by M. Suddain
… There were few defensive wounds. It seems most of the attacks were so quick and precise the victims didn’t even have time to throw up their hands. The patent baron Kiko Biggs – dressed only in boxer briefs and an undershirt – had a clean hole through his dorsal left forearm, close to the point of the elbow, and another hole – presumably from the same instrument – through his right eye.
… Ms Bovinera’s brown calfskin belt – Demanche, I believe, limited edition – was cinched around her throat with the buckle. She seemed to have been dragged some distance down the hall. Her hands, stiff with cadaveric spasms, still clutched the ligature.
… Synthetic gem impresario Chub Parker had his limbs disarticulated. It looked as if he’d been pulled apart by horses.
The body of a young woman in a silver evening dress sat slumped against the door of room 121. She looked in order, except that her abdomen had been neatly opened, the viscera had been hauled out through a nine-inch incision, and it streamed away from her, a dazzling pink-and-greenish helix. Her eyes were wide and empty in her human head. A young porter was busy rolling up the unspooled viscera like it was an electrical cable, but he didn’t take his eyes of Gladys. Everyone seemed to have eyes for Gladys Green. Even the corpses. The ones which still had eyes.
‘We should go back. Yep.’
‘Just be calm, Beast.
Keep it together. Good morning, how are you today?’
‘I’m fine, sir, thank you for asking.’
A maid was standing on a chair to reach a bed-sheet banner which had been pinned to the wall with fire axes. ‘SAVE YUR PREERS. WAIST YUR SCREEMS.’ She paused to track us, wide-eyed, as we passed. I noticed Beast was now walking sideways, like a crab, while peering through his fingers. The silver lining was that this stroll would probably suppress his appetite again.
‘OK, Beast?’
‘Don’t talk to me.’
Gladys was on edge, too, for obvious reasons. ‘Stick close and stay out of my firing line.’
‘Right. OK. Fine.’ She always refuses to walk ahead of me, because apparently she’s ‘no fucking lady’. Which – no shit? So she’ll walk a step or so behind. And she’ll get mad when I walk too slowly.
‘Would you just … we need to do this quickly.’
‘This will be quick.’
‘You seriously want to make a complaint?’
‘Oh, most definitely. This won’t abide.’ As I said, I have trouble reversing any course of action. My sense of purpose is its own multiplier.
‘Did you see what those fuckers did to the “Thoughts and Suggestions” box?’
I had. It appeared to have been filled with tongues.
‘This is all for show, Gladys. They’re just trying to intimidate us. They don’t mean to hurt us. Why would they bring us all the way out here to hurt us?’
‘For sport?’
‘Gladys, darling, light of my life. There are principles higher than mere survival. It’s not enough to live this life; there must be a quality to living. There are minimum standards. If a man can’t get an upgrade when almost every other guest in the entire hotel has been brutally murdered, then something is wrong.’
I didn’t want to look as we passed the junction where the small girl had stood. But I did.
The door to the room was open. I had to stop. I was compelled to look in through the open door. My chest tightened, a leather belt across it.
… I wish you health and happiness till Harvest comes again.
A maid stood in front of the room’s tall mirror, singing a little harvest song as she took clothes from a guest’s case, held them secretly, pressing the pretty garments against her young body with her free hand and swaying left and right to catch the pieces of light. But her voice was out of sync with the movement of her lips. Meanwhile, swinging slowly from a lampshade above an overturned chair, and in time with the pattern of her music, was another woman: older, dressed in nothing but a slip of silk. The steady motion of the fitting she hung from was turning her second by second towards me, as slow and rhythmic as a clock, and her arms were rigid, as if she was dancing slowly with some invisible partner. The small girl sat on the bed, reading. She said, without looking up: ‘She was already dead. She did it to herself.’ The maid gave a short gasp when she realised I was watching and began hurriedly to stuff the items back in the suitcase.
‘I was just cleaning the room, sir.’
‘No she wasn’t,’ said the girl. And now she looked up. ‘He’s going to try to mark you. The shark.’
‘The fuck are you doing?’
Gladys’s bark brought me back.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, idiot.’
