by C. L. Taylor
‘I’m going to get the lunch ready,’ I say, slightly too loudly.
Melanie looks up. ‘Would you like a hand?’
‘No, I’m fine, but it’s kind of you to ask.’
I burst into tears before I even reach the kitchen, swallowing back sobs as I run through the dining room. Once inside, I slump over the food prep counter and bury my head in my arms. I feel like death’s trailed me from London to Rum, throwing guilt, pain and regret at me, shaking the ground beneath my feet as it waits for me to crumple. There are three voids in the world now, dark shadows where Freddy, Peter and David once stood. Three lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye. What do we do with the spaces they left behind? We can’t fill them. No one can and this isn’t right, me in the kitchen making lunch. This is David’s kitchen, his collection of aprons hanging on the hook by the fridge, his knife block, his favourite frying pan. He was the hotel. He was its heart and soul. Now it’s just a building with a bunch of people whirling around in a storm, looking to me to tell them what to do. I didn’t want that kind of responsibility but I either take control or I fall apart.
I push myself back from the counter and wipe my eyes and face on a tea towel.
‘You’d better put that in the wash now,’ David says in the back of my head.
I’ll put it in the machine, David, I reply. And if you’re lucky I might even wash my hands before I prep the vegetables too.
A little under an hour later, with thick vegetable soup bubbling away on the stove, I carry the bowls into the dining room and arrange them on the place mats. David was a fan of serving lunch from the pan so I’ll do the same.
I put a hand to the lobby door and take a steadying breath. The guests need me to hold it together, especially Katie, who looked terrified when Malcolm said they hadn’t been able to cross the river.
I glance at my watch then open the door. It’s nearly half past one. The guests must be starving. As well as the soup, there’s fresh bread cooling in the ovens from breakfast and there’s still plenty of cheese and ham that—
I freeze.
Condensation has misted the narrow windows on either side of the front door and something’s been written on the window directly opposite reception. Four words curve through the moisture.
TO DIE, TO SLEEP.
I stare at the window, too stunned to move, then scrub at the glass with my sleeve, rage boiling inside me. Who’d write something so crass just hours after David died? It makes me feel sick that someone would find that funny.
The guests turn to stare as I burst into the lounge.
‘Who wrote that?’ My hand shakes as I gesture at the open door.
No one says a word and my stomach knots as I look from one confused face to another. Christine and Trevor are absent but the other five guests stare at me blankly.
Finally, Joe speaks up: ‘What’s happened, Anna?’
‘Someone wrote …’ I shake my head, disgusted that anyone could be so callous. ‘Someone wrote “TO DIE, TO SLEEP” on the window in the lobby.’
‘What?’ Fiona jumps up and peers out of the door then looks at me in confusion. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘I wiped it off.’
I look back at the guests. This is where one of them tells me that I got it all wrong, that it’s a joke, written on the window because they were tired and wanted to sleep.
‘Was it you, Katie?’ I look at the youngest guest, sitting on the sofa with her legs curled up beneath her and a Nintendo DS in her hands.
She stares back at me.
‘Of course it wasn’t Katie,’ Melanie says, leaning in to her. ‘She’d never graffiti private property.’
‘It wasn’t graffiti. It was written in the condensation. Katie, did you … did you write it as some sort of …’ I search for the right word. ‘… some kind of tribute to David?’
‘No.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Why would I do that?’
Melanie gives me a look as though to say, told you. I look from her to her husband, sitting in the armchair by the fire, strangely quiet, and then to Joe and Fiona.
‘Is anyone going to confess to writing it?’
‘Anna,’ Joe says. ‘No one in this room wrote anything.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because we haven’t moved from here since you went to make lunch.’
‘So no one went into the lobby to use the toilet?’
Malcolm, Fiona and Melanie all shift in their seats.
‘So that’s a yes, then.’
‘Maybe it was Christine,’ Malcolm says, ‘or Trevor.’
‘What was Christine?’ says a voice from behind me. The oldest guest, her eyes bleary with sleep, smiles up at me. ‘What have I missed?’
‘Anna’s on a witch hunt,’ Malcolm says as he slides past me. ‘Apparently one of the guests wrote something inappropriate on the window of the—’
‘Witch hunt?’ Fiona says, looking riled. ‘She’s upset, Malcolm, and you’re trivialising it.’
‘Would you all just shut up! You’re doing my head in.’ Katie’s screech echoes around the room.
For a split second no one reacts, then Melanie shakes her head in disbelief.
‘Katie, screaming like that is not acceptable.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’ She scrambles off the couch and stomps towards me.
‘Katie, get back here right now.’
‘Leave me alone. You’re not my mum.’
‘Katie!’ Melanie springs after her as she pushes past me and runs towards the stairs. ‘Katie! Wait.’
Malcolm sighs heavily, gets up from his chair and follows them. As the door clicks shut behind him the three remaining guests look at each other, and at me, and raise their eyebrows.
‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’ Christine says, picking up Malcolm’s dirty mug.
