by C. L. Taylor
Please don’t come and visit me. I’ve had a lot of time to think and I’ve realised that we don’t have a future. You aren’t the type of girl I could marry. I’m sorry, but there’s no changing how I feel.
It hurt him, writing something so stinging, but he had to be cruel and go for her weak spot to keep her away. She replied immediately:
I know you don’t mean that. You’re just saying it because of the accident. It doesn’t matter to me if you can’t walk. I love you and want to be with you.
That made him cry but he swiped at his tears and typed back:
Well I don’t love you any more. There’s someone else. I met her at work. We’ve been having an affair for a while and if you come to the ward you’re going to run into her.
It was a lie, of course, and his girlfriend kept fighting back, insisting she come and see him. In the end he told her that he’d have her kicked out if she tried to visit, that he wasn’t the man she’d fallen in love with and she’d have to learn to accept that (that much was true at least). In the end she acquiesced. She said she could tell he was in a lot of pain and that, if he changed his mind, she’d be waiting. And that made him cry again.
Chapter 33
Anna
As predicted by Malcolm, lunch is soup and bread. It’s surprisingly tasty but I haven’t had more than a couple of mouthfuls. I was still sitting behind the desk at reception when Christine poked her head round the door and said it was lunchtime. I told Joe to go on in but he insisted on waiting for me as I locked the medical forms in the drawer and pocketed the key. He’s sitting next to me now – chatting away to Melanie, who’s opposite – seemingly oblivious to the fact that I flinch each time his elbow brushes mine. I want to trust him but he’s the only diabetic on the medical forms. Why would any of the others have a syringe containing insulin if they don’t have the condition? It doesn’t make sense. I still don’t know what to make of the medical forms. There’s a chance one of the guests could be lying. They could be diabetic but chose not to put it on the form. But why? Did they know before they came that they were going to gift me a syringe and a dark instruction? Is that me clutching at straws because I don’t want to believe that Joe’s my stalker? My gut tells me that he’s a good person, but how do I know for sure? I need to ask him if he knows Freddy and Steve and then study his reaction. If he is behind everything I’ll see it in his eyes when I say their names, I’m sure of it. I glance around the table. Other than Trevor, who hasn’t left his room since he fled Katie’s, everyone else is having their lunch. Anxiety twists at my gut. I need answers but my heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in the base of my throat.
‘Joe.’
Almost in slow motion, he breaks off from his conversation with Melanie and turns to look at me.
‘Do you know someone called Freddy Laing?’
A frown creases his brow, just for a second, and I feel sure I’m about to be sick.
‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
He looks back at Melanie. ‘Sorry, what were we—’
‘What about Steve Laing or Peter Cross?’ My voice takes on a strange, uneven pitch and some of the other guests, further down the table, turn their heads. ‘Do you know them?’
‘No.’ There’s a flash of irritation on his face. ‘Why, who are—’
He’s interrupted by the dining room door crashing open. Trevor, still clutching his bottle of whisky, sways through the room and kicks open the kitchen door.
‘Trevor!’ Christine gets to her feet. ‘There’s food—’
But her voice is drowned out by the sound of glass smashing and the low clang of metal being hurled against walls.
‘Trevor!’ Joe reaches the kitchen first but pulls up short as he opens the door. Malcolm smacks up against him and tries to push him away but Joe reaches an arm across the doorway, barring him from entering. I stand on tiptoes and peer over Joe’s other shoulder. Inside the kitchen Trevor is whirling around, swiping at pots, pans and dishes, sending them scuttling along the surfaces and onto the ground.
‘Where are they?’ He throws open a cupboard and scoops out the glassware. Wine, brandy, cocktail and whisky glasses fly across the kitchen, exploding as they hit the wall, the oven and the floor.
I watch in horror as he yanks open the cutlery door and upends the tray, sending knives, forks and spoons crashing to the ground.
‘Trevor, stop it!’ Joe shouts, then ducks as a frying pan is hurled in our direction. Before I’m fully upright again, Trevor pulls open the fridge door and scoops the food off the shelves and onto the floor, stamping it into the tiles.
‘Not the food!’ I scream as he reaches behind the fridge and pulls with both hands. The fridge tips forwards then lands with a crash in front of the oven, forming a barrier between us.
