Other People's Bodies

by Amy Cross

  "Fuck," I mutter, reaching over to grab my cigarettes from the table by the bed. "Jesus Christ". After a moment, I stop searching for the cigarette packet as I remember that I stopped smoking six months ago. Sighing, I realize that it was just a muscle memory, a ghost of the old days, and for the first time in ages I find that I'm actually craving a cigarette.

  I wait. Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen, and finally I check my phone and see that it's almost quarter to four, which means I've been sitting in stunned silence for three quarters of an hour. I know I can't keep this up all night, but my heart is still pounding and I'm not ready to go back to sleep yet. Finally, I tell myself that there's only one option, and despite my trepidation, I push the bedsheets aside and slowly get to my feet. The room is much colder than I expected, and as I make my way over to the door I start to wonder whether there might be some kind of power-cut. After a moment, however, I see that there's a faint light showing under the door from the corridor, so I figure my room, tucked far away at the back of the hotel, must simply be a little on the chilly side.

  "Hello?" I call out, immediately feeling a little dumb.

  No reply.

  "I'm trying to sleep," I continue, "so, uh..."

  Nothing.

  "I know karate," I add, which is a lie. "I'm a black belt, so I can defend myself. If you think I'm some kind of weak little woman, you're totally wrong".

  Silence.

  "Okay," I mutter under my breath. "There's nothing out there. There's nothing out there".

  Pulling the door open, I step out into the brightly-lit corridor. Wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some briefs, I figure there's no chance of bumping into anyone. The corridor seems deserted, and even the air feels stale, as if no-one has passed this way for hours. Turning and looking at my door, I see no sign of any impact. I double-check that I've got my key in my pocket, and then I pull the door shut, take a step back, and finally I throw myself gently against the wood, causing a dull thudding sound that's exactly like the noise I heard a little earlier.

  "Elizabeth!" a male voice calls out suddenly, coming from a nearby corridor. "This way! Hurry!"

  Standing stock still, I stare in the direction of the voice. After a moment, I hear the sound of a pair of feet running across the carpet, but soon the whole place falls silent again. Telling myself that there must be a logical explanation, I hurry to the junction and glance along the next corridor, but there's nothing to be seen. I know I didn't imagine the voice, though, and I can't shake the feeling that whoever had called out to Elizabeth, it had been someone whose voice I've heard before. It wasn't Edward Bannister, nor was it Cole the bartender, but it definitely had a ring of familiarity that's already gnawing at the back of my mind. I know that voice.

  "Hello?" I call out.

  Silence.

  "This isn't funny!" I add. "I'm trying to sleep! If you make any more noise, I'll call security, okay? I'll get them down here and they'll haul your ass straight out of here!"

  No reply.

  "Okay," I mutter. "Suit yourself".

  I stand and wait. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for, but I know I can't just go back to bed. There's a part of me that wants to call reception and ask if a night-watchman could be sent down to take a look around, but I know that the day-staff would only end up gossiping about me. The last thing I need is to have people spreading rumors about my sanity, so I figure I'll just have to work this one out alone.

  "Fine," I say, turning to go back to my room. "I'll just -"

  "Elizabeth, are you ready?" the male voice calls out again, and this time I freeze as I realize that the sound is coming from my bedroom. I stare at the door, and although I try to rationalize my fear, I know deep down that the voice came from someone inside that room. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that my mind is just playing tricks on me. After a moment, it occurs to me that I might still be asleep, in which case I could wake up at any moment and find that the whole experience has been nothing more than a fevered dream. I pause, desperately hoping to be delivered from the nightmare, but after a few seconds I realize that everything is real; there's no way I'm dreaming.

  "Hello?" I call out again.

  Silence.

  "Okay," I continue, trying to sound firm and perhaps even a little threatening, "if there's someone in my room, I need you to get the fuck out, okay? I need you to..."

