by Amy Cross
Another choked cry emerges from her lips, as tears rolls down her cheeks.
“You were exceedingly lucky to be found on that road all those years ago,” I explain, “but everybody's luck runs out eventually. Besides, you have no life left to live. I understand that you spend all your time here in this room, barely even able to communicate with the poor souls who come to slide a bed-pan under you thrice a day. Wouldn't you much rather slip away into the peace of death?”
She lets out another groaning sound, and now she's clearly becoming very agitated. If she carries on like this, she might even end up throwing her scarred, battered body off the bed.
“Let me help you,” I mutter, reaching over and slipping one of the pillows from under her head, before placing a hand on her chest and gently pushing her back down against the bed.
She tries to push me away, but of course she's powerless.
“Did you think you'd come back to the hotel one day and mete out justice?” I ask. “Was that the plan? Real life doesn't work that way, my dear. As I have told many people in the past, there is no such thing as justice. Perhaps you enjoyed your revenge fantasies as you lay on this wretched little bed, but that's all they were. Fantasies. You should have died back at the hotel, once I realized I had no further use for you. If it's any consolation, I hope you understand that I am going to make very good use of the land I acquired from your father. My name...”
I hesitate, struck by the sudden realization that I can tell this girl anything.
“I was born under the name Maurice Mecklethorpe,” I continue finally, saying that wretched name out loud for the first time in many years. “I had a horrible common accent, utterly lower class and foul. I changed my name to something that sounded more robust and respectable. I became Jobard Nash. And I forced that wretched accent away, until I sounded as if I belonged in the upper classes. I have told nobody about this, but I believe I can tell you. After all, it's not as if you'll get a chance to relay the information to anyone else. But I, the great Jobard Nash, was born Maurice Mecklethorpe, and I single-handedly dragged myself up from poverty.”
She stares up at me, her eyes widening with horror, and slowly she lets out a pained groan.
“You should thank me for this,” I tell her.
“You killed her,” she whimpers, finally managing to get some actual words out of her twisted, burned mouth. “You killed Ruth and -”
Forcing the pillow against her face, I get to my feet and press down hard. She immediately starts struggling, and her pathetic, three-fingered hand claws futilely at my wrist. There's nothing she can do, of course, but that doesn't stop her putting up something of a fight, and I'm surprised by just how long it takes to snuff out her life. She even tries to scratch my flesh with her remaining fingers, and I must admit to a mild sense of amusement as I watch her desperate attempt to make me stop. Finally her body falls still, but I don't ease the pressure just yet. This wretched girl has slipped away from certain death once already, and I do not intend to give her another chance.
After a few more minutes, however, I see fit to move the pillow aside, and I immediately see that she's dead. Her eyes are filled with fear and her mouth is wide open, and when I check the side of her neck I find that there is no pulse whatsoever. Still, preferring to be absolutely sure, I take a box of matches from my pocket and light a small flame, which I then hold against the white of her good eye.
She doesn't react at all, not even as the flame starts to darken her eyeball.
“Rest in peace,” I whisper, extinguishing the match and setting it on the bedside table, before lifting the girl's head and slipping the pillow back under. “Perhaps in death, you can find your sister and lead her away from my hotel. Although, so long as you can no longer interfere in my business, I can't honestly say that I care much either way.”
With that, I sit for a few minutes in silent contemplation. Was it a moment of weakness, when I told young Mary my real name? Perhaps, but it matters not. In a strange way, she was closer to me at the moment of her death than anyone has ever been. Closer than Ellen, certainly. So I reach out and stroke her head for a few seconds, and I cannot help but smile.
***
“Mr. Nash!” a voice calls out a short while later as I walk away from the hospital's main door, and as a light drizzle falls from the gray sky above. “Mr. Nash! Wait!”
Turning, I see that the hospital director is running after me. When he stops just a few feet away, I can immediately tell from the look in his eyes that Mary's corpse has been discovered.
“She was looking rather peaky when I left,” I tell him. “Pale, even. I do hope her ill health hasn't finally caught up to her after all these years. She seemed like such a fighter.”
“She...”
He stares at me, and the poor fool seems utterly lost for words.
“I also hope,” I continue, “that you will make good use of my generous donation. Although if for some reason you do not feel that you can accept my money, I will of course understand.”
“We...”
Again, his voice trails off.
“Then it's settled,” I add, forcing a smile. “I'm not a vain man, but I like the idea of this hospital bearing my name. I'm afraid I probably won't come to the ceremony, but it will be nice nevertheless to know that my generosity to this institute has been recognized. I hope very much that you can continue your good work.”
With that, I turn and walk away, leaving the blathering old idiot far behind. Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 5pm. I had expected that I would need to stay the night in London, but now I'm wondering whether I could make the last train home after all. There is so much work to be done at the hotel, and I really can't afford to waste any more time here in the city.
