by C. L. Taylor
‘Katie,’ I soften my tone. ‘You won’t get in trouble. I just need to know the truth. Did you take the key?’
‘No. My God!’ She spits the words into my face then shoulders her way past me and storms back into the hotel.
I follow her inside but I don’t charge up the stairs after her. Instead I take off my coat and boots and walk over to the reception area, where Fiona’s ducked down behind the desk.
‘Everything okay?’
‘No.’ She runs her hand over the base of the radiator. ‘I think there might be a problem with the boiler. None of the radiators have come on.’
‘I’ll check.’
She follows me through the dining room and into the kitchen then hovers in the doorway of the utility room as I open the boiler cupboard.
‘Well?’ She runs her hands up and down her arms. Now I haven’t got my coat on I can feel the cold too. There’s definitely a sting in the air. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to get it back on?’
When she first arrived at the hotel I’d pegged her as being the same age as Joe and me but she’s slightly older. Mid to late thirties maybe, with a crease between her eyebrows that makes her look stern, even when she’s not frowning. Her blonde wavy hair falls to her shoulders – shoulders that seem to have been permanently hunched ever since she arrived. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I check the display pane on the boiler. Fiona was in the lounge when I discovered the message on the window. She could easily have written ‘TO DIE, TO SLEEP’ after telling the others she was going to the toilet.
‘I’m not sure.’ I close the cupboard door. ‘I think we might be out of oil. David told me he gets a delivery from the mainland once a month and if we’ve run out then—’
‘We’re screwed.’
‘Pretty much, yeah. I’ll need to check the tank in the garden.’ I touch a hand to the key in the back door then pause, remembering something else about her. ‘I heard you crying last night. Is everything okay?’
‘I wasn’t crying.’ She looks at me defiantly, as though daring me to contradict her. ‘Have you ever lost anyone you love, Anna?’
I’m so surprised by the sudden switch in topic and the emotion behind her question that, for a second or two, I can’t speak. Then Freddy, Peter and David’s faces swim in and out of my mind.
‘I’ve lost people,’ I say after a pause, ‘people I cared about.’
‘A boyfriend? Ever lost one of them?’ There’s a strange expression on her face: hurt but aggressive at the same time. Ever since she arrived she’s seemed to swing from one emotion to another. Warm and friendly one minute, defensive and prickly the next.
‘Lost a boyfriend …’ I repeat, drawing out the words as my brain whirs, trying to anticipate where she’s going with this. She’s trying to tell me something but she’s being obtuse instead of coming out and saying it. A cold, prickling sensation travels down my back. Did Fiona’s boyfriend die? Is that what she’s hinting at? ‘I … I split up with someone a few weeks before I moved here.’
She laughs dismissively. ‘It’s all right for you.’
‘What is?’ Irritation is starting to bubble within me.
‘Women like you never have to worry about a relationship ending because there’s always another man waiting in the wings to step in.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Joe.’
‘Joe and I aren’t together.’
‘Yet. I’m pretty sure if you gave him the green light he’d make a move.’
My hand drops from the door handle. ‘Why do you care if Joe and I get together?’
‘I don’t.’
‘So what’s all this about? Why are you so angry?’
‘You tell me. I spent the last two years of my life with someone I thought loved me and it turns out he never did, or at least not in the way I loved him.’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
Her mouth twists bitterly. ‘He just ended things. He said it wasn’t fair to keep me dangling when he knew he was never going to marry me and that it would be better for both of us if we went our separate ways. I tried to talk to him, to find a way to save the relationship, but he refused to listen. He just kept saying it was over.’
She sighs and runs her hands over her hips. ‘I’ve lost nearly a stone since he finished it. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep and I’m shit company. I thought by coming away on my own it would help me get over him but it’s like I packed his ghost in my suitcase.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, ‘it sounds like you’ve been through a tough time.’ She’s definitely hurting. I can see it in her eyes. But I don’t know if I believe her story, not completely.
