himself, couldn’t understand his luck, nor why his brand of self-congratulatory, self-righteous psychobabble could be anything but fascinating. God help you if you end up sitting next to him at a dinner party, God help you even more if he has anything more than one glass of wine, and you have to listen to his pathetic rants, espousing his greatness and whining about his life, like that rather beautiful young girl from the other night…
Then it hit me. I should have realised this straight away, of course, but it was the girl from the dinner party, the young one, striking looking, the one who had been talking to Mark for ages. I was absolutely sure it was the same girl as the girl he met here. Whoa. Maybe Louise was right. Maybe he was having an affair. (I guess you’re thinking that was pretty obvious when he met a girl in a hotel in the middle of the night, but to you I say – there is virtue in try not to jump to conclusions). However – I now needed to know who that girl was, exactly. I should have asked Lou, she would probably know. Of course she would know, it was her party! I had been so doubtful of Lou’s concerns, I just couldn’t for the life of me imagine why anyone who have any interest in Mark, sexual or otherwise, though I possessed just enough discretion not to say anything to her. But now? Was it feasible? They had met at the party, struck up a conversation and then started their clandestine reunions at an anonymous hotel; perfect in every angle – Mark able to slip away during the night whilst his wife lay comatose, and Mystery Girl able to take a little time off from wherever she lived. Who would have thought it? With a sigh, I poured myself a final glass of Chivas, ready to accept the strangeness and unfairness of the world, and head back home to break the news to Lou and also to get out of the suit before I got myself into trouble. That, however, is when things went really quite badly wrong.
What happens when you’re lost?
I stood in the gap between the bar and reception, looking out at the cold night where it had begun to rain, water lashing against the door and making me think about waiting a couple of minutes before walking back. I could hardly call a taxi, really. I really should have left then, because I wouldn’t have heard a noise, wouldn’t have seen a figure moving in the hall, wouldn’t have looked up and made out the shape of a man, half hidden in the shadows, walk hurriedly, nervously towards me. Wouldn’t have seen him emerge from the shadows as Mark, his face haggard and worried, clutching one arm in the other, his white shirt dripping with blood. He looked desperately around, looked straight at me (although I’m certain he didn’t see me), then took a step tentatively towards me before turning back and entering the men’s toilets. Jesus! Mark! Was he hurt? My first instinct was to go in and help him - I even took a step towards the door, holding myself back when I realised my presence would be very difficult to explain…. And anyway, he didn’t really look injured, he was walking all right. But all that blood! If he wasn’t injured, then…? I looked nervously down the corridor he had emerged from; there was some way the light was falling that made me realise one of the doors was open. I looked at the toilet door (still shut) and back down the corridor, and for a reason I still don’t understand at all, I walked quickly down it until I saw the door, slightly ajar. Room 12. I looked back at the halo of light coming from reception and back at room 12. Its silence gave me goose-bumps. But what did I have to be afraid of, I reasoned. I was invisible. Even if there was something horrific in that room, and even if Mark had done it, and even if he came back, I would be safe. And anyway, all I had to do was call the police, and naturally I had a phone built into my suit. Even so, however, I wasn’t a brave person, and I really surprised myself when I did actually move forward and take a step into that room. My legs felt weak and my head began to swim as I tried to take in what I was seeing. What was I seeing? Nothing. Everything was absolutely normal. Bed, television, desk. Case. Mark’s case. I realised I’d been holding my breath and let it go, feeling myself sway and almost fall down from relief. Maybe it had just been a bad nosebleed, a particularly bad one but a nosebleed all the same. I could imagine me and Mark laughing about this together years into the future, when we had reconciled our differences and had become great mates, Mark telling his grandkids –
You know Sylvain here, he thought I was a serial killer! He thought I had murdered someone in my hotel room after he chased me during the night. He thought I was going to come back, find him and kill him too!
And I would add, yes, and that’s after I accused him of having an affair! When actually all he was doing was getting a night’s kip as he had been struggling to sleep at home and didn’t want to worry your Gran!
