Hunters & Collectors

by M. Suddain

  Additionally, did not mean to impugn Mr Silksmith. Meant ‘imperfections’ such as any work contains them. Silksmith widely regarded as finest tailor within his bracket, and I agree. His hand could stitch ciphers on the wings of a moth. Doubt given twice the time he could improve a stitch. Perhaps on first button of right cuff of my travelling jacket, but let’s not linger on it.

  I’m almost there. Docking cycle has started. Am so excited can hardly describe. Am filled with [illegible material]. I wish you could experience this. But you’re far away, and in a different time. I’ll do my best to convey the experience you can’t have. That’s the critic’s job. Our job is to see things as they are. The Tomahawk has returned to life. He is stronger than ever. Good builds upon good, cell by cell. That’s how the future is made. We can’t see it at all, even as we sail towards it. Only darkness. But absence is greater than fulfilment. Was what I expected. To a critic it’s expected for a thing to be nothing like he expected. Our job: to see things as they are. Like a good detective. Seeking truth. Investigating witnesses. Unravelling stories. Unpicking real from the fake. Trusting only our senses and our delicately tuned instinct. And never being surprised when a thing is absolutely nothing like any other person claims it is.

  There’s no one here, Colette.

  No guests, no staff, no movement.

  No one in the docking bay to take us up.

  The place is utterly dead.

  NOTES ON THE LOBBY OF HOTEL GRAND SKIES: THE EMPYREAN

  Later, in our suite. Forcing pen to move. Drink helps.

  There was no one to meet us. Our ferry slid back into the dark and vanished. ‘Well, it’s late,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the place is sleeping.’ Beast said something. G mumbled something else. Our voices rumbled through the bulbous chambers of the Terminal Annexe. A series of almond-shaped instars linked by curving staircases and moving walkways. Vast. No corners. Like the architecture of an alien culture. There are private and semi-private berths, so guests can arrive as visibly or invisibly as they wish. Except no one famous, or otherwise, was here to witness our arrival. I expected people moving back and forth. Bag boys calling famous names. We stood in a vast anonymous space, staring at a gold-letter sign:

  ‘The Guest Should At All Times Honour the Establishment, and the Illusions it Contains.’

  Strange. We rang a bell which made no sound. Then decided to make our own way up. No point trying to lug our gear. Gladys took her silver case. Guest elevator out of order. We found the monumental marble staircase leading up into the lobby. Ages seemed to pass. Our footsteps crashed against the silence.

  Lobby also empty. Place quiet as a temple. Desks unmanned. Luggage heaped on abandoned trolleys. Flowers showing wrinkles of a day in vase. We came warily into an oval palace of marble crowned with a glass-panelled dome etched with a map of the stars and the cities of the Cloud. It is even greater than it was in my dreams. The place isn’t dazzlingly lit like Western lobbies. The East is not afraid of shadows. ‘For in dark corners live contemplation and mystery.’ The lobby is lit by four massive chandeliers which look like they were hauled up from the bottom of the sea. Difficult to even make out what’s happening on the other side. At the far end another massive, bone-white staircase rises to a mezzanine.

  One lamp was lit at a reception desk a hundred yards or more away, and we could see a shadow working there. So we made our way round, against the clock. It’s a trip of almost half a mile. The place is vast. On the corners of the elevator riser, marble cherubs bask with winged lions formed from seas of molten brass. The angels crook their necks at impossible angles to gaze upward to the dome. I want to get down every detail: the recesses behind each reception desk … the ivory nooks holding carved mythical figures: serpents, satyrs, gargoyles and sea beasts … things I don’t recognise…. monsters awash in undersea light … a kind of faun … a kind of grinning satyr … a kind of horse with the body of a man … a skeleton rising over the hunched figure of a saint – in near-darkness the forms look soft and lovely … We’d almost reached the desk when our way was blocked by a puddle. A sign: ‘HAZARD. KEEP CAUTION.’ Supposed a pipe had burst above, kept guests and staff away. This is why the place was deserted. Mystery solved. We were so close. I could see the very tall man behind the reception desk. ‘Good evening!’ I called. The man looked up slowly. He nodded, then returned to his ledger. Strange.