‘Malcolm, help me!’ Joe shouts as he picks his way through broken glass and smashed crockery. Malcolm squeezes up beside him as they approach the fridge. They bend their knees, grunting as they take the strain.
‘Trevor!’ I shout as he moves on to the freezer. ‘Please! Stop! We need the food.’
He ignores me and wrenches it open, still muttering about finding something. Joe inches towards him, one hand raised, palm out.
‘Trevor, mate. Whatever it is you’ve lost, we can help you look—’
But before he can finish his sentence, Trevor lunges at him, right elbow raised, hand clenched. Joe reels backwards as the fist connects with his jaw. He falls like a stone, hitting his head against the fridge before he drops to the floor.
Christine, Fiona and Melanie all press up against me, trying to see what’s going on, all talking at once, shouting at Trevor to stop. As I turn to tell them to move away, Malcolm hunkers down like a rugby player going in for the tackle and launches himself at Trevor. For an older man he’s surprisingly fast and his shoulder connects with Trevor’s stomach. The force of the blow makes Trevor stumble backwards, into the utility room. He loses his footing and falls heavily, smacking against the cold stone tiles. He lies still, winded and silent, for a second, maybe two, then roars in anger and shifts onto his side. Before he can get up Malcolm slams the door to the utility room shut and slides the bolt across.
‘Malcolm, you can’t do that!’ I start to pick my way through the destroyed kitchen but he blocks my route, standing between me and the locked door. Behind him, Joe groans as he gets up from the floor.
‘Malcolm,’ I say again. ‘You can’t lock him in there, he’s not an animal.’
‘Then maybe he shouldn’t act like one.’
‘He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’
He crosses his arms over his chest. ‘I’m just giving him the opportunity to cool off.’
‘Let him out!’
‘He knocked my wife off her feet earlier and now,’ he gestures across at Joe, who’s upright again, rubbing at his jaw, ‘he’s hit another of the guests. Who’s he going to hit next if we open that door? Me? Christine? Katie? Someone could get seriously hurt.’ He touches a hand to the utility room door. ‘Do you want to take that risk, Anna? Yes or no?’
I look from Malcolm to the women huddled together in the doorway and then to Joe. He gives me a strange, pointed look and lightly shakes his head.
‘Well?’ Malcolm says. ‘Are you going to put us all in danger or not?’
I meet his gaze. ‘I’m not putting anyone in danger. And I’m not going to be told what to do. Could everyone please return to the lounge? Yes, Malcolm,’ I say as he backs up against the utility room door, ‘even you.’
Over by the fire Katie, Joe and Fiona are gathered together on the sofa. Fiona is dabbing at Joe’s jaw, face and neck with a bloodstained tea towel, while Katie looks on in horror. I catch her eye.
‘Are you okay?’ I mouth.
She pulls the blanket that’s around her shoulders up over her head. ‘Yeah.’
She’s not though. There’s fear and confusion written all over her face. Not that Malcolm seems
to care. He hasn’t stopped pacing up and down by the window, ignoring Melanie’s pleas to sit down, since we all came into the lounge.
Everyone falls silent as I stand up and clear my throat. The whole building seems to be holding its breath.
‘After what happened in the kitchen I just wanted to reassure you all that I take your safety seriously. Unfortunately, one guest’s behaviour has—’
‘Just say it as it is,’ Malcolm snaps. ‘Trevor’s behaviour.’
‘Trevor, who’s still locked in the utility room,’ Fiona says tightly.
‘Only until this meeting is over,’ I say, ‘then I’ll have a word with him. I’m sure once he sobers up he’ll be horrified at what just happened.’
Malcolm puffs out his chest. ‘You seriously think you can reason with that man?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s dangerous! He punched Joe, knocked Mel over and destroyed most of our food. And you want to let him out? Why, so he can burn the whole place down too?’
‘Maybe we should keep him in the utility room until we can get help,’ Christine says.
Fiona raises her eyebrows. ‘And how long do you think that will take? Another day? Two? A week? You can’t seriously think we should keep him locked up that long? The man had too much to drink and lost his shit. He wouldn’t be kept in a police cell longer than twenty-four hours for that.’
‘No one’s suggesting we keep him locked up for a week,’ I say. ‘And we’re not the police.’