‘It pisses me off that I still feel like this, you know? Little things are really getting to me.’
‘Like what?’
‘You and Joe flirting. Mel and Malc’s sham of a marriage.’
‘Their marriage?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? “Mel do this, Mel do that.” He talks over her all the time. Totally winds me up.’
‘But she seems happy enough, don’t you think? And she stands up to him when she has to, like the other day when he wanted to go out for a walk and she didn’t.’
‘Seriously?’ She laughs. ‘You think she’s happy? She’s playing the part of the contented wife, Anna. It’s all an act. She can tell herself over and over again that she’s happy but it’s a lie. She’s knows the truth about her relationship but she won’t face up to it. God knows why. Probably scared of being alone.’
And you’re not, I think but don’t say. What other secrets are the guests hiding that I can’t see? I used to think I was a good judge of character, but now I’m not so sure.
As I turn the key in the back door, Fiona points down at the cat flap in the base. ‘I didn’t know there was a hotel cat.’
‘There isn’t.’ The cat flap is dusty and speckled with mud, but when I tap it with the toe of my boot it swings open.
‘The previous owner must have had one,’ I say as I open the door and take a step back. ‘There’s no cat now …’ The wind swallows the rest of my sentence as rain blasts into the small room.
‘After you,’ Fiona says, gesturing for me to walk into the garden first.
I take a step forwards, then think better of it. ‘No, no. After you.’
Chapter 27
Steve
Steve Laing pushes his chair back from his desk, stretches his arms above his head and yawns loudly. Beyond the glass windows of his office his PA, Vicky Fratton, is pulling on her coat. She picks up her handbag, lifts the strap over her head and twists the bag so it lies on her left hip. She notices Steve watching and gives him a tight smile. Probably worried that I’m going to ask her to do something, Steve thinks as he lowers his gaze to the photograph of Freddy on his graduation day. Other than the photo of Freddy as a toddler, his face and hair dripping with baked beans, it’s his favourite photo of his son. It’s just so bloody joyous: his gown askew, his right hand reaching above his head, his black cap a blur in motion. He’d never been prouder of his son than he had been that day. The first Laing in his family to go to university and get a degree. And not just a degree, a bloody first in marketing.
‘I’m off now, Steve.’ Vicky sticks her head round the door to his office. It’s a question rather than a statement and he can hear her unspoken prayer for freedom.
‘All right then, Vicks. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.’
She smiles, properly this time, and raises a hand in farewell. ‘You too. Don’t work too late.’
‘I won’t.’ He waits until he hears the ping of the lift, then reaches into the top drawer of his desk and pulls out his mobile. He lays it on the polished mahogany desk, then reaches for Freddy’s photo and places it next to the phone.
‘What do you reckon, Son?’
Steve yawns again, not bothering to smother the sound with his hand. He can’t remember the last time he
had a good night’s sleep. He’d been existing on five to six hours for months, but the last couple of weeks it’s been more like two or three and he’s lost count of the number of times he’s fallen asleep in his chair, only waking when Vicky shakes him by the shoulder, to remind him about a phone call or a meeting. It was grief, he told himself. He couldn’t sleep for thinking about Fred. And that was true, certainly initially. But recently it hasn’t been his son’s face imprinted on his closed eyelids, it’s been someone else’s. A woman’s. The woman’s. She is haunting him.
He’s tried to ignore the dreams, to block out the discombobulation that clings to him from waking until sleep, but it won’t go away. He’s tried turning to his son for help. What should I do, Freddy? Am I doing the right thing? But the more he stares at his late son’s photograph, the more uneasy he feels. For most of his adult life Steve Laing had been in control of his emotions. Freddy’s death was an emotional body blow he didn’t see coming and it had knocked him clean off his feet. He remained floored as he cycled through the first few stages of grief – shock, denial, pain and guilt – then dragged himself up again as anger took hold. At first he felt angry with Freddy, then God, and finally her. He couldn’t take his anger out on Freddy (and he wouldn’t have anyway) and God was studiously ignoring him, so she took the brunt of his rage. He’d accepted Jim’s offer of help and then sat back, satisfied that justice would be done.