  My voice trails off as I tell myself once again that I'm probably just imagining things. I've spent so long thinking about Elizabeth Bannister, the woman who went missing from the hotel a few years ago, that I must have let the story take control of my dreams. Besides, after my little 'incident' with the disappearing road yesterday, it's pretty clear that I'm emotionally fragile.

  "This is all just... not true," I mutter eventually. "There's no-one here, and I'm definitely not losing my mind. I'm just having a bad night, that's all".

  Determined to face my fears, I walk toward my bedroom door, and finally I step inside and flick the switch on the wall. Seconds later, the light flickers on and I see that there's no-one here. I hadn't really expected to see anyone, but at the same time I'm not ready to write off the voice as a simple night delusion, not quite yet. Stepping into the room, I push the door shut and make doubly sure to slide the secondary lock across. Walking over to the bed, I kneel down and check that there's no-one underneath, and then I check the closet, just to be certain. After giving the window a push to make sure it's locked, I finally find myself standing in the middle of the room, sweating a little and trying to come up with an explanation.

  "Oh well," I say under my breath. "I guess I'm just nuts. Business as usual".

  Stripping out of my t-shirt and briefs, I grab a glass of water from the little sink in the corner. I'm determined to calm down, and I know it's vitally important to nip any lingering paranoia in the bud before it takes root. After all, I've had plenty of experience with paranoid fears in the past, and I'm determined not to go back down that particular avenue. Leaning down to the sink, I splash some water onto my face, and finally I begin to feel that my heart-rate is getting back to normal.

  "It's okay," I say to myself. "It's all okay. There's no-one here".

  Standing up and staring at myself in the mirror, I don't immediately notice that the reflection shows someone standing right behind me. After a fraction of a second, however, I realize that there's was a woman right behind my shoulder. Not just any woman, either. As ice-cold fear grips my chest, I realize that it's the woman from the photo on Edward's desk. It's Elizabeth Bannister, staring straight at me with cold, dead eyes.

  Elizabeth

  Five years ago

  "You look perfect".

  "I don't feel perfect," I say, standing awkwardly over by the dressing table. I'm wearing a brand new dark blue dress with matching heels, and I've never felt more uncomfortable in her life. "My underwear's riding up my butt and my -"

  "You look perfect," Luke says again, patting me on the back as he hurries past. Adjusting his cufflinks, he stops by the door and turns back to me. "You ready to dazzle everyone tonight?"

  I smile politely. I've been dreading my first formal engagement as part of the Bannister family, and now - two weeks after the wedding - it's finally arrived. There are one hundred and fifty local dignitaries and big-wigs in the bar downstairs, and I'm expected to spend the entire evening being cute and lovely and delightful with them. Unfortunately, I'm not very good at being cute, lovely or delightful. On top of that, I'm very much aware that there's been a lot of talk about my arrival at the Heights, and Luke has reminded me more than once that many of the guests have come tonight specifically to meet me. To say that I'm feeling the pressure would be an understatement; in truth, I feel as if I might be crushed at any moment by the weight of everyone's expectations.

  "You'll be fine," Luke says, as if perhaps - finally - he's begun to sense my discomfort. "These people are..." He pauses as he tries to find the right word. "They're local, Elizabeth. Very local. They'll be da
zzled as soon as you walk through the door, okay? Come on, the evening's gonna be perfect".

  There's that word again. Perfect. Luke always wants everything to be perfect, but I feel far from perfect. As I grab my purse and walk over to follow Luke out of the room, I feel as if my every imperfection is showing. My husband's immaculate appearance makes things even worse: dressed in a form-fitting, tailor-made suit, and with the athletic good looks of a guy who's never had to struggle for anything, Luke has a kind of care-free demeanor that I alternately resent and admire. I can't decide whether I want to break through his wall of smiles, or become more like him. Ultimately, I figure either approach would be okay. Most importantly, I want him to stop telling me she I'm perfect. In my experience, perfect things always ended up broken. Only imperfect things ever survive.

