And as for my having endowed this parasol thing with sight: I think that happened when a motorcyclist coming down the hill rounded a bend higher up, and for a split second his headlight beam lit up the figure on the terrace. Just a split second, in which the shadow under the parasol’s hood was briefly dispelled and some bright item or items – in fact two of them – reflected the electric glare of the headlight.
Moreover that same headlight beam continued to sweep, until a moment later it swept me! Momentarily dazzled – as the motorcycle and rider passed beneath my balcony on their descent – I quickly withdrew from whatever reverie or fantasy it was that I had allowed to engulf me. And as my eyes once more adjusted, so the figure halfway down the high terraces was once more a parasol. And nothing more . . .
While it should come as no surprise, there followed one of the most restless nights I have ever known. I dreamed of unfriendly eyes drilling into me, and the inexorable approach of the floating, pulsating owner of those eyes which I knew – despite that its actual nature remained shrouded and obscure – was nevertheless intent upon harming me. A nightmare, yes, but a persistent one that had me starting awake on more than one occasion.
The last time this happened I got out of bed and closed the balcony’s sliding doors, which I had left half-open against the warmth of the night. A breeze had come up, causing the curtains to flutter and tap against the glass panes. This must have been the billowing motion I had sensed subconsciously, which my mind had translated into the approach of a fiendish alien power.
So I reasoned to myself, but still it was unsettling . . .
The next morning, following an early breakfast, with the strange events of the previous day and night quickly fading, I set out on foot to go up the hill and down into the valley, exploring the centre of the town; and I came across McCann’s jazz bar haunt less than half a mile from the Seaview. It sat out of the way in a cul-de-sac housing various indifferent enterprises – a charity shop, barbershop, hardware store, chemist’s shop, etc. As I arrived it was being slopped out by a fat gentleman in a waistcoat, apron and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, who went on to sweep up and bin the somewhat more solid debris of last night’s entertainment: some bottle glass and pieces of a glass ashtray, empty cigarette packs and cigarette ends, and the flimsy packaging from various fast foods.
Answering my casual enquiry, this fellow told me the place should now be considered closed for a week to ten days: it was being refurbished. Which put paid to any plan I had entertained about finding and questioning McCann here; for the time being I would have to put the mystery of Janet Anderson and room number seven aside. But then again, now that McCann’s favourite watering-hole had dried up, as it were, perhaps he would stick more closely to home and the bar at the Seaview. I could always test out this theory tonight.
And I did, but of course that was several hours later. And meanwhile shortly after dinner, finding the bar empty, I walked downhill to the promenade and turned east along the coast road.
On rounding the point, there, hidden from sight of the Seaview beyond Jurassic cliffs of Devon’s unique red rock, I found various amusement arcades, cafés, and fish-‘n’-chip shops lining the road below the cliffs; and, on the opposite side towards the sea, a modern theatre and a quarter-mile of public flower gardens bordered (astonishingly) by palm trees that flourished here by virtue of Torbay’s semi-temperate climate. All very pleasant fare for holidaymakers to the so-called English Riviera, making their all too brief annual escapes from often drab Midland and northern cities.
But I myself was now a holidaymaker or tourist of sorts, and for all that I should be enjoying the adventure – these new sights and pleasing surroundings, and the soft, salty wafts off the sea – still there was something on my mind. And as I retraced my steps along the seafront my thoughts returned to the parasol as I had seen it last night up on the high terraces; and finally, curiously for the first time, I found myself wondering how it had accomplished its migration from the derelict hotel’s patio to its new location.
Well, of course I at once recognized at least one perfectly obvious answer to this riddle: for some reason, someone or ones had moved the thing! But as for what reason that might be . . .
It was summer, the nights were warm, and there were plenty of young lovers in the town: I had seen and envied lots of them strolling on the promenade. Local folks would certainly know of the deserted hotel, whose empty grounds must surely make an excellent trysting place; and as for the privacy of the neglected terraces and rampant shrubbery . . . perhaps the shrubbery wasn’t the only thing in rampant mode up there!
I’ll leave that last to your imagination.