Yes, that’s all it was, how stupid of me! I laughed to myself, and started to entertain the thought of taking my suit off and having a laugh with Mark about it, right here and now. Such was my relief that I even forgot how much I hated him – then suddenly the door to the room clicked shut and the air seemed to freeze. Mark stood by the door. He had changed his shirt, he was wearing a clean white t-shirt, and his left arm was bandaged just above the wrist. In that hand, he clutched a supermarket carrier bag. He looked worried as he glanced nervously around the room, his eyes darting towards me for one confused, terrifying instant, before they moved away. He was breathing quickly, and he put his hands together, bringing them up to his face, as if in prayer, before moving over to where his case was sat on the bed, just next to where I was standing. I resisted the urge to step back, keeping perfectly still as he stopped, right next to me, pausing curiously, his hand over his case. I wondered if he could hear my heart hammering in my chest; I was sure I could hear his, and I could definitely smell him, adrenaline fuelled sweat mixed with the sickly-sweet odour of blood. He picked up the case and moved to the open bathroom door, glancing back as if to acknowledge me before stepping inside and allowing the door to close, but not lock. I stood still, nailed to the spot, fearful of following him in, too curious to leave. The taps came on and I wondered for a brief moment why he had gone to the toilets in reception, if he had a bathroom right here in his room, but I quickly forgot this when I heard the strange noises emanating from there. Scraping. Sighing. Grunting with effort. Fizzing. More scraping. Tearing. Scrunching. More water. More fizzing. Silence. More silence. Shuffling. More silence. Then the door swinging open, Mark walking out slowly, case in hand, dropping it on the floor by the door and sitting heavily on the bed, sighing. He was looking straight at me.
Morning, Sylvain. Didn’t expect to see you here.
(astonished silence from me)
May I ask what you’re doing in my hotel room in the middle of the night?
(astonishment may have made way for fear by this point, it was hard to tell, but all the muscles in my body were frozen so I had no choice but to stay silent)
I don’t remember inviting you
(more more more, etc etc, still not able to talk or breath, think I am going to die here, etc, but have no idea what to do) … (more and more. Manage to start moving my eyes at least – though that takes some effort – flick over to the mirror and realise that I can see myself – what a fuckwit. I’m sorry, there’s no other word for it, my suit has failed because I didn’t fix it up right and now I am face to face with Mark after he’s done what unspeakable things in the night and now he’s going to kill me. Mental note to stop drinking, not that it matters because I am going to die in approximately six seconds and therefore should probably actually start drinking more and there isn’t even a minibar in the room. Mental jump to maybe that’s why Mark was outside, maybe he needed a drink after whatever he’d done, but then changed his mind and washed. Maybe he realised he needed to wash before going into the bar, maybe that was it. Maybe he saw the empty bottle of Chivas and he’s going to pin that on me too. Maybe I’ll go to jail for stealing it, oh God this night is just getting worse). I forced myself to stop thinking at that point, realising that I was rambling quite a lot, and then hoping that I hadn’t been saying this out loud. Thankfully, judging by Mark’s face, I hadn’t. He looked strange; not angry, not insane, just, well, tired.
&nb
sp; I… (I realised after a few seconds that it was me that had started speaking)
Louise sent you to check up on me, didn’t she?
Well, I…
(He shook his head) … Why you, though? Of all people? My best friend?
(I gulped… this wasn’t heading the way I expected) Well, at your party, you know, we were chatting, and she just
(He gave a small laugh) … She got drunk, didn’t she. She got drunk and got all emotional and cried on your shoulder didn’t she. She saw me leave once and thought I was having an affair, and she begged you to follow me. Is that right?
I didn’t want to…
(He gave me a long look as if trying to decide whether to believe me) No, you didn’t want to but you did, then you came to the hotel, then…. (something crossed his eyes). When did you get here (this last question much sharper)?
(I swallowed). I, well, I’ve only just got here
How did you get into my room?
Erm… well, I’ve got this key… there’s this guy at work… this key, it can open any hotel door anywhere. This guy at work, Benny, he made it, you know, for a laugh… (this
An Innocent Man Page 12