But Freddy doesn’t appear to be smiling back at him in his graduation photograph any more. His lineless brow is creased and his smile has slipped.
I don’t want this, he whispers wordlessly. Dad, I never did.
Steve snatches up his phone then puts it down again. He can’t ring from his own mobile. He might be desperate but he’s not stupid. He roots through the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out his burner phone instead. There’s only one number listed in the contacts and he jabs at it with a stubby forefinger.
Jim picks up after three rings. ‘Hello?’
He doesn’t say his name, doesn’t say Steve’s either, but Steve can hear the surprise in his voice. Jim hadn’t expected to hear from him again. In fact, he’d made it very clear, after they’d met in the pub, that the only other contact they would have would be a short text message confirming the job had been done.
‘I …’ Steve falters. He has to be careful. He doesn’t know who might be privy to their conversation. ‘I need to cancel my order.’
Jim doesn’t respond.
‘Did you hear me?’ Steve says. ‘I need to cancel—’
‘It’s too late.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself again. Your order has gone through.’
‘Can’t you stop it?’ Steve cringes at the desperation in his voice. This isn’t him. This isn’t how he built up a million-pound business. He doesn’t plead or beg.
‘No. Mobile contact cannot be established. Your order will be dispatched in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘No! I’ve changed—’
Steve stares into his son’s worried eyes as the conversation ends and the line goes dead.
Chapter 28
Anna
Fiona and I share a look as I pull on the plunger on the side of the oil tank and no oil appears in the gauge tube.
‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’ she shouts as the wind whips her hair around her cheeks; neither of us bothered to go back to get our coats before we stepped into the garden and we’re both wet through.
‘Empty!’ I shout back.
‘What do we do?’
‘Nothing we can do! Let’s get back inside.’
We set off at a run, speeding round the trees and bushes that hide the oil tank from view, buffeted by the wind as we jog down the path towards the utility door. I come to a stop as I near it and a short woman, swamped in a man’s waterproof jacket, appears at the far end of the building.
‘Anna!’ Christine shouts, trotting towards us. ‘There you are! Sorry to bother you but there’s a bit of a situation with the downstairs toilet.’
‘I don’t like to point fingers,’ Christine says as we follow her back through the kitchen and dining room and into the lobby. ‘But I’m fairly certain Trevor was the last person to use it. And I’m pretty sure he was drunk,’ she adds, lowering her voice.
There’s a splash as I step inside the toilet cubicle. Water is dripping over the edge of the toilet and the bowl is an ugly mess of water, loo roll and … urgh … I turn away and press a hand over my mouth. Why would someone flood the toilet and just leave it like that?
I back out of the cubicle, hurry across the lobby to the reception desk and grab a pen and a piece of paper. As I slap an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the toilet door Christine heads back towards the kitchen to continue making lunch, satisfied that the situation is now under control. She signals to Fiona to go with her but raises a hand when I move to follow.
‘You’re under strict instructions to rest today,’ she orders. ‘You’ve done too much already.’
As the door closes behind them I linger in the lobby, unsure what to do. There’s no way I can sit down and relax with a book, not after what happened yesterday. Instinctively, I glance towards the window where I saw ‘TO DIE, TO SLEEP’ but, although the glass is misted up again, nothing’s written in the condensation. I lift the phone at reception – no dialling tone – then crouch down behind the desk and reset the router. Thirty seconds pass, then a minute. I shift my weight into the chair, log on to the laptop then raise my eyes to the ceiling in silent prayer and try to connect to the Wi-Fi. Nothing. Damn it.
As I wheel the chair back from the desk, raised voices drift down the stairs. Something’s going on in the guest corridor.