I remember, as we hurried away, coming awake to the fact that a fitting designed to take the weight of a full-grown person must have been an intentional feature. We went along towards the elevators, but rather than get in that car with Sam again we went to the mezzanine where the grand marble stairs led down to the lobby. Gladys was right about one thing: the virtual hospitality system here, despite its unfathomable power, seems somewhat … “glitchy”. In their quest to replicate life in full fidelity they’ve overreached. There was the maid’s poorly synced singing. Sometimes you’ll catch a porter standing frozen in place, and he’ll suddenly come to life as you approach. Scares the shit out of you. Sometimes you’ll see them quiver slightly as they move between two states. Sometimes they’ll repeat the thing they just said, or you’ll walk past one and he’ll say, ‘It was very nice talking to you, madam.’ We saw a boy mopping a section of the Grand Staircase, and as I approached I noticed he was floating an inch or two above the marble.
The staff offices are crammed onto the mezzanine. Looking down into the lobby we could see the Countess still in her seat by the elevator dais. Espantapájaros was at his desk. And Franz was where we’d left him. To our left on the mezzanine was a door marked ‘REGISTRAR’. The door was open; we heard typing. The girl who’d brought in my contract yesterday and nearly thrown up on me was hammering away on an industrial type-machine. She used two fingers. Not hers. The sign on her desk said: ‘Mavis Zhivast: Registrar’. She was absorbed in her work, but when she heard my knock she stood, looked startled, then pleased, then mortified. ‘Mr Tamberlain, I … your head!’
‘My what? Oh, yes. I fell out of bed.’
‘But … but your head!’
‘So you said. It’s nothing.’ I stepped in through the door.
‘No, it’s something. It’s very, very much something.’ The poor girl’s eyes were filling with tears. ‘I’ll speak to someone.’ She lifted her telephones with trembling hands. Paused. Took in a deep breath. Put her crooked finger near her nose.
‘There’s really no need.’
She raised the finger towards me as she angled her head away, took another moment. Then, composed, she said very quietly to her desk: ‘There most certainly is a need, Mr Tamberlain. You have been hurt. We will need to unpack this. We will need to make this right. We will fetch ice. And we will have that bed destroyed.’
She turned her head slowly to look at me.
‘… Really, I’m fine.’ I went over and took the seat near her desk. ‘Although a strong drink might help.’
She looked at the large clock on the wall. ‘It’s 8 a.m.’
‘In which place?’
She sat down, blushing deep red. She put on the heavy-looking headset. ‘Sabrinka, it’s Mae-Mae from Registrations. Mr Tamberlain has … well, he has bumped his head.’ A tinny, muffled shriek audible even through the phones. ‘… I know … No … No … No, I don’t believe he needs emergency treatment. Some ice will do. And he has requested an alcoholic beverage. I think, under the circumstances, a medicinal drink would be appropriate … No, I have not checked his dilation.’ Once she concluded her call she removed her headset, said very calmly: ‘Ms Solonov is dispatching ice as I speak. When people hear about this …’ She put the tips of the trembling fingers of both hands to her forehead and
shook her small head exactly seven times. Then she picked up her two fingers and went back to typing. The fingers had been removed from the hands they belonged to, spiked upon a pair of silver cocktail sticks. They sparkled as they moved, the diamond rings they wore left trails on my eyes. Her strawberry hair glittered wildly as she typed. ‘This is slow work,’ she said. ‘It takes forever.’
‘I understand. I too am a two-finger typist.’
She looked up at the far wall, trance-eyed. Then angled her head towards me, her face rewrote itself into a sinister grin. ‘I think we’ll get on well, Mr Tamberlain.’
‘Anything is possible.’
She smiled to herself as she went back to typing. ‘I was just running up your records. She put her fingers aside, tore the yellow sheet from the type-machine and waved it, smiling brightly. She is such a happy creature I imagine she has rainbow fluid pumping through her veins. Beast went to lean on one of the large file cabinets. He wouldn’t want to get near those fingers. Has a thing about varnished nails. Gladys stayed near the door. I tracked her gaze to a stack of books and pony journals on the edge of Zhivast’s desk. The spine of Gladys’s cloth-cover diary stood out in the stack, a vivid violet smear. This had the potential to turn ugly.