Joe shifts position on the sofa. ‘How long do storms normally last here, Anna? At this time of year?’
‘I don’t really know. I only arrived ten days ago.’
Malcolm stops pacing. ‘You’ve worked here for less than two weeks. And you didn’t think to mention it?’
‘I just have.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Malcolm,’ Melanie says. ‘Can you just let her speak?’
‘Why should I? She obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing.’
‘And neither do you,’ Fiona says, the base of her neck flushed red. ‘Ex-policeman or prison guard, are you?’
‘Actually,’ Malcolm says, ‘I’m a professor of psychology. I know how to read people and that man—’
‘Please!’ I hold up my hands. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘I think we should have a vote,’ Malcolm says.
‘Vote?’
‘About whether Trevor stays locked up until the storm passes.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That isn’t up for debate.’
‘I hate to say it but I agree with him,’ Christine says. ‘I think we should vote.’
I look at Joe and Fiona but they avoid my eye. I do a quick tally in my head. It’s close but I think there are enough sensible people in the room to put an end to this ridiculous debate. Trevor’s not the loose cannon, Malcolm is, and he’s not going to let this drop until he realises he’s in the minority.
‘Okay then. We’ll vote on it,’ I say decisively. ‘Who thinks we should leave Trevor in the utility room until after the storm passes?’
Malcolm raises his hand. After a pause, and a swift look from her husband, Melanie does the same. I stare at her in disbelief. I’d have put money on her voting no. After a nudge, Katie raises her hand too.
Fiona half raises her hand. ‘I’m not voting. I just want to ask a question.’
‘Only if it’s relevant.’
‘It is. If there’s no running water in the utility room, how’s Trevor going to eat and drink? Or use the toilet for that matter?’
‘There’s a cat flap,’ Christine suggests. ‘We could post food and drink to him.’
‘But not a toilet presumably.’
‘We’re not letting him out for toilet breaks if that’s what you’re suggesting, Ms Gardiner,’ Malcolm cuts in. ‘There’s a bucket in there. He can use that.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
Anxiety gnaws at my guts. Three guests are in favour of keeping Trevor locked up. I’ll vote no, so will Joe and Fiona. If Christine votes no too, this stupid charade will be over. I smile at her. ‘Any more votes for yes?’
She looks up at me. Considering all eyes are on her, she appears remarkably unperturbed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m loath to agree with Mr Ward over there but, for all our safety, I vote to keep Trevor in the utility room until the storm passes.’
Malcolm raises his fist. ‘Four. Majority win.’
All the blood in my body seems to sink to my feet. We can’t do this. The storm might not end for days. We’d essentially be keeping someone captive.
‘Another suggestion,’ I say quickly. ‘We have another vote and decide whether to let Trevor move into the cottage instead.’
‘Gordon’s cottage?’ Malcolm says.
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s locked, isn’t it?’
‘So we break in.’
‘And how do you suggest we get him down there? Offer to hold his hand? You’re assuming he’d go willingly.’
Joe, still staring into the fire, mutters something under his breath.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘What was that, Joe?’
He doesn’t turn to look at me but he does raise his voice. ‘You can’t let this happen, Anna.’
I’m gripped by a wave of uncertainty. What do I do? Overrule the vote? Let Trevor go so he can hole himself away in his room with a bottle of whisky again, not knowing when he’ll come out or what he’ll do? Or do I get someone to pack him a bag and ask him to leave, hoping he’ll find a way into the cottage? Anything could happen to him and we’d never know. He’s as much my responsibility as the rest of the guests. But if I let him go I’ll have a mutiny on my hands. I turn back to the others and look at each of their anxious, expectant faces in turn. I’m going to have to pretend to go along with this, at least until Trevor sobers up. Then I’ll let him out and make up some kind of excuse.
‘I’m sorry, Joe,’ I say. ‘It was a majority vote. Trevor stays in the utility room for now.’
Chapter 34
Walking out of the front door is like stepping into a monsoon. Rain lashes at my face and the wind hits me full force in the chest, almost shoving me back into the building. I lean into the gale and run round the hotel until I reach the utility room door. The back of the building is more sheltered from the elements than the front, with the upwards curve of the garden, trees, bushes and sheds offering some protection from the storm.
