by C. L. Taylor
I check the side pockets, the hood of the rucksack and all of the zipped nooks and crannies but there’s no medication in any of them. I rifle through the first aid kit but there’s nothing in there either. I check under the bed, in every single drawer and in the bin. Again, nothing.
I take one last look around the room, then start packing Trevor’s things back into his rucksack. I pause as I reach for the roll of knives. Where’s the missing one?
The hairs prickle on the back of my neck and my skin tightens against my scalp. Someone’s watching me. I swing round, expecting to find someone in the doorway.
But there’s no one there.
In Memoriam
In Memoriam
Akhtar Begum
Remembering my friend Akhtar (1990–2012). You were the best friend I could have ever wished for. I still miss your smiling face. You will always be beautiful to me.
You’re not taking the hint, are you, Anna? Your obsession with the guests – those frantic bleating sheep – has distracted you from your guilt. It’s not good to bury your feelings, Anna. You need to face up to what you did. I wasn’t going to do this again, I wasn’t going to step in and make that decision for someone. I wanted your passing to be gentle. For you to lie down, close your eyes and drift away. I wanted it to be perfect, but it’s not going to be that way now. You’ve ruined it. And that makes me very cross indeed. Almost as cross as I was with my mum.
Chapter 35
Anna
When I returned from checking on Trevor I was met by the sound of sweeping, tinkling glass and low groans. Melanie and Christine were in the kitchen, sweeping the floor, wiping the surfaces and cleaning up. Almost everything Trevor had wrenched out of the fridge was beyond saving. He’d even emptied the last of the milk by stamping on the plastic bottle. All we had left to eat were a few industrial-sized bags of pasta, a bag of potatoes, some tinned tomatoes, fish and meat, flour, spices and whatever was in the freezer. Melanie took one look at my stricken face as I surveyed what was left and said that she and Malcolm would make dinner. I didn’t put up a fight. Instead I joined in with the clean-up effort.
For the first half an hour or so the utility room shook on its hinges as Trevor threw himself at the door, screaming to be let out. It was almost more than I could bear but, with Christine and Melanie voting to keep him in, there was no way I could let him out. After a couple of hours the kitchen looked almost normal again.
Melanie shooed me and Christine out of the kitchen once it was tidy and I had no choice but to leave. I turned down Christine’s invitation to play backgammon and went up to my room instead, hiding away, unable to sleep, rest or read, until finally Malcolm shouted up the stairs that it was time for dinner.
The atmosphere couldn’t be tenser. Fiona and Joe, sitting at the far end of the table, seem to be pretending that I no longer exist. Fiona looks away whenever our eyes meet and Joe is studiously ignoring me. There’s a divide in the group now – us and them and, to those two, I am most definitely ‘them’.
After dinner, a very bland tomato pasta, I sneak out to check on Trevor again. Hope flares in his eyes as I peer through the cat flap and explain that I’ve searched his room for his medication, then dies just as quickly when I admit I haven’t been able to find it. He buries his face in his arms and doesn’t look up again, not even as I post three blankets, a pillow, a bottle of water, some biscuits, tinned meat and apples through the small gap. I move to stand up but I can’t bring myself to leave. It doesn’t feel right, leaving him in there all alone when he’s in such a bad state. Whatever the Valium has been prescribed for, he’s a nervous wreck without it, shaking and rocking and muttering to himself. I touch a hand to my jeans pocket, feeling the shape of the back door key under my palm. I could get Trevor’s rucksack from his room and leave it propped up by the bush, then post him the key to let himself out. Other than a tent he has everything in his rucksack that he needs to survive and I’m fairly certain he’ll be able to break into the cottage without too much of a problem. But what about the missing knife? Has he got that on him? I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t use it on me if I let him go but what if he ran into Malcolm or Joe? I’ve got no way of predicting how he’ll act. Sighing, I get to my feet. I’ll wait until the morning, when he’s sober, then I’ll talk to him again and let him out.
Malcolm’s baritone rumble greets me as I open the front door to the hotel. The lounge door is ajar, just a couple of inches but enough for me to be sure that Malcolm and Melanie are the only two people inside. He’s striding back and forth in the centre of the room with whisky sloshing around in the tumbler in his hand and an exasperated look on his face. Melanie’s sitting on the sofa, her glasses in her hand, wearily rubbing her eyes.
‘All I’m asking,’ she says, ‘is for you to think before you speak. I don’t think you have any idea how offensive some of the things you say are to the other guests.’
‘I don’t give a crap what they think.’
‘What I think, then. I can’t bear hearing you refer to Trevor as an animal. You were the Head of Psychology, for God’s sake!’
‘And?’
‘And you should know better!’ Her voice takes on a strange, strangled tone. ‘I can’t believe you’d be so insensitive.’
‘The man’s a drunk.’
‘He was drunk. There’s a difference. What you said is offensive, dangerous and incredibly uneducated.’
‘You’re calling me uneducated?’ He guffaws. ‘Says the woman who barely scraped a 2:2.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She grabs the corner of the cushion beside her and, for a second, I think she’s going to throw it at him. Instead she smacks it against the seat of the sofa. ‘Don’t you dare start playing that game. This isn’t about education—’
He smirks. ‘You just said it was.’