‘And what goes into this file of ours?’
‘Oh, everything. Dietary requirements, allergies, scars and markings.’ She picked up the first typed sheet and read oratorically from it. ‘“Jonathan Salvador Tamberlain. Male. Thirty-four years. Six foot and seven inches. Hair: dry ebony. Eyes: wet hazel. Skin: ICS swatch 1937: Sundown Sands. Known marks and scarrings –”’
‘He’s six foot and six,’ said Gladys as she leaned her slender form against the door frame.
Zhivast finally noticed her. The smile left her face. ‘You’re the girl who killed Franz.’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, I think there are two sides to … things.’ The girl ignored me, stared at Gladys for a while longer, as if recording every detail. Then shrugged. ‘Well, there are always two sides, yes. And some would not be sad about Franz.’ She resumed typing. ‘He took liberties.’ By now most of the varnish had been chipped off the nails, and the clacking noise – syncopating with the ticking of the large clock on the wall – was beginning to gnaw at my skull.
‘We won’t keep you long anyway. We really just came in to see about a change of rooms.’
The girl stopped abruptly, looked up at me with wide blue eyes. The fingers quivered. ‘You’re unhappy. Oh gods. You’re here to complain.’ Now the light from her face had dimmed, her voice had become soft and husky, and her blue eyes had begun to liquefy in the way that sends a jolt of pure electrical panic through any man.
‘Well, now, I wasn’t saying we’re unhappy. Let’s not –’
‘You’ve only been here a night and you’re unhappy. We’ve made you unhappy.’
‘You haven’t made me unhappy, honestly, let’s just … Here, a tissue.’ I reached to the dispenser on her desk and pulled a slip of white paper. She took it.
‘I said we’d destroy the bed that hurt you.’
‘I know, I know you did. You’re very kind.’
‘We’ll burn it. You can watch.’
‘Mae-Mae. Can I call you Mae-Mae? It’s all a misunderstanding, truly. I didn’t come here to complain. Just to get some ice for my bump. Don’t think anything of it. It’s not the bed’s fault. I’m a clumsy man. Aren’t I a clumsy man, Beast?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Put “clumsy man” in my file.’ The girl looked down at the sheet of paper with my vital statistics on it, then her face caught fire again. ‘Why don’t you just concentrate on typing up my records and I’ll speak to the concierge about our needs?’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the tissue as she read from the sheet of yellow paper. ‘“Star sign: Aerolith. Allergies: anthea nuts. Yaks’ fur. Some kinds of sparkling wines.”’
‘Good, that’s the important job. That I’m not exposed to any yaks.’
The girl smiled again, and it lit up the room like an atomic blast. She nodded quickly as she dabbed her eyes and said, ‘No yaks.’
‘Definitely no yaks,’ I repeated.
‘Anyway, he’s thirty-five,’ said Gladys then, for no fucking reason whatsoever except to make things worse. ‘It’s his birthday today.’
‘His … his … his … his … his … his …’
‘Birth-day!’
‘For the love of gods, Gladys.’
‘His birth-day!’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘And where is our guest of honour? In the spa? The aviary? Petting a miniature horse at our miniature amusement park? No! The Tomahawk is celebrating with a gossip-session in the registrar’s office.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Shabazzniov.’ The registrar stood smartly, her small fist tightened on the tissue in her hand. ‘We weren’t gossiping, honest.’
‘Yes, we just popped in for a swift visit, Shabazzniov.’
‘Of course. Though if you fancied a “swift” visit you might have gone to the aviary.’ He paused for laughter which never arrived. ‘But I’m joking, of course. Our aviary is closed for the season while the ladies brood.’
‘Mr Tamberlain just came down for some ice for his head.’
‘Lords, Mr Tamberlain. Who’ve you been sparring with?’
‘No one, just grappling with a new bed.’