  ‘Beast, go back round and see the man.’ Daniel was staring slack-jawed at the puddle while gently stroking the left side of his neck with the fingers of his right hand. Now he wandered over to gaze down at his own handsome reflection.

  ‘Gladys?’

  ‘We should just go.’

  ‘Go? Unthinkable. I’ll head round myself.’

  She sighed upwards.

  I was breathless by the time I got there. Breathless from the miles I’d walked, but also from the scope and silence of this place. In the centre of the space is a square marble elevator riser with liver-red carpet. The cruciform elevator shaft pierces the dome through its apex, travels all the way up to the famous glass-domed restaurant at the top. I passed the second great staircase which takes you to the mezzanine. I was surprised to see, as I approached the counter – now on the far side of the spill – a guest. She sat alone on the green leather banquette seating which hems the elevator riser. The Countess Hemples. I’d met her once. She didn’t answer when I greeted her. Was in a state. Looked worse than when her husband died. She didn’t even look at me, and by then I’d done almost a full lap. Could see my accomplices – my agent and my bodyguard – where I left them. I saw the very tall man behind the desk. He slowly turned his gaunt face to me and said:

  ‘Good evening, sir. Checking out?’

  ‘Come again?’ I took the few last steps towards him. ‘Checking in. The name is Tamberlain. I’m expected.’ Breathless.

  This giant stared for so long I thought he might have suffered a sudden embolism. ‘You wish to check in?’

  ‘Correct. Tamberlain. Expected, I’m certain. I’m on your list.’ I took another small step forward and gestured helpfully towards the register. He let his sad eyes fall upon the book. They were smeared with rings of black. He wore a spotless waistcoat, a brass name-badge stamped: ‘Espantapájaros: Head Clerk’.

  ‘I want to check in immediately. You can check us in now? I’m happy to wait if you’re still dealing with the Countess.’ I gestured towards the banquettes where the sad-looking woman, still dressed for dinner, stared blankly at the ceiling. In crueller circles they call her the Countless Hemples, because her husband died just weeks after they married. Dove from a high-board with a portable fan. The cable got tangled and he hung himself. Espantapájaros followed my gesture slowly with his eyes; the signal seemed to reach his brain. ‘Ah. The Countess is not in a hurry. Of course I can deal with you. And you are …?’

  ‘… Tamberlain. Party of three. I am here to check in. Had to take the long way round.’

  ‘Sir?’ Espantapájaros looked up from his register. Everything he did was arboreally languid. He was like a mass of seaweed. ‘The long way round. Had to come around the lobby so I wouldn’t ruin my new shoes.’ I did the ‘walky-walky’ gesture with my fingers across the marble counter. Nothing. Espantapájaros stood tall/correct, a pen balanced on his improbably long and ink-stained fingers. Not a tremble from that steel-tipped rod of squid excreta. I gave my associates a nod, and then one – I’m not sure why – to the Countess. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. They say when the fan hit the water the surge knocked out the entire hotel. So the Countess, who was resting in her room, would have been plunged into darkness at the very moment of her husband’s death.

  ‘Will you excuse me for one small minute, sir?’

  I took a step back. ‘Of course. Take all the time you need. But not too much. My companions and I are tired and want our comforts.’ I winked at him for some reason. He gave me a stare which sent a metallic shiver through my teeth. Then he nodded and stepped away through one of the burgu
ndy curtains behind the desks. I saw a flash of pure darkness. My bodyguard and my agent were squinting at me. Walked quickly to the edge of the puddle. ‘What is this stuff anyway? Oil?’ My friends just stared at me. ‘They don’t know who I am. They think I want to check out. Strange, no?’

  Gladys raised one brow, and Beast folded his heavy arms. ‘Boss …’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘This seems …’

  He failed to complete his thought. Just exhaled loudly, sent ripples across the black lake at his feet. I got distracted by something in the distance. (The words keep flowing from my pen, but they can’t encompass the strangeness. Beast is staring at the empty wall of our suite now as I write this. He hasn’t said a word since we left the lobby. Gladys is cleaning her gear.) After time adjusting to the low light, the lobby had begun to emerge shyly from the shadows. The visual consequences started quietly to assert themselves. It was as if an unkind dawn was breaking.