‘Arrrgh.’ She grabs her hair at the roots and screams up at him. ‘You can be a complete arsehole sometimes. I have never, ever met a more pig-headed man in my life.’
‘Resorting to name-calling now, are we?’
‘Yes, I am. Because you’re not listening to me, Malcolm. I am trying to let you know that your behaviour is unacceptable and I’m not the only one who thinks so. We’re on the verge of being completely ostracised by the other guests.’
‘And I should care about that why?’
‘You might not care but I do. The way you act reflects badly on me.’
‘Oooooh.’ He raises his eyebrows theatrically. ‘That’s what this is about. You’re embarrassed to be associated with me.’
A second passes, then another as Melanie stares up at him and her fingers twitch on the cushion in her lap. Go on, I silently urge her. Tell him how you feel. Don’t be scared.
‘Fiona been having a word in your ear, has she?’ Malcolm plonks himself down on the sofa beside her, sloshing whisky all over the carpet. ‘Been schooling you, has she? Telling you to speak up for yourself?’
His voice has changed tone. It’s thin and nasty, loaded with danger.
‘No one’s been schooling me, Malcolm.’ She shifts away from him, backing up against the arm of the sofa. ‘This conversation has been a long time coming.’
‘It has, has it?’ His top lip thins, revealing his teeth. ‘But you chose now – NOW – to bring it up.’
His shout makes me jump and Melanie flinches.
‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m speaking up now and it’s up to you to choose whether you listen or not. I’m sick of the way you treat me, Malcolm. I don’t like the way you snap at me, speak over me and order me around. It’s disrespectful and I won’t have it.’
Malcolm says nothing but his grip tightens on the whisky tumbler and his left foot swings back and forth.
‘I only voted for Trevor to stay locked in the utility room,’ Melanie continues, ‘because I knew you’d start an argument if I disagreed with you. I’ve been feeling terrible all evening. That poor man. He needs our help, not to be ostracised.’
; ‘I’d probably have more respect for you if you had disagreed with me.’
‘What?’ She holds herself very still as Malcolm reaches forwards and swipes the whisky bottle from where it’s propped up against the base of the sofa. He unscrews the lid and fills half his glass.
‘You think I enjoy it?’ he says. ‘Being married to someone who isn’t my intellectual equal? The reason I’m occasionally controversial, my dear, is because I enjoy the fallout. It keeps me on my feet, mentally. God knows you don’t.’
‘I see.’ She studies him silently, then her spine straightens and she raises her chin. ‘Well, if that’s the case you won’t object if I ask you to sleep down here on the sofa tonight rather than share my room.’
‘Our room.’
‘My room.’ Her voice takes on a steely note. ‘I paid for the holiday, Malcolm, just like I pay for the house, the food and your bloody walking boots. You might have a PhD but your consultancy work doesn’t pay the bills. I do.’
I scuttle across the lobby and hide behind the desk as Melanie walks stiffly out of the lounge and up the stairs. She pauses halfway up and turns back. I hold my breath, terrified that she’s seen me, but her gaze is fixed on the open lounge door.
‘We made a mistake locking Trevor in the utility room,’ she says, loud enough for Malcolm to hear. ‘We should have locked you in instead.’
I wait for the sound of Melanie’s footsteps on the first floor to recede, then I speed up the stairs, covering my mouth and nose with my sleeve as I reach the second set of steps. The air’s so pungent it makes my stomach turn. If the storm goes on much longer we’re going to have to think about moving David somewhere else. That’s a job no one’s going to volunteer for.
The time glows red – 11.34 p.m. – on my digital alarm clock as I push open the door to my room. I throw myself onto my bed and bury my face into the pillow. I’m so tired I’m not sure I could move if the hotel burned down. I just want to go to sleep and wake up when this is all over. I’m not sure how much more I can take.
I wake with a start, propping myself up on my elbow as I stare into the darkness, sleep-dazed and confused, caught in the haze between dream and reality.
‘Alex?’
I search the gloom for his boxes full of vinyl, the fifty-inch television and the hideous seventies-style curtains the landlord insisted we leave up at the windows. As my eyes adjust to the darkness the dream slowly fades, leaving behind the faintest trace of unease. My ex-boyfriend isn’t in the room with me and we didn’t just have a blazing argument about the amount of time I spend at work. I’m not back in the flat. I’m in a small attic room with low beams, a beast of a wardrobe, a chest of drawers that has seen better days and a man lying dead in the room next door.
I slump back onto the pillow and pull the duvet up around my shoulders. It’s 3.55 a.m. I need to go back to sleep.
The sound of a floorboard creaking on the landing forces me up and onto my elbow again. I hold my breath, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
There’s another creak. And another. Someone’s walking around outside my room. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I keep very, very still, all my attention focused on the door handle. There’s no way anyone can get in. I locked the door and the other keys are in the pocket of my jeans.
My breath catches in my throat as, very, very slowly, the door handle tips towards the floor.
‘WHO’S THERE?’