Chapter 23
There’s a strange mood in the lounge, as though a thick grey smog has filled the room, wrapping around each of us, sealing us into our own little worlds. Christine is sipping her tea over at the window, staring out at the rain. Joe is flicking through a magazine. And Fiona is stacking dominos into a pyramid. There’s no attempt to make conversation and the silence is loaded. Or perhaps that’s just my interpretation. Now the adrenaline of my discovery has worn off, a dark thought has wormed its way into my head: what if the ‘TO DIE, TO SLEEP’ message wasn’t written in reaction to David’s death? What if whoever sent me the ‘sleep’ messages in London followed me to Rum and they’re a guest in the hotel? What if they’re in this room?
The thought makes me feel sick with fear. The messages in London were unnerving but they felt like an attempt to make me feel guilty about the accident. This message is the first one to feel like a threat.
To die, to sleep. That’s from Hamlet. Whoever wrote it thinks I want to kill myself, or that I’m at least contemplating it. Or … a shiver runs through me, despite the heat from the fire … they think that I should.
I look from Joe to Christine to Fiona. What do I really know about any of the guests? Christine’s a retired primary school teacher, Fiona’s a call centre manager and Malcolm’s a semi-retired psychology professor but I’ve got no idea what Joe, Trevor or Melanie do for a living. I don’t know anything about any of their lives, not really, only what they’ve chosen to share with me. And that’s not very much. I assumed Malcolm and Melanie were Katie’s mum and dad and I was wrong about that. I’m guessing they’re her uncle and auntie. My gut instinct told me that all the guests were decent people, apart from Trevor who made me feel uncomfortable the moment we met.
Assuming. Guessing. Gut instinct.
If someone in this hotel has followed me from London I can’t rely on any of those things. I need to find out who they are.
Dinner is a tough lamb stew that could have done with another couple of hours on a low heat. Trevor came in first and sat alone by the window. Malcolm, Melanie and Christine came in next. Malcolm and Christine take seats opposite each other but Melanie do
esn’t sit down. Instead she strolls across the dining room with a look of quiet determination on her face.
‘Hello, Anna.’ She forces a smile. ‘I was wondering if I could take two bowls of stew upstairs. Katie’s not feeling well and I don’t want to force her to be sociable.’
Since Katie’s outburst earlier the Wards have hidden themselves away upstairs.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Anna.’ Melanie presses her glasses into her nose and looks up at me from beneath her thick fringe. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in her head. I’ve tried to get her to open up but she won’t talk to me.’ She sighs heavily. ‘We thought she’d enjoy this break but she’s like a tightly coiled spring.’
I nod sympathetically and wait for her to say more.
Instead she raises her eyebrows and says, ‘So is it okay? For me to take our dinner upstairs?’
I hand her the food and tell her to give me a shout if there’s anything else she needs. She nods her thanks then heads back out of the dining room, catching Malcolm’s eye as she passes his table. He doesn’t comment. Instead he continues to spoon his stew into his mouth.
Christine, opposite him, catches me watching and flashes me a smile before she returns to her dinner.
As Christine, Malcolm and Trevor finish their food, Fiona and Joe enter the dining room. Fiona walks in first, carrying a battered paperback, and takes a seat at a table near the door. When Joe enters a couple of seconds later, Fiona looks up from her book and flashes her eyebrows at him, signalling for him to join her, but he walks straight past and takes another single table. Fiona’s smile melts instantly and she looks back down at her book.
She glances up as I bring her the food and says thank you, but when I ask her if there’s anything else she’d like she shakes her head wordlessly. Joe couldn’t be more different. He shoots me a smile as I approach his table, a steaming bowl of stew in my hands.
‘How are you bearing up?’ he asks as I place it in front of him. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’ve been better.’
He glances towards the kitchen door. ‘Even though I helped carry David upstairs I keep expecting him to walk in.’
He dips his spoon in the stew and stirs it, releasing a cloud of steam. ‘Have you tried the landline and Wi-Fi again?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘And?’
‘No joy.’
He sighs. ‘There has to be someone on the other side of the island trying to sort it.’ Before I can say let’s hope so, he adds, ‘There’s no mobile signal anywhere. I went out earlier to check but …’ He shrugs. ‘Nothing. None of the others have had any luck either.’
As I turn to look out at the weather, the lights flicker and Christine yelps in surprise.
I stare at the bulbs, praying we’re not about to lose the electricity too, but after a couple more seconds the flickering stops and the lights remain on. There’s a collective sigh of relief around the room.
‘Is there a generator?’ Malcolm asks, twisting round in his seat. ‘If the electricity fails.’
‘Yes, in the basement.’ I shoot him what I hope is a reassuring smile but the truth is I haven’t got the first idea how to work the generator. David told me it was in the basement but he didn’t get round to showing me how to use it.
Oh, David. As the guests return to their food, it strikes me again quite how alone I am.
12.15 a.m. and I can barely keep my eyes open.
After dinner Trevor went straight up to his room and the rest of the guests retired to the lounge. I was about to disappear into the kitchen to tidy up but Malcolm came after me, insisting I join them for a drink. I tried to get out of it. I needed time alone to think but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. They were going to toast David’s memory, he said. The dishes would have to wait.