But in any case, that seemed the best answer to the riddle: that some enterprising young lover had moved the parasol to its current location in order to invite his lady-love to a night or nights of passion beneath its sheltering canopy.
And now I know what you’re thinking: that I must be a complete and utter idiot, and looking back on it I can’t help thinking that perhaps you’re right . . .
Back at the Seaview while I found the bar open, only a handful of the less dedicated fishermen were enjoying a drink. Most of the others were out on a boat in the bay, while a few more had invested in a show at the theatre on the promenade: the REANIMATED RAT PACK REVIEW! And according to some of the hoardings I had seen during my short walk: YOU’LL ACTUALLY BELIEVE IT’S THEM, DIRECT FROM 1960S LAS VEGAS, ALIVE AND KICKING!
Well “reanimated” or not – dead or alive – I hoped the audience enjoyed the show. But with all the absentees, it did make for a very quiet hotel and bar. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt rather alone.
Shortly after settling myself at the same corner table that McCann and I had shared previously, however, who but that self-same Scottish gentleman should appear and proceed direct to the bar. Intent on buying a drink, McCann hadn’t as yet noticed me but as I caught the bar girl’s eye and signalled her to put his drink on my tab, he turned and saw me. A moment later he joined me, thanked me warmly for his “wee dram”, and without any prompting picked up more or less where our initial conversation had left off.
“So then,” he began, “ye’re lodged in number seven, are ye? And can I take it all’s well with ye? No problems with that wee room? I would have asked ye when last we chanced tae speak, but the dear lady o’ the house sort o’ interrupted our conversation and I didnae wish tae disturb her by havin’ her hear mention o’ that room. Aye, and it seems we have similar sensibilities, you and me, for which I’m glad.”
“Room seven, yes,” I told him. “Which is a very nice room, really! The receptionist, Hannah, appears to think so but she didn’t tell me much about it, didn’t go into details. So Kevin Anderson got drunk and died in a fall from my balcony, did he?” I shook my head wonderingly, and continued: “I suppose there’s no accounting for the way a tragedy like that – the loss of a loved one – will affect someone. And ever since his accident, Kevin’s widow has shunned that room, eh?”
“Hmmm!” McCann pondered, frowning by way of reply. “Shunned it, aye. Well, that’s true as far as it goes. Mahsel’, I rather fancy she’s affeard o’ it! It’s possible she dwells too much on what happened tae Kevin in that room: the part it played in his . . . well, while I’m sorry tae be sayin’ this, in his frequently drunken deliriums . . .”
I stared hard at McCann’s dour face with its grey, serious eyes. “You were party to the way the room seemed to affect him? As if it had some sort of bad or even evil influence on him?”
“But did I no just say so?” McCann replied sharply, raising an eyebrow. And he sipped thoughtfully at his drink before continuing. “Aye, I was privy tae all such. Oh, I worked for them, it’s true, but at the same time I’d become a verra close friend tae both o’ them. And I’m still close tae Janet . . .”
At which point he paused – possibly to consider his loyalty to the Andersons – and I sensed his sudden reticence. I waited, but after several long moments, while I did
n’t want to seem too eager for knowledge, still I felt obliged to press him, even to bribe him.
“Gavin, let me get you another drink—” I signalled the bar girl, indicating our requirements, “—to wet your whistle while you tell me the rest of it.”
“The rest o’ it?” he replied. “Well yes, there is a rest o’ it – for what it’s worth and for all that it’s strange – but I must have ye’r word on it that it’s strictly between the two o’ us! We must have respect . . . not only for the dead but also for the livin’, meanin’ Janet. Kevin Anderson wasnae a madman, just an addict, a slave tae Demon Drink . . .” With which he tossed his own drink back, and without so much as a grimace.
Kevin Anderson a madman? Well it was the first I had heard of that possibility. But I nodded and repeated McCann, saying, “As you wish, between the two of us; you have my word on it.” But at that very moment our drinks arrived – and both of them were the real thing: two small glasses, full to the brim with amber whisky!
As the girl turned to leave I caught her elbow, explaining, “I didn’t want whisky. Whisky for the chef, yes, but I’m drinking Coke – with a slice of lemon!”
“Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. “I make mistake! I thinking you want same for both! No problem, I take it back.”
“No need for that!” said the canny Scot, reaching for both glasses. Much to my shame, however, I beat him to it!
“What?” he said, seeing me take up one of the glasses. “But ye cannae be serious! Not with ye’r problem as ye told it tae me. I’ll no be party tae it. Man, with what happened tae Kevin, with what goes on with any alcoholic, I’d have tae hold mahsel’ at least partly tae blame!”
“One drink,” I told him as the girl moved off. “One and one only. And anyway, surely you can recall my mentioning how I was never a full-blown alcoholic in the first place?”
He nodded. “So ye did, aye. Ah well then, cheers!” And once again he threw back his drink in a single gulp, licked his lips and settled back in his chair. “But no more interruptions, now. Let me get done with it while I’m still in the mood.” And after a moment’s reflection.
“After we moved in here Kevin’s drinkin’ really took off. I think maybe he felt even more insecure. That first year, business was only middlin’; they took in enough tae keep their heads above water, but that’s all. He was hittin’ the stock; she told him tae stop; he began drinkin’ in the town. He’d run a message for the hotel – frequently for me, stuff for mah kitchen – and come back two hours later under the influence. It was verra bad o’ him, or perhaps not. I mean, it was the booze! He was like a man possessed, and what could he do about it? Oh, it had such a grip on him! And yet if ye didnae know him, ye wouldnae ken the state he was in. He kept it hid, drank vodka which is difficult tae smell on a man’s breath, managed tae control his speech and balance both; that is, while yet he retained at least a measure o’ control . . .
“Aye, but then he took tae sneakin’ in, goin’ tae room number seven – which at the time was a stock room – and sleepin’ it off in there. Janet asked me tae keep an eye on him, tae try and wean him off the drink. Hah! Poor woman. She neither understood the insidious power o’ the booze, nor the strength o’ her husband’s addiction.
“Well, I tried. I’d have a drink with him in town, try tae get him out o’ there when I thought he’d had enough, then shake mah head and leave him tae get on with it when he’d shrug me off and order, ‘just one last drink, Gavin my friend’. For that was the problem: it never was the last one. And that’s how it went for three years and more, until a time two summer seasons ago.
“That was when Kevin began tae ramble: his ‘hallucinations’ and what have ye – which probably had their origin not only in the booze but also in the problems at the old hotel up there on the hill. Aye, that’s when the worst o’ it began, with all the trouble up there: the weird deaths and what all.
“And it all came taegether as spring turned tae summer . . .
“First off, a young fellow – fit, full o’ life – was found dead in bed in his balcony room, one o’ them rooms lookin’ down on your room number seven. An autopsy said he’d been smothered, but how when the door was locked from the inside? Accidentally? That didn’t seem right at all! His balcony doors were open, but those balconies up there are too far apart for someone tae jump across from one tae the next. So in the end they had tae settle for a respiratory disorder or some such – maybe a heart attack? Asthma? Hay bleddy fever? None o’ which quite fitted the bill – and they left it at that. The only other thing: he’d had quite a few drinks, and maybe too many, on the night he died. Accordin’ tae the autopsy, however, that hadnae contributed tae what was considered ‘death from natural causes’.
“But a mystery? Damn right! And such a mystery that as I’ve said, I think it may have added tae Kevin’s problem, his drunken hallucinations and delirious raving, for after that he got a lot worse. He was forever in that room; he no longer slept with wee Janet at all but we always knew where tae find him: in room number seven, aye. And if he wasnae sleepin’ he’d be sittin’ on the balcony gazin’ out and up at that place on the hill. As for what he saw up there – what attracted him, other than the mystery o’ that young man’s inexplicable death – well, who can say? But sometimes we’d hear him chunterin’ away tae himsel’, ravin’ on about . . . well of all things, about a nun!”
A nun? That rang a bell, but one that tolled faintly as yet in the back of my mind. An alarm bell, perhaps? But while I was still trying to locate the source of a suddenly sharpened sensation of unease, McCann was continuing with his story.