  ‘I think there’s been some kind of … error,’ said Gladys. Spoke uncharacteristically calmly to me – the way one might to a man at a height holding a portable fan and a picture of a pregnant woman. She’d moved closer to the edge so we could speak more quietly. Dark fluid was inching towards her green shoes. She didn’t notice. On purpose, I think – to make me crazy. She knows. ‘What I think, Jonathan, is that we should leave.’ Leave? I gaped around and groped for meaning. Felt oddly detached. Felt a cool current on my skin. Needed an Exocet. Or in this case maybe a Flowlax.6 But my pharmacopoeia was in my case. Still is. And who knows where my case is.

  ‘And it’s just the one of you to check in, sir?’ Espantapájaros’s voice came oozing over my shoulder.

  ‘No, it’s …’ turning, catching a movement in the corner of my eye. ‘There are three of us now.’ I walked quickly back to the desk. ‘Two persons, at least, and a kind of monster. Do you know you have a spill?’

  ‘A spill, sir?’ He let his creamy eyes drift past the marble dais, past the statues of the tiny angels basking with well-endowed lions in the heavenly glow of the ancient chandeliers, before finally letting them discover the lake.

  ‘Probably a busted pipe?’ I offered.

  ‘Ah, yes, the spill. It is very embarrassing. But of course, we are aware. There is the sign.’ He returned his gaze to me, leaving a long, bony finger pointing at the sign, then let his eyes slowly widen.

  ‘I guess. It seems a small sign for such a big spill. Why don’t you put a bucket under it?’

  Finger curling slowly back to join the others. ‘Under the sign, sir?’

  ‘No, under the spill.’

  ‘That’s an excellent suggestion, sir. But there’s no need to concern yourself with house business. We are repairing as we speak. Spring Rounds start tomorrow. Do not give it another thought, Mr …’ He looked back to his register.

  ‘… Tam-ber-lain.’

  ‘Tam-ber-lain!’ he sang as he picked up a fountain pen again and let it figure-eight above the surface of the register.

  ‘I’m expected. I’m here by invitation. I was in a coma. Your good doctor came to me in a dream. Said I was on the List. It’s all … legit.’ The tip of Espantapájaros’s pen froze. ‘Anyway, as I said, I have an invitation, you see?’ I took the worn square of card from my breast pocket and handed it to him. He received it delicately, seemed to stab it lightly with his pen as he examined it. ‘Ah! Tamberlain! Yes, we were to expect you.’ His whole demeanour changed. He seemed to catch up with himself and surge ahead, like an engine running a loose belt. ‘Tamberlain, party of one.’

  ‘Of three!’

  His smile diminished.

  ‘Of three?’

  ‘We covered this. Ms Green and Mr Woodbine. My staff. If I’m to do my job I need my bodyguard, and my agent. One stops me from getting mugged, and the other is my bodyguard.’ No smile. ‘I trust something can be arranged.’

  He strained his colourless lips against his yellowed teeth. ‘I’m afraid we are rather tight at the moment, Mr Tamberlain. It’s Harvest, you know. High season.’ I glanced around the space again, and even the act of glancing seemed to produce an echo. ‘And you’ve arrived with us a whole week early, you see?’

  ‘Early?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He pointed to the gang of numbers on the card, as if they conspired to confirm his argument.

  ‘So what are you saying, that you can’t honour my reservation?’

  ‘No, sir! We are legendarily accommodating. It’s just that the suite we had reserved for you is not ready. We do have a smaller three-roomer free. It is a very fine suite. The Meridian Baby.’ And then he smiled again, slowly.

  ‘Will you excuse me a minute, Espantapájaros?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  I took my leave and this time chose to go all the way back around the lobby, against the clock, past the Countess, past the Grand Staircase, the regiment of other-worldly creatures in their scalloped alcoves, the statues of old Eastern martyrs. I walked slowly, thinking. My shoes were loud. Several hundred snare-taps in the hard, dim space. I needed time to work things through.

  ‘Is it possible,’ I said as I reached my friends, and took a glance over my shoulder, ‘that I am, in fact, still in a coma?’

  My staff gazed at me.