Melanie is standing outside Katie’s room, her hands on her hips and a tense expression on her face. She glances across at me as I approach and holds out a hand, warning me not to come any closer.
‘What’s going on?’ I mouth.
She shakes her head and looks back towards the bedroom. ‘I’m sorry, Katie, but I really don’t think it’s appropriate for a strange man to be in your room.’
‘Trevor’s not a stranger,’ her niece snaps back. ‘And we’re just talking.’
‘Trevor,’ Melanie beckons him with a finger. ‘Come on. You know this isn’t right.’
I ignore her advice to stay back and step around her so I can see into the room. Katie is sitting on the bed, her oversized woolly jumper pulled over her knees. Sitting on the chair nearest the door, with a bottle of Bowmore whisky in his hand, his head resting on the seat back and his eyes closed, is Trevor. He opens a weary, bloodshot eye and looks at me, then closes it again.
‘She’s the only one who’ll talk to me,’ he slurs.
‘That’s not true,’ Melanie says. ‘I think you’ll find we’d all talk to you if you actually spent some time with us instead of traipsing off on your own.’
He lazily raises a hand and gestures in my direction. ‘She stole from me.’
‘What did I steal, Trevor?’
He stares at me contemptuously, then closes his eyes again.
‘And you accused me of stealing!’ Katie says, a look of smug triumph on her face as she waggles a finger in my direction. ‘Talk about hypocritical.’
Melanie gives me an exasperated look. ‘This is what happens when a child doesn’t have a father figure,’ she hisses under her breath. ‘No sense of boundaries whatsoever.’
‘Come on, Trevor,’ she says, louder this time. ‘Let’s get you back to your room. You can drink to your heart’s content in there.’
‘You can’t tell him what to do,’ Katie says. ‘He’s an adult. He’s not doing anything wrong.’
I can tell from the defiant look in her eyes that this has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to chat to Trevor and everything to do with control. I was the same as a teenager, trying to stake a claim on my own life. Only in my case it was a battle with my mum about tidying my room. It was my personal space in the house
so why couldn’t I keep it how I wanted to keep it? If the door was closed, why should she care how messy it was?
‘Come on now, Katie.’ Melanie’s fighting to keep her tone light but I can hear the stress in her voice. ‘You and Trevor can have a chat later but let’s get you downstairs for a drink. I could make you a hot chocolate.’
‘Do I look like I’m ten?’
‘No, you don’t. You—’ She screeches in surprise as Trevor lurches unsteadily up and out of his chair. ‘Trevor, would you mind sitting down so Katie can leave the room?’
‘What the hell’s going on up there?’ Malcolm’s voice booms from the staircase.
‘I’ve got this under control, Malc,’ Melanie shouts back. ‘Trevor’s going back to his own room, aren’t you, Trevor?’
‘What’s he doing in Katie’s room?’ Like a bull, Malcolm charges, thundering down the corridor as Melanie freezes in the doorway.
Trevor makes his escape, shoving Melanie out of the way as he bursts from the room. As she tumbles backwards, arms flailing before she hits the ground, he sprints into his room and slams the door shut.
Malcolm reaches his wife before I do.
‘Mel.’ He cradles her limp body in his arms. ‘Melanie, are you okay?’
‘Did you see that?’ Malcolm glares up at me as he helps his wife to his feet. ‘Did you see that animal assault my wife? I knew he was dodgy. I just knew it. Right from the moment I laid eyes on him.’
‘Please, Malc.’ Melanie touches a hand to her cheek. There’s a red raw patch on her cheekbone, about the size of a fifty pence piece, from where her skin grazed the carpet. ‘I don’t think he meant to hurt me. You startled him when you shouted.’
‘Me?’ His hand falls away from her elbow and he stares at her with a look of utter incredulity. ‘You’re blaming this on me?’
‘I’m just … I’m just saying …’
‘Melanie.’ I wrap an arm around her waist as she sways on the spot. ‘Can you make it across to your room?’
