bath to soak.
Although my body craves sleep, I’m too hyped up from the nightmare. How horrible would that be? My last memory of life on earth, the image to accompany me to the great beyond, would have been Creepo. Note to self – no more baths when I’m exhausted.
It’s not exactly healthy but I order some wedges and a hot chocolate. Comfort food. I decide to count the money while I’m waiting.
Fifteen minutes later there’s a knock on the door, which coincides with the sound of my chin hitting the floor.
‘Room service.’
What have I done? ‘Could you just leave it outside?’
‘You need to sign for it.’
One bundle would have been enough. ‘My mum’s not back from work yet.’
‘That’s okay, you can sign for it.’
One bundle. But oh no, I had to go and get greedy and take four. I should have just stuck with my piggybank and Bleak House, but, no, I seriously must have a death wish.
I stop my mental ranting and look through the peephole. The waiter’s wearing black pants, a white shirt and a black waistcoat. More crucially she’s a she. I race over to Mum’s bed and turn the bedcover over the cash. Then I slip off the safety latch and open the door.
‘Good afternoon.’ The woman strides confidently into the room and places the tray on the table. She hands me a small black folder. I’m not sure what I’m meant to do with it so I just say thanks.
She smiles, opens it up and points to where I’m supposed to sign.
‘No school today?’
I sign on the dotted line. I’ve got no idea how much the kitchen and reception staff tell each other but I decide to play it safe and opt for consistency. ‘We just flew in from New York.’
‘Oh, I love New York.’ She takes the folder back from me. ‘Which bit?’
‘Which bit what?’
‘Which bit of New York did you fly in from?’
Is this chick mad? ‘The airport.’
She snorts then seems to remember her role. ‘Sorry. I mean where were you staying?’
Oh crap! That’s the trouble with lying. You’ve got to do your research. I scan my memory banks, looking for something to lock on to. Man something. Man . . .? Mad Hatter? ‘Manhattan.’ Phew.
‘I love Central Park, it’s just so . . . New York.’
I’m not sure what to do with this so I decide to leave it. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
I’m not sure if the World Health Organisation would agree that wedges and a hot chocolate constitute a meal, but I thank her anyway.
When she’s gone, I slip the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside door handle and the safety latch back on the lock. And now I can get back to some more mental rambling.
EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS!
That’s what I’ve been lugging around with me.
It’s not good, it’s bad. Really bad.
I didn’t think Creepo would miss a couple of money bricks, seeing how he had so many to begin with. But I’ve got absolutely no doubt that he’ll miss eight grand. Hell, anyone would. I thought there might be a thousand all up. Maybe even two. But eight? No way. I wouldn’t have taken it if I’d known there was that much. Creepo’s got enough reasons to hunt me down as it is.
There’s nothing I can do. It’s mine now. And besides, Creepo should pay for everything he’s put me through. The eight k is for screwing up my life and being a murdering bastard. I’ll take his cash for that.
I put the stuffing-up-my-life payment back in the safe and lock the door. Then I take the food tray over to my bed and make myself comfortable.
After I finish my wedges and hot chocolate, I snuggle down into the crisp fresh sheets. I open up one of Mum’s diaries and try to get to know her better. It starts when she’s sixteen. It’s full of her hopes and dreams and fears. Standard stuff, I suppose. She could be any teenager anywhere. I flick forward a few pages to where she starts talking about my father, about his life in the old country, about how his father treated him and Creepo. Their mother died young and it se
ems like their father took it out on them and the bottle. My head starts to drop into the page and so I put away her diary and turn on the TV to see what’s happening in the world since I left it. I think about watching a movie but I’m asleep in seconds.
YOU MUST HAVE SLEPT ALL DAY AND NIGHT.
I could have. But I forced myself to get up a couple of hours later because I had things to do.
Like what?
Just boring stuff like buying toothpaste because the tube in the hotel room was too tiny to bother stealing. Then I phoned Dr Chen, because I’d promised I would.
What did she say?
She said that she’d reported me and that Creepo had come and threatened her. That’s when she hit him with a restraining order, which totally cracked me up. Creepo thought he was so tough, a gangster, and Dr Chen is the size of an Oompa Loompa and yet she gets right in his face legally.
What else did she say?
She said that I should come to the surgery, that I’d be looked after, but I couldn’t risk it. Dr Chen thought Creepo was bad news, but she didn’t know just how psycho he really was. I told her that I was sorry for bringing all this trouble into her life. She said it was okay and I should come in and see her in a few weeks, to take the cast off my arm, and that was that.
And did you?
Yeah, but she was away on holidays in Hong Kong, so another doctor took my cast off. So anyway, before I went downstairs to the hotel shop for my toothpaste and stuff I went into the bathroom to get my tracksuit pants and t-shirt and I saw that all my other clothes were still in the bath. I fished them out and hung them on the towel rails, but I knew they wouldn’t be dry for ages and that I wouldn’t be going off to look for a school the next day, which was a really bad habit to be getting into, and I sort of hated myself for it. It was like I was looking for excuses not to reconnect with the world. So I called Alistair McAlister and asked him if he could phone the hotel again and book me in for a couple more nights. I figured that I was kind of like a wounded animal that needs to hole up for a few days to lick its wounds and get its strength back. He phoned me back in the room about five minutes later and told me that he’d done it; said that he was my mum’s personal assistant and that she needed a few extra days, and the check-in clerk had said to take as long as she needed. Alistair also said that I should come to the toga party after all, as a friend.
I had dinner in the restaurant that night. I felt a bit awkward at first, sitting there without my mum but I knew that if I was going to live this lie, I’d better start getting some practice at it and not rely on Alistair McAlister every time I needed someone to bullshit for me.
How did you do?