“Well, the time came when Janet asked him tae see a psychiatrist: a ‘trick cyclist’, as Kevin would have it. He must have seen it as a real threat, though, for it did in fact straighten him up . . . well, for a wee while. But the booze and room number seven – and I think that ghostly place up there – they all had him in their thrall, so that in a matter o’ weeks his addiction had the upper hand again and he’d reverted tae his auld habits.
“But ye ken, the locals can tell ye tales about that crumbling place up there; rumour has it that it’s always had a verra unfortunate, even a bad reputation. And as tae why I bring that up now: it’s because o’ another occurrence no more than a month or so after that young fellow pegged it in his room from no apparent cause other than a severe lack o’ breath. But actually it was far more than just another incident or ‘occurrence’: it was the death o’ another guest!
“Aye, and would ye believe, it was also another tumble from a balcony? Indeed the first such tumble, because it took place some weeks in advance o’ Kevin’s and from a higher balcony. And that’s one o’ the most irritatin’, aggravatin’ things about the whole tragedy – Kevin’s tragedy, that is: the muchness that the local press made o’ it. Ye see, some bleddy journalist ended up theorizin’ that Kevin’s fall was possibly – even probably – a copycat suicide, o’ all unlikely things! What’s more, this same so-called ‘reporter’ must have been doin’ some serious snoopin’, because he also mentioned Kevin’s ‘mania’, his ravin’ and such, which he could only have extracted from one o’ the staff here.
“Well o’ course Janet sacked the entire gang without delay, except mahsel and Hannah. But too late for poor Kevin, who had already achieved the posthumous reputation o’ havin’ been a madman . . .
“Goin’ back a wee bit tae the second death up there on the hill: once again this was a young man on his own, and there may have been drink involved. But tae my way o’ thinkin’, while the booze will put a body tae sleep, it’ll rarely find him staggerin’ about on a balcony in the wee small hours o’ the mornin’!
“Anyway, the experts in the case had their own ideas. Their solution tae this second ‘death by misadventure’ was that gettin’ up tae relieve himsel’, this young man had turned the wrong way and, confused by alcohol and still half asleep, had crashed over the balcony wall.
“Now I’m not sayin’ that’s at all unli
kely, ye understand – but I really don’t recall too much credence bein’ given tae the couple in the room next door, who swore they’d heard him cryin’ out and bangin’ about before performin’ his high dive.
“But anyway that was the end o’ that old place on the hill. What with its history, the rumours and all, and two deaths in a row, the place would have been done for even without the people from the Ministry. Oh aye, the Health and Safety men. They came tae check out the balconies – which oddly enough were found tae be perfectly safe! – but as for the rest o’ the place: a deathtrap, apparently. And a fire risk tae boot. The owners couldnae sell it so they left it and moved on . . .
“And that’s about it; no more tae tell ye. Except maybe one last thing, which I’m a wee bit reluctant tae repeat because it just might tend tae reinforce that crazy-man theory. Anyway -
“Almost the whole hotel, the Seaview in its entirety, would have heard Kevin’s ravin’ the night he died. And his last words -words that he shrieked, apparently in some kind o’ terror – were these: ‘The nun! The nun! Oh Janet – it’s the nun!’ before the sound o’ his skull breakin’ and that last long silence.
“It woke me up in mah room all flooded in full golden moonlight, so that at first I thought he wasnae shoutin’ about some phantom nun at all. No, he could as easily have been howlin’ at the full moon. ‘The moon! The moon! Oh Janet – it’s the moon!’ Except as I’ve said, that might tend tae corroborate that silly lunatic theory. Or is it really so silly after all?
“Huh! Who am I kiddin’ if not mahsel’? And havin’ hinted as much already, I might as well go whole hog and give ye one last tidbit. Aye, for the moon – that bleddy moon – was a full moon on all three o’ those fateful, indeed fatal occasions!
“But there, all done and I’ll say no more, and ye must make what ye will o’ it . . .”
With which, and without so much as a goodnight, McCann got up and left. And a little while later, so did I.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Page 46