He sauntered to the desk, let the fingers of his left hand rest like a crouching spider on the stack of our notebooks. A swiftly moving porter with an ice bucket entered. A young drinksman followed with a cocktail trolley.
‘What is all this?’ said Shabazzniov.
‘It’s treatment for Mr Tamberlain’s head.’ The porter dropped the bucket on the registrar’s desk. He produced a clean white cloth, and a pair of steel tongs. He began, with great formality, to grab ice cubes, one by one, and place them on the cloth which lay across his hand.
‘I can handle this, Ribbons, you can leave us.’
‘Yes, Mr Shabazzniov.’ The porter placed the cloth and the tongs carefully in the bucket and left the room quickly. The drinksman with the trolley had begun to assemble my cocktail in a series of rapid, precise movements.
‘I must rush through this, Mr Tamberlain, as I’m very busy. Spring Rounds have begun. And today is the Feast of Hearts, of course, so the staff are hopeless. Notes flying back and forth.’ He tsk’d. ‘I mean, just look.’ He used the tongs to fish a soggy piece of yellow paper from the ice bucket. He didn’t show it to me, just read it, smiled smugly to himself. Said, ‘Paragon,’ and dropped the note disdainfully back in the bucket.
‘Who was it from?’ said Ms Zhivast. ‘The note.’
Shabazzniov ignored her. ‘I’m sure there’s a reason you left your suite after being warned against it, and with an unpacking of Franz’s death in progress. I’m sure there’s a reason you came to the registrar’s office for ice instead of calling for it. A reason which makes sense to you.’
‘His bed turned against him. We must destroy it.’
‘Yes, thank you, Ms Zhivast!’ She sat down smartly.
‘There are some issues with our apartment.’
‘He hates it.’
‘Ms Zhivast!’
‘I wouldn’t say I hated it.’
I saw Ms Zhivast mouth ‘He does’ to the air.
‘Well, why don’t you tell me what the problem is. Can I raise another pillow?’
‘Another pillow, yes, in another apartment. Our apartment is fine, it’s just too small for three. And it shrunk overnight. And these shoes I sent for cleaning aren’t mine. They are near-precise replicas.’
He arched an exquisitely groomed brow. Ms Zhivast coughed politely.
‘Well … that’s an … unorthodox set of complaints, Mr Tamberlain. But I’m sure Ms Zhivast will be happy to forward your comments to cleaning. We did put our best buffer on those shoes. Massimo. Arms like a longshoreman.’
‘Massimo,’ whispered Ms Zhivast.
‘And there are our
materials. We would like them returned.’
‘Your materials?’ He slipped a finger inside the cover of the top-most book: Gladys’s journal. He lifted the cloth cover an inch. I sensed Beast in my periphery straighten, consider lines of fire. But Gladys the killer didn’t move. Shabazzniov picked up the book, turned it over in his hand. ‘We have not quite finished examining these materials yet.’
‘Unacceptable. This is a gross invasion of our privacy. Is nothing sacred?’
‘It is regrettable that we need to separate you from your’ – he glanced down at the next book on the pile, frowned – ‘horse and pony journals.’ He looked up slowly at me, left a long pause. ‘… But there has been a serious transgression. The killing of a member of staff who was himself in the act of cleaning up a major slip-hazard. In the event of such a transgression certain liberties must be circumvented. It was all in the contract you signed.’
‘What contract?’ said Beast.
Quickly, ‘Our luggage, then.’
‘Will be returned to you soon. The process of induction is a methodical one. There are checklists. There is data which must be filed correctly, things which must be laundered.’
‘Laundry is another thing. We’re in our clothes from yesterday.’
‘I see that. I really can fix that stitching if you’ll only leave it with me.’
‘And walk around without a jacket like some traveller from the hills?’
His right brow pulsed. He gave Gladys a soft smile. I glanced again to see her perplexed, like she was trying to follow a difficult play. I could see that in the arrangement of this drama I was being made to look unhinged. I stood, buttoned my jacket. ‘Well, we must book a table in your Undersea for tonight.’
‘As I explained, our restaurants are currently closed for seasonal refurbishment.’
‘At some point I will need to dine. I will need to write my notes.’