It was easy. When the waitress came over I told her that Mum would be down soon only she was on an important call to Tokyo and that I should start without her. And that was that. I had a delicious bowl of pasta and a side order of vegetables, because I had to start looking after myself.
Weren’t you a bit self-conscious just sitting there by yourself? You were only thirteen.
I was at first. Though the waitress couldn’t have cared less. But have you ever had dinner in a restaurant by yourself?
Plenty of times.
So you know the secret. The secret of how to sit there by yourself without looking like the loserest loser in the whole of Loserdom?
Take a book.
Exactly.
There’s that kind of dead time between when you’ve ordered and when your food is delivered, so I ducked back to my room and got Bleak House.
Seems kind of appropriate.
What do you mean?
You spent the previous night at your Uncle Tony’s . . .
Yeah, you’re right. The real bleak house.
Did you ever go back there again?
To Creepo’s? No, why would I?
Just wondering.
Well I didn’t, okay.
All right. I’m only asking. No need to get defensive.
It’s hard, you know, reliving this shit.
We can stop for the day if you want.
No. I’m good. Let’s keep going.
Okay. Can we talk about how you got back into school?
You’re gonna love this. Before I met Cinderella, I had a sort of skanky fairy godmother.
And she looked after you?
For a price.
One other thing: would it be possible to borrow your mother’s diaries? I assume you still –
Why?
I’d like to get to know your mother a little better, that’s all. Delve into her background.
There’s stuff about my father in there too. Stuff he’d obviously told her about growing up in [deleted from transcript].
Even better.
It’s awful but I only really got to know her through her diaries and the more I read the more I began to like her. As a person I mean. I loved her as my mum, obviously. This might sound a bit weird but when I stayed at the Shangrila Pines, I used to go to the cemetery, which was a couple of Ks up the road, and sit and talk to her.
But how . . .?
It wasn’t her grave. I found someone around the same age and talked to her instead. Talked to both of them.
A surrogate?
I suppose so.
That’s . . .
Pathetic?
No. It’s . . . nice.
The harsh winter wind banshees in off the sea, causing him to lose control momentarily. What little daylight there was has long since vanished over the horizon, leaving him alone and shivering in the dark. He corrects the steering just in time. A moment later and he or the bike or both would have disappeared over the cliff and been dashed onto the rocks below. It’s not even his bike; it’s little Anthony’s, and he doesn’t know that it’s been borrowed. He’ll be angry if he finds out.
He’d finished his deliveries about an hour ago but he’d stopped off in the woods on the promise from the other boys that Maria would show him her knickers for a drag on his cigarette. She didn’t turn up. And now he was hopelessly lost. If he could just find a familiar landmark, he could feel his way home. He was half-inclined to abandon the bike, but Anthony would find out, and who knew what that kid was capable of. Anthony would get that look in his eye that frightened his older brother. It was the look of the devil. The look of the damned.
He pulled up and stared into the valley far below. He could make out the dim glow from one of the old farmhouses leading into their village. This was it. He was as good as home. He pushed off and guided the bike down the hill towards the light. He was going at a good pace now. He pumped the peddles hard in anticipation of the upcoming hill but his geography was out. Where he was expecting a small rise there was in fact a T-intersection. He slammed into the ditch and sailed clean over the handlebars without ever touching the breaks.
He woke to what he hoped might be the breath of an angel but was instead greeted by the stench of hell.
‘Come on, boy,’ said a voice through the fog. ‘Come back to me.’
‘Hmmn.’ That smell. It was like rotting apples and methylated spirits combined with sulfur. ‘What? Where am I? What happened?’
‘You’ve had an accident. Nothing broken. You’ll have a bit of a headache though.’
He felt his head. There was already a golf ball-sized lump forming near his temple and he had a fight this weekend.
‘You’re Dragan’s boy, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ He squinted his eyes. ‘Mr Tomasich?’
‘That’s right.’ Old man Tomasich leered. God, when did he last clean his teeth? Since the last war, when his wife had disappeared with one of the troops or into the forest, Old Man Tomasich and his stinking den of iniquity had been slowly rotting back into the foul pits of the earth.
And yet here he was, in all his f
ilth, happy to lend a helping hand.
‘C’mon. Up you get. Big strong lad like you can take a hit to the head and get up before the bell.’
Old Man Tomasich helped him to his feet and patted down his jacket.
‘The front wheel’s buckled, but old Dragan can fix that up as good as new. He’s good with his hands, your old man.’
The boy felt his jaw. His old man was good with his hands, all right.
He picked up the bike and wheeled it back out onto the road, its buckled wheel taunting him with each revolution. ‘Thank you, Mr Tomasich.’
‘Tell everyone I said goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’
He looked around but Old Man Tomasich just smiled, turned around and stalked off into the blackness.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
The house, lacking a woman’s touch, stank of men.
He stared at his father, who was curled up in his chair like a dog ready to pounce.
‘Well?’
‘I had to finish my deliveries.’
‘Don’t lie to me, boy. I’m warning you. Don’t lie to me. You should have been home hours ago.’
‘I had an accident. I got lost on the way home and crashed coming down the hill by Old Man Tomasich’s farm.’
His father mumbled something under his breath and made the sign of the cross.
‘He’s not as bad as everyone says.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Old Man Tomasich. He –’
‘What are you talking about, idiot?’
‘Old Man Tomasich helped me up. Made sure I was all right.’
His father hoicked up a throatful of phlegm and spat it onto the fire. ‘Liar!’
‘I am not. He –’
‘Don’t you contradict me, boy! You’re a filthy, rotten liar.’ His father made a move to get up, then seemed to think better of it. One of these days the boy would fight back and when that happened one of them would be leaving the house feet first.
‘Don’t call me a liar, Father. I’m telling the truth.’