The handle swings back into position with a click and I hear the thudding of footsteps on the landing as whoever just tried to get into my room makes their escape. Rage courses through me and I throw back the duvet and run across the bedroom. As I fumble the key into the lock, the staircase creaks under the weight of whoever just tried to get into my room. They’re going to disappear before I can catch them.
‘Come on, come on.’ I twist the key in the lock, then slap my palm against the light switch in the landing. Nothing happens. The only light is the eerie orange glow of the emergency bulb.
‘I can hear you,’ I shout as I run across the landing. ‘I know you were trying to get into my room.’
As I reach the top of the stairs a shadow disappears into the guest corridor. They’re going to get away.
‘Stop!’ I reach for the banister and take a step forwards. My heel hits the floor but the ball of my foot drops into nothing and I lurch forwards, arms wheeling and reaching as I fall through the darkness. One second I am at the top of the staircase, screaming and flailing. The next the stairs are rushing up to meet me. I land heavily, the heels of my hands scraping against the carpet runner, my ribs smacking against wood, thumping the air from my lungs as my head ricochets off the wall. I lie still, too shocked to move, to speak, to breathe, then an ocean of pain washes through me and everything goes black.
Chapter 36
Anna
Thursday 7th June
Day 6 of the storm
‘Anna? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?’
I feel hands touching me, stroking my hair and my cheek, and I force my eyes open. Colours blur and swirl together. I blink them away then close my eyes again. When I open them, the colours have separated, revealing a peach-tinged cheek and metal glasses hiding pale eyes ringed with purple shadows. I focus on the nose and the red patches beneath each nostril, then the face vanishes.
‘Malcolm,’ the voice hisses as a white light burns into my eyes and I screw them tightly shut. ‘Don’t shine the torch in her face.’
‘I was just checking her for injuries.’
‘I think we should let Christine do that, don’t you? She’s the first aider. Where is she, anyway? Joe, bang a bit louder!’
‘Anna, can you open your eyes again?’
‘Well done,’ she says as I force them open. ‘Careful,’ she adds as I try to move. ‘We don’t know if you’ve broken anything yet.’
‘Melanie?’ My voice is little more than a croak.
She smiles tenderly. ‘You’ve had an accident and you’re lying at the bottom of the stairs. There was an almighty thump and—’
‘It woke me up,’ Malcolm says. ‘I thought it was Trevor, escaped and on the rampage.’
‘Seriously?’ Melanie glares at him. ‘How is that kind of comment helpful – oh, Christine, you’re awake.’
A small, squat silhouette appears in the doorway. Christine draws closer and peers into my face. An eye mask is pushed up into her white hair and her face is crumpled with sleep.
‘What happened?’ She glances up at Melanie, who’s sitting on the bottom stair, beside my legs.
‘I …’ I try to push myself up from the ground into a sitting position but an agonising pain rips through my shoulder, making me howl.
‘I think she might have dislocated her shoulder,’ Melanie says. ‘Look.’
There’s a weird lump at the top of my arm. Just looking at it makes me feel faint.
‘With any luck it’s only partially dislocated,’ Christine says. ‘Can you move your legs, Anna?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Malcolm breathes as I flex my feet and for one horrible moment I think he’s seen a bone protruding through my skin but it’s not my feet he’s looking at. ‘This hotel is a bloody death trap.’
‘What is it, Malcolm?’ Melanie presses herself up against the wall as he steps over me and makes his way carefully up the stairs, using his phone as a torch.
‘A board’s come free,’ he shouts. ‘No wonder you tripped.’ He steps over it and disappears towards the bedroom. ‘Light’s gone. No, wait. There’s no lightbulb. Jesus Christ, it stinks up here.’
‘Your legs feel okay.’ Christine ignores him and runs her hands lightly over my knees, ankles and feet. ‘Did you lose consciousness at all?’
‘Yes,’ Melanie says. ‘She was unconscious when I found her.’
‘She’s going to need that arm in a sling,’ Fiona says from the corridor. ‘There’s a first aid box in reception. I’ll go and get it.’
I lie still as Christine continues to run h
er hands over me, murmuring to herself under her breath.
‘Does she know what she’s doing?’ Malcolm asks Melanie, loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘Not really.’ Christine looks up at him. ‘I had to take a first aid course when I did my teacher training and it’s been a while since I’ve had to use it. But you’re in no immediate danger, Anna,’ she adds quickly. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken your legs or hurt your spine but you’d need a scan to know that for sure.’
‘Should we try the Land Rover again?’ Malcolm asks. ‘See if we can get her over to the village?’
‘I don’t know. Even if we do get through the river she’ll be in a lot of pain. Every lump and bump in the road will be torturous.’
‘She looks like she’s in a lot of pain now.’ Melanie peers at me. ‘She’s very pale.’
They’re all referring to me in the third person, talking over me as though I’m still unconscious.
‘Can you pop the shoulder back in?’ Malcolm asks.
Melanie shrugs. ‘Possibly.’
‘My brother’s hypermobile,’ she says to Christine. ‘I learned how to put his limbs back in as a teenager. Anna’s a lot bigger than an eight-year-old boy, though.’