I belong at the hotel. And this time, once I get back, I think I shall never leave. There is just one other place I must see before I leave.
***
The Moorchester still stands, after all these years. Still brightly lit and dazzling, still a monument to class and elegance. On the way here, the carriage passed my father's old workshop, which lay in darkness. I have no idea whether the man is still alive, and I do not care to check. Instead, I climb from the carriage and instruct the driver to wait, and then I make my way toward the grand entrance of the Moorchester.
“Good afternoon,” the doorman says, as he pulls the door open for me.
“Good evening,” I reply, affecting a casual tone even though I have long dreamed of his moment.
The Moorchester's lobby is utterly stunning, with a vast chandelier hanging high above. I always thought that the Lakeforth was the perfect hotel, but now I see that I set my ambitions too low. The Moorchester is the standard that all must try to match, and for a moment I am transfixed by the opulence of the place. I still remember, as a young boy, staring in through the window. Ever since that moment, I have longed not only to build my own hotel, but also to one day come here and find myself welcomed by the upper classes.
Now, as I step over toward the door that leads into the dining room, I realize that I feel completely at home.
I have made it.
A moment later, just as I am about to turn and leave, I hear a familiar voice holding forth at one of the tables. Peering into the dining room, I'm astonished to spot Sir Edward Barringham speaking to several other men, and I allow myself a faint smile as I realize that I should go and introduce myself. There is a part of me, deep down, that still feel I do not belong in such a grand place, but I suppose that is simply the voice of young Maurice Mecklethorpe speaking. I am Jobard Nash now, and I am a part of high society. Maurice Mecklethorpe might as well be dead.
“You should have seen the place,” Sir Edward is saying as I head over to the table. “No taste at all. Garish and obscene, if you ask me.”
I stop next to him, but he seems not to have noticed me.
“The man wouldn't know refinement if it bit him on the behind,” he continues, causing the others to start chucklin
g. “I assure you, there's no need to trek out into the wilderness and visit the Lakeforth. The place is an abomination. I mean, even the name is so trite and -”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest, at just the moment that Sir Edward looks up at me.
“Nash?” he says, clearly shocked. “Is that you?”
“Just passing through,” I reply, taking a step back. I feel as if I am sweating profusely, and I am certain I must leave at once. “I thought I heard a familiar voice, and I merely wished to big you good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” he mutters. “As you can see, I'm afraid I'm rather busy.”
“Of course,” I stammer, “I didn't mean to interrupt you or -”
Catching myself just in time, I realize that I have slipped into my old, common accent. Sir Edward and his associates are staring at me as if I'm the strangest thing they have ever seen, and my heart is pounding as I realize that I must get out of here as quickly as possible. Muttering some terribly poor excuse, I turn and hurry out of the room, ignoring the sound of muffled laughter over my shoulder. I thought I belonged here, I thought I had finally proven my worth, yet now I find that I am an object of ridicule.
Hurrying out of the hotel's front door, I quickly make my way across the street. I don't even know where I'm going, although after a moment I remember that I have a carriage waiting for me. I turn to go back, but at that instant I trip on a broken cobblestone. Falling, I land hard on the pavement, letting out a gasp of pain.
Just as I am about to haul myself up, I realize that I have been in this exact location once before. Many years ago, this is where I fell while I was carrying a bag of coal. And now, staring at the bright lights of the Moorchester Hotel, I cannot help but think that I have not traveled as far as I had hoped from this spot.
Part Seven
Steve Culshaw - 2006
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Steven, stop!”
Putting out a hand, Mum grabs my collar as I run past the dining table. I instantly try to twist free, but as usual she's holding me way too tight.
“Listen to me,” she continues, putting on that tone of voice she always uses when she wants to sound strict. “Steven, will you listen to me for a moment?”
Sighing, I turn to her. At the far end of the room, an Elton John impersonator is crooning at the piano, keeping all the pensioners happy.
“You mustn't be so noisy, okay? People are trying to eat, and they want to hear the music.”
“But -”
“Your great uncle's hotel isn't a playground,” she continues, before leaning closer and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Half the people here are in their seventies. The place is basically a retirement home by any other name, and I don't want you barging into some old dear and breaking her hip. If you really can't sit still and behave, go play in the lobby, or out by the pool, or anywhere else. Just don't bug people!”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Have you finished eating?”
I sigh again. “Yes!”
“You're eleven years old,” she adds. “I'm sorry there are no other kids here, but you're just going to have to make the best of it. Grow up just a tad, okay?”
“Can I go swimming?”
“It's almost seven in the evening.”
“So can I go swimming?”
“No, you can't!”
“But -”
“They put special chemicals in the pool in the evenings, Steven. If you went in there at night, your hair'd go green.”
“Brilliant!”
“You can swim tomorrow, and not before.” She pauses, before sighing as she lets go of my collar. “Don't do anything to embarrass me, okay? I've had enough of that from your father this evening. And don't go too far.”