One glass of whisky soon became three and the alcohol warmed my blood and took the edge off my nerves. A little after eleven, I forced myself up and out of my chair and went into the kitchen to make coffees. Once they’d been drunk, Fiona and Christine yawned, said their goodnights and went upstairs. Joe hung around for a bit longer, insisting I let him help tidy up. When I continued to refuse, he finally relented and went upstairs.
No such luck getting rid of Malcolm. He insisted on having ‘one more before bed’ and has only just disappeared up the stairs. As his footsteps reverberate above me I wander from room to room on the ground floor, checking everything is in order, idly noting what I need to do tomorrow. If David were alive to see the state of the kitchen – the crumbs and scraps on the food prep area and dirty marks on the floor – he’d go mental, but I don’t have the energy to tidy it now. I walk into the utility room, sighing at the loaded washing machines. If I don’t get the linen in the tumble dryers tonight it’ll stink and I’ll have to re-wash the lot. I open one machine and pull the damp linen into a basket. As I carry it to the tumble dryer, a movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn sharply.
‘Hello?’ I look towards the kitchen. ‘Is there someone there?’
No one answers.
‘Hello?’ I put the basket down and walk through the kitchen and into the dining room. One of the guests must have popped downstairs to get something. ‘Hello, can I help you?’
I pop my head round the lounge door.
Empty.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. It’s back, the feeling I’d had in London: the prickle down my spine telling me someone is watching me. I stand at the bottom of the stairs listening for the sound of creaking floorboards but the hotel is silent.
I’m too creeped out to go back to the kitchen alone so I make my way up to my room, pausing in the stairwell of the first floor. It’s pitch black apart from an eerie orange pool of light cast by the emergency exit sign. Someone’s crying. There’s a muffled sob coming from one of the rooms. I head for Katie’s door but there’s no sound from her room. Fiona then? As I cross the corridor the sobbing grows louder. It is Fiona. I raise my fist to knock on her door then lower my hand. I shouldn’t intrude.
I linger for a few more seconds, reassured as the crying grows softer and softer before it stops completely, then I pad back down the corridor and up the stairs to my room. I slip inside, lock the door behind me and, too exhausted to get changed, crawl into bed, still fully clothed.
There’s someone in the room. My eyes are closed but I know I’m not alone. I can feel the weight of their gaze, the pinprick crawl of my skin. What are they waiting for? For me to open my eyes? I want to ignore them and go back to sleep but I can’t ignore the churning in my belly and the tightness of my skin. They want to hurt me. Malevolence binds me to the bed like a blanket. I need to wake up. I need to get up and run.
But I can’t move. There’s a weight on my chest, pinning me to the bed.
‘Hello, Anna.’
A voice drifts into my consciousness then out again.
‘Help me!’ But my voice is only in my head. I can’t move my lips. I can’t get the sound to reverberate in my throat. The only part of me I can move is my eyes.
Someone’s walking towards me, their cold blue eyes fixed on mine.
‘Don’t be scared.’
They draw closer – staccato movements, like a film on freeze-frame – move, stop, move, stop. Closer and closer. I screw my eyes tightly shut. This isn’t real. It’s a dream. I need to wake up.
‘That’s right, Anna. Close your eyes and go back to sleep. Don’t fight it. Let the pain and guilt and hurt go.’
No! No! Stop!
I scream, but the sound of my voice doesn’t leave my head. I can’t move. I can only blink frantically – a silent SOS – as I’m grabbed by the wrist. They’re going to hurt me and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
Chapter 24
Alex
Alex holds his breath as he peels his hand from Becca’s and hears a soft squelching sound as their naked bodies separate and he rolls away. Only their third date and they’ve already slept together. He hadn’t ex
pected it, particularly as she’d seemed in a strange mood when he’d met her from work. Not that he knows her well enough to read her moods, they barely know each other, but she was definitely off with him. The flushed excitement of their first date was gone and she hadn’t even put any lipstick on. She’d smiled as she walked down the corridor towards him and didn’t pull away when he reached for her hand, but the worried expression didn’t leave her face until they reached the restaurant and her wine glass touched her lips.
‘Tough day?’ He’d already asked her that once as they left the hospital and again on the tube journey where they’d been crammed into a corner of the compartment by a huge crowd of foreign students. Both times she’d nodded and then changed the subject. Instinct told him to let it drop but he’d never been very good at holding his tongue and besides, whatever it was that was bothering her was ruining their date. Instead of being a welcome distraction her stress was making him reflect on his own worries. Debbie, Anna’s mum, had rung him earlier to ask if he’d heard from her recently. She couldn’t get through to Anna on her mobile or the hotel landline, she’d said, and Anna hadn’t replied to her emails or Facebook messages. There was a storm raging the coast of West Scotland, apparently, and Debbie was worried. Alex had to admit that he hadn’t heard from his ex-girlfriend for a few days, then, at a loss to know what else to do, he’d suggested Debbie try ringing the ferry company to see if they could shed any light on what was happening.
Becca set her glass down on the table and sighed. ‘Yes, Alex. It was a tough day.’ She gazed at him as though willing him to push her further.