  "When we walk through the main door," Luke continues as we walk along the corridor, "everyone's gonna turn and stare at you. I'm sorry, but it's just what's gonna happen. It'll be like something out of an old movie, but just go with it. These people are so old-fashioned, it's almost a disability".

  "Great," Elizabeth mutters.

  "Don't worry, though. They won't swarm over to you. They'll all wait to be introduced, and that's basically what we're gonna do all evening. I'll take you around the room, introducing you one by one to all the local hoi polloi, and you'll more or less have the same conversation over and over again. It'll be boring, but you'll get through it. No-one's gonna ask you anything very deep, and you don't need to remember any names or anything like that. Just smile, be polite, say something about the weather and move on. Let the people wash over you. It's not like you'll meet most of them ever again. Just try to imagine what Princess Diana or Kate Middleton would do, and do that".

  "Well," I say under my breath, "that's not a soul-crushing comparison".

  "Huh?"

  "There'll be wine, right?" I ask, forcing myself to smile.

  "Yeah, but you can't drink too much. People will notice that kind of thing".

  "Of course they will," I say with a sigh.

  "You're under the microscope," he continues. "I warned you when we first met. My family are well-known around here. People stare. They scrutinize. If they see a crack, they'll start picking. But don't worry. You'll be perfect".

  "Huh," I say, tensing at the mere mention of that word.

  A bell rings and the elevator doors slide open.

  "You're on show tonight," Luke says, leading me into the chamber and hitting the button for the lobby. "I know that's totally old-fashioned, but I guess I should say it like it is. These people are stuck halfway between modernity and antiquity. You can see it in their eyes. They're dead inside, but they keep on going. They'll want to get a good look at you from every angle, but don't worry. You look -"

  "I know," I say, forcing a smile as the elevator doors slide shut. "Perfect".

  Laura

  Today

  "Where's Edward?" I ask as I struggle to keep the huge stack of papers together. It's just after 8am, and the reception area is buzzing with hotel guests who are heading down to the breakfast room. I've arrived for work a little early, determined to squeeze a full day of paperwork into just a few hours so that I can spend the afternoon working more productively. So far, however, things aren't quite going according to plan.

  Sitting at her desk, the receptionist shrugs.

  "I need to find Edward," I continue. "He's got to be somewhere".

  "In his office?" she replies, not even bothering to look up from her computer.

  "Uh, no, believe it or not, I already tried there," I say, trying to hide my annoyance. Immediately realizing that my tone is a little combative, I pause for a moment and regather my composure. "I'm sorry," I continue, trying to reset myself mentally, "I mean, I just tried his office and there was no sign of him. The door was locked. Is there anywhere else he might be?"

  The receptionist shakes her head.

  "He asked me to be in his office at eight on the dot," I continue. "That's the last thing he said to me yesterday evening. He told me not to be late, and he said we'd go over some of the figures".

  "And?"

  "And... I don't know where he is. I can't meet him if I can't find him, can I? Do you see why I might have a problem?"

  "Maybe he's busy".

  "Did he leave a message for me?"

  "No".

  "Did he say anything to you at all?"

  "No".

  "Okay, so do you have his cellphone number?"

  "No".

  "I need to speak to him," I continue, "I need his -"

  "Edward's not coming in today," says Rachel, arriving suddenly at the desk.

  "What do you mean, he's not -" Before I can finish the sentence, I notice a huge bruise on the right side of Rachel's face. Running from her temple down to her thick, swollen right eye, the injury is a kind of dark black and purple color, with hints of yellow and pink in the center. The eye itself is puffy and red, having clearly been subjected to some kind of heavy blow, and one side of her lower lip was swollen. It looks as if she's been in a car accident, or a boxing match.

  "You're staring at me," Rachel says eventually. "How thoughtful of you".