“I won't!” I tell her, turning and hurrying out through the door and into the lobby, where I see two elderly women dozing on the sofa. I swear, the Lakeforth is more like a retirement village than an actual hotel.
The woman behind the reception desk is talking to somebody on the phone, while an old man is making his way carefully down the stairs. Mum and Dad have been bringing me to the Lakeforth for years now, and I'm totally used to the fact that everybody else here is basically ancient. I mean, sure, I'd like to go to somewhere like Alton Towers or Disneyland, but I don't actually hate coming to the Lakeforth. There's always something to do, and some new place to explore, although I wouldn't mind if someone my own age showed up eventually.
And that receptionist is really pretty.
Heading across the lobby, I make my way to the arched door at the rear, and then I step out onto the patio and find that several elderly guests have come out here to sleep off their dinners. One of them is actually snoring. Picking my way between the chairs, I wander over to the swimming pool and look down into the greeny-blue water, and for a moment I actually consider jumping in. It'd be so cool to have green hair, although I know Mum'd freak and I guess I don't want to make her angry at me, not when we've still got several more days here before we can go home.
I can save green hair for the last night. That way, I might still have it when I get home. Everyone at school will think I'm so cool.
Turning, I look up at the side of the main building, and I quickly spot a shadow in the highest window. That'll be my great uncle, Jobard Nash, working at his desk. I've barely ever met him, and they say he works all the time, only sleeping for two hours each night. If you ask me, there's something slightly creepy about him, although in a way I find all really old people creepy. I definitely don't want to ever turn into some wrinkly, stooped old thing.
“Are you having fun there?” a cracked voice asks suddenly.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see that an old lady is smiling at me as she sips from her cocktail glass.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, before turning and making my way along the side of the pool, hoping to get away from the other guests. To be honest, I don't really like old people very much.
Ahead, the dark forest spreads from the edge of the patio, and I know from previous visits that it runs all the way to the shore of the lake. Mum told me to stay close, but I figure the lake isn't that far, so I start making my way through the long grass and finally I reach the forest. I can barely see a thing, so I hold my hands out to make sure I don't bump face-first into any of the trees. The ground beneath my feet is a little soft and uneven, and every step I take causes a crunching sound, but I quite like being out here on my own.
Looking back, I can just about make out the lights of the hotel between the trees, and I can hear the distant piano music drifting out through the night air. I guess old people like that kind of thing, but I want to explore. A moment later, I spot a faint flash of light coming from one of the hotel's upstairs windows.
From the darker part of the building. The part that's off-limits to everyone except Mr. Nash.
It takes about twenty minutes for me to find my way through the forest. There's not a lot of moonlight tonight, but after a while I can just about see the water of the lake glittering in the distance, and eventually I stumble out past the tree-line and find myself at the shore. With the hotel far behind me and the music not reaching all this way, I stop and listen to the sound of water gently lapping at the legs of the nearby jetty, and I take a deep, deep breath. I'm all alone down here, and there's nobody about for miles, and I feel as if I've finally managed to get far enough away from that stupid hotel. It's like I've reached another world.
Trampling across the pebbly shore, I make my way toward the jetty and then I stomp along the wooden boards. I'm a little cold, but that doesn't matter. For a moment, all I can think about is how cool it'd be if I had a girlfriend, and how I'd love to come swimming with her. When I reach the end of the jetty and look down into the pitch-black water, I imagine my girlfriend jumping down and pulling me in with her. We'd be laughing and splashing about, and she'd be so pretty that everyone else in the whole world would be jealous.
I'll get a
girlfriend like that one day. And when I do, she'll be really pretty and really fun, and we'll be happy forever.
For the next few minutes, I stand at the end of the jetty and simply stare down into the water, thinking about what it'll be like when my girlfriend and I are having fun. The only real sounds I hear are the water against the jetty's wooden legs and an occasional creaking sound on the boards behind me, but in my head I can hear my future girlfriend laughing and giggling, and my own voice calling out to her. In my mind, we're here with some friends and it's a warm sunny day, and we're doing lots of cool stuff like sailing and paragliding and going on jet-ski rides. There are other girls here, but my girlfriend is the prettiest and -
Suddenly I hear a much louder creaking sound, and I turn to see that there's a figure standing halfway along the jetty, silhouetted against the dark, pebbly beach.
She's staring at me.
“Who are you?” I ask, squinting in an attempt to see her face. I can't make out any of her features, but she looks a little shorter than me, so I don't think she's very old. Definitely not the kind of girl I'd want for a girlfriend. She's probably not even pretty.
I wait, but she doesn't say a word. I guess maybe she followed me down from the hotel, although I don't remember seeing any other kids up there.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask.
Silence.
“I don't know what you want,” I continue, “but it's pretty rude to just stand there like that. You should say what you want or go away. I was here first, so you have to go find somewhere else to be. I never -”