  ‘It’s improbable,’ said Beast. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘But if I was back in Coma you’d be unlikely to admit it.’

  ‘That’s likely.’

  ‘OK. It appears we’re early, but they have a three-roomer. The Meridian Baby.’

  Gladys stood rigid. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘I know, it’s outrageous. I think I might be able to push them to find us three adjoining suites. They hardly seem full.’

  Gladys looked at me with a certain stillness. She angled her right foot so that it barely touched the spill. ‘You are not seriously considering spending a night here. In this place.’

  ‘I was considering spending several,’ I said. They would be among the best nights of my short life, I was sure.

  Gladys said nothing. Remained very still.

  ‘Noted!’

  I set off again, with the clock, on the long journey to the desk. Leaving now. The very idea of it. ‘The very idea of it!’ My voice boomed in the space. ‘It’ll take more than a severed pipe to get me back on that ferry, Gladys!’ The ferry which had already sailed an hour ago. Now I noticed new details. How the lions on each corner of the raised elevator plinth had been cast with such fidelity you could make out tiny veins on the surface of their testicles. How the Grand Staircase was daubed with dark patches near the top. How the paint on the statues of old Eastern martyrs was so glossy they looked as if they’d been freshly flayed that morning. A porter with a mop and bucket had appeared. He was running his mop through the sticky pool on the floor near my associates, leaving long, sweeping caligraphs, but doing little to soak up the mess. One boy and his mop couldn’t possibly deal with that much fluid. He had some kind of steel instrument shoved through his belt. Strange.

  ‘Mr Tamberlain?’

  ‘Who?’

  I had arrived back at the desk.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I need to move things forward. I have really a lot on my plate at present.’ Pronounced it ‘Pah-late.’

  ‘Of course, Espantapájaros. You mean the Countess?’

  ‘Among many other things.’

  I turned to look at Countess Hemples, still waiting patiently on the banquettes by the elevators, waiting to go up. She was gazing up at one of the iron seaweed chandeliers. Her head, I could see now in the brightening atmosphere, sat on a crooked angle, and a thin trail of blood ran from her right nostril, down her cheek, over her candy-pink earlobe, down her lumpen, purple neck to soak into the scalloped hem of her dress. I stood looking at this picture for a long time. I would have to guess, if pushed, that it happened quickly. A single blow to the right side of her neck with a heavy instrument.

  ‘Mr Espantapájaros?’

  ‘Mr Tamberlain?’


  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you deal with the Countess personally?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I mean, did you personally … “see” … to the Countess?’ I had not turned back to face the man. For some reason I thought the expression on his face might bring more consequences than the expression on the Countess’s.

  ‘No, Mr Tamberlain. One of our other clerks has been helping her check out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I looked at the narrow river between me and my companions. Blood. Not the Countess’s. Too much of it. How many countesses does it take to make a lake like that? The sound of the mop slipping rhythmically through the sticky red slick was excruciating.

  ‘The spill will be cleaned up momentarily, sir. We are terribly embarrassed. We are mortified.’ I turned to him. He looked into my eyes. An insect ran down my spine and away. I turned away again. Another body lay spread at the bottom of the Grand Staircase. Had he been there the whole time? I heard myself say, ‘And who’s that lying over there?’ I heard Espantapájaros say, ‘I’m not entirely sure, sir. Shall I look into it for you?’

  ‘No, no, please don’t go to any trouble. Will you excuse me again one moment?’

  ‘Of course, take all the time you need.’ I took the short route and spoke to my protector across the black lake. ‘I will pay you double what we agreed, plus a bonus, if you don’t say another word.’

  ‘Why?’ Her jaw was rigid. I am tall, she is tiny. She seemed to tower over me.

  Why? Because this is the culmination of my life’s work. Because I went through hell to get here. Because they are the finest establishment in the Cloud. Because we’ve seen fewer bodies here than I did on the ride to the docks. Because I care about this night more than I care about my life. But I didn’t say any of that to her. I said, ‘If you don’t say another word, if you let me sign in, and if you follow me up to our suite, and say nothing, I will pay you double.’

  (Thinking back on these words now, Colette, I can hardly believe it was me who said them.)