  "What the hell happened?" I ask.

  "I fell," she mutters tersely, grabbing the guest-book and flicking through the pages. She's clearly uncomfortable talking about her injury.

  "You fell?"

  "Yes. A simple fall. Gravity sucks, doesn't it?"

  I continue to stare at her, barely able to comprehend the magnitude of the damage to her face. It's hard to believe that a simple fall could explain such a serious injury, and I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that immediately makes me think that something else has happened. The last thing I want to do is jump to conclusions, but there's something about Rachel's cool, icy demeanor that makes her worry that she's the kind of woman who'd try to just soldier on, no matter what - or who - had hurt her.

  "You're staring at me again," Rachel continues after a moment, still looking at the guest-book. "Maybe you should stop".

  "Have you seen a doctor?" I ask.

  "I took some pain-killers".

  "So you haven't seen a doctor?"

  "I'm fine. There's no damage. It's just superficial".

  "Yeah, but -"

  "Fortunately," Rachel continues, still not making eye contact, "it's none of your business, so there's no reason for my accident to become a topic of your conversation. Equally fortunately, I don't care what you think, so we might as well just move on to the business of the day". Finally, she glances over at me, fixing me with a stare that dares me to keep asking questions. "Edward's not coming in today," she says after a moment, her voice sounding softer and calmer, "which I guess means you're in charge. I mean, that's why he hired you, right? To fill in for him when he's not around? To be his back-up?"

  "Sure, but -"

  "Edward values people who have initiative," she adds sourly. "People who know what needs doing, rather than people who sit around waiting to be told what to do". She pauses for a moment. "Unless you're under the impression that the whole hotel is running so smoothly that there's nothing for you to do at all?"

  "Of course not," I reply. "I'll just go to Edward's office and get started on some of the -"

  "No," Rachel says firmly. "He doesn't like other people using his office. It's for his use and his use only. You'll have to use the admin office behind the stairwell. It should be more than big enough for your needs. There's a computer and a phone, but you'll have to keep the door open, otherwise it gets too hot".

  I stare at her for a moment, and slowly it dawns on me that I'm in the middle of a good old-fashioned power struggle. "No," I say eventually, "I think I'll use Edward's office. I need to go over some of the old files, and he hasn't had them digitized yet, so I need to get access to -"

  "No," Rachel replies with a sigh, "Edward -"

  "Edward doesn't like other people using his office," I reply quickly, "yes, I know. You alread
y said that, but since I'm in charge today, I think I'll be using it anyway. If he doesn't like the fact, he can tell me personally and then I'll know to keep out. I'm afraid there are some things I need in there, and I can't be expected to stay out simply because of something a secretary tells me, can I?" I pause, waiting for a reply. Although I know I'm being a little bitchy, I also know that I no choice. "That's what you are, right?" I continue after a moment. "A secretary?"

  "Receptionist," Rachel says darkly, clearly pissed off.

  "Same thing," I reply, turning to the other receptionist. "Give me the spare key to Mr. Bannister's office, please".

  The receptionist stares uncertainly at her, and then glances over at Rachel.

  "Give me the key to Mr. Bannister's office," I say again, this time a little more forcefully. "Please". I wait for a reply, but slowly it becomes apparent that the receptionist is more interested in seeing what Rachel has to say. I know this is a pivotal moment in terms of establishing my position in the food chain, and I can't afford to let Rachel be seen as my superior. "I want the key to Mr. Bannister's office," I say yet again, "and I want it now. If you don't give it to me -"

  "Mr. Bannister has the only key," the receptionist says suddenly, turning to me with a smile. "I'm afraid he doesn't leave a spare anywhere".

  "There has to be a spare," I reply, "even if it's just for security reasons, there -"

  "There are two rooms in this hotel that don't have a spare key," Rachel says, interrupting her. "Edward's is one of them".

  "And the other?" I ask.

  She pauses. "What do you think?"