‘Trevor?’ I tentatively push at the cat flap, bracing myself to snatch my hand back if it’s slammed back down again. I push a little harder until it’s fully open. Water seeps through the thin denim of my jeans, wetting my knees as I peer inside.
Trevor is sitting with his back to the kitchen door, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head lowered onto his folded arms. He groans softly.
‘Trevor, it’s Anna, the hotel receptionist. I just wanted to check that you’re okay.’
The groaning increases in volume.
‘I’m really sorry this happened, Trevor, but you’re not going to be in there forever. We just need you to calm down and sober up. You can’t go round smashing up the hotel and assaulting people.’
Trevor’s lips move but I can’t catch what he’s mumbling.
‘Can you say that again? A bit louder?’ I angle my head so my ear is closer to the cat flap.
‘Someone took my medication.’ Trevor’s shout is slurred and the words run together but this time I understand.
‘What medication?’
‘My medication!’ He scrabbles to his feet and charges at the door. The cat flap slaps shut and the door vibrates on its hinges as he slams himself up against it. ‘Let me out!’ he shouts as he forces the handle up and down. ‘Let me out! Let me out!’
I jump back, willing the door to hold as he continues to throw himself at it. I want to run away. But I don’t. I force myself to stand and wait.
After what feels like forever the pounding s
tops and all I can hear is the drumming of the rain on the paving stones, the gushing of the gutters and the howl of the wind. I rip a branch off the bush behind me and use it to push the cat flap open. But there’s no sign of Trevor. He’s not by the door any more. I shuffle to my right and lean forwards so I can see the left of the room where the washing machines and tumble dryers are, but the branch slides off the plastic and the cat flap rattles shut.
‘Trevor!’ I reach a hand towards the cat flap. ‘You need to tell me what kind of medication it was.’
I tap at the plastic then snatch my hand away, startled by the cawing of a gull. Rainwater drips off my nose and my eyelashes, and my jeans and jacket cling to my skin.
‘Was it in a syringe?’ I push at the cat flap again, forcing it fully open. But Trevor’s not standing beside the washing machines and tumble dryers and he’s not—
His face appears in the cat flap, making me scream.
‘Find my medicine,’ he says as I scrabble away from the door, my heels slipping on the wet patio tiles.
‘WHAT KIND?’
He slurs a word at me, his eyes fixed on mine.
‘Try again,’ I say. ‘Say it again.’
He sighs heavily, takes a deep breath and screws his eyes tightly shut.
A second later he opens them again.
‘Valium,’ he says.
Other than the smell, an unpleasant combination of body odour and rotten food, Trevor’s room isn’t at all how I imagined it. I expected total devastation: belongings all over the place, a dirty toilet, crumpled bed linen and broken fixtures. Instead the room is neat and tidy. The bed has been made, the duvet straightened, and there’s nothing in the bathroom apart from a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, a travel-size tube of toothpaste, a bottle of Head and Shoulders and some supermarket own-brand shower gel. There’s nothing on the bedside table. Nothing in the wardrobe either, or in any of the drawers. The only sign that someone’s been staying in this room is the large blue rucksack propped up against the radiator under the window. I lift it and look underneath. There’s nothing there.
Trevor’s medication has to be in the rucksack. I unclip the top and loosen the toggle. Inside is a plastic bag containing what I assume are his dirty clothes. Underneath are more clothes, clean and neatly folded. I carefully place them on the bed, then look back in the rucksack. I lift out a pair of binoculars, a compass, a map of the Scottish Isles and a heavy roll of material bound with a leather lace. I carefully untie it and unroll the bundle. Inside are five knives with wooden handles and long, sharp blades, tucked into letter pockets. One pocket is empty: a knife is missing. I lay them down on the bed and continue my search. I find waterproof matches, a sleeping bag, rolled tight, some black plastic bags, a first aid kit, a canteen of water, canned food, some wire, a sharp piece of metal that looks like the end of a spear, a torch, a can opener, a sewing kit, a length of cord, sunscreen, cotton wool balls and petroleum jelly. There is also a camping gas stove and a gas canister. I’ve never seen anything like it. Trevor seems to have packed for a camping trip, not a hotel stay.
