by Simon Clark
‘What?’
‘When you’ve taken those into the bar would you move the sacks of potatoes from the kitchen to the store?’
‘OK.’
‘Chef will show you which ones. And Jack?’
He looked at her, eyes burning into her face.
Go on, Electra, invite him up to your rooms for supper later The thought had been dawdling around the back of her head for the last twenty-four hours. There was a big question mark hanging over the man. She wanted to find out more about him. He fascinated her.
‘What do you want?’ he asked — as unsubtle as ever, she thought, trying to steel herself to take the plunge and ask him to, what…a bite to eat? Then plunge into bed together? My God, Electra, that man would be a white-knuckle ride.
‘Ah, give Mary a hand collecting glasses in the bar. Jo hasn’t turned up tonight.’
With a small nod of acknowledgement he moved off to the bar.
Chicken, she scolded herself, the time was ripe; you should have asked the big monster up your rooms; think of the fun you could have had.
Yeah…he looks like the kind who’d slap a girl round and not think twice about it. Electra, are you developing a death wish or what?
The phone on the desk rang. Slipping off her left earring she answered it.
‘Hello.’
Heavy breathing rasped from the earpiece.
A naughty phone call. Thank God for that.
A red light on the desk unit indicated it was an internal call.
‘Hello,’ Electra repeated politely. ‘Reception. Can I help?’
Heavy breathing. A giggle. Followed by a scraping sound in the earpiece. ‘Oh…ah,’ a female voice gasped as if suppressing a giggle. ‘Champagne…bottle of champagne, please. Room 101.’
Electra raised her eyes to the ceiling, partly an expression of stoicism born from dealing with tipsy or sex-addled guests, and partly imagining she could see through the ceiling as if it was glass, where she pictured the two guests in Room 101, naked limbs entwining on the bed with the telephone lying on the pillow beside their heads. Always good for a thrill, she thought philosophically, telephone reception during sexual intercourse.
‘Certainly,’ she said politely. ‘Room 101. Which champagne would you like?’
‘Oh?’
‘We have Bollinger at twenty-five pounds, Moet et Chandon at —’
‘Oh, any. Any will do. And two glasses, please.’
‘I’ll bring it straight up. Thank you.’
Within forty-five seconds Electra was climbing the stairs to the first floor. She carried a tray on which were the glasses, ice bucket and bottle of champagne swathed in white cloth.
As a Saturday night it was pretty much of a muchness. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Even so, she couldn’t help but think of the story of King Damocles who sat upon his throne with a sword hanging over his head by a hair. Something lethal seemed suspended in the air above the hotel. The hair was breaking…
She tapped on the door of Room 101. It was immediately opened by a flushed-looking woman with a bath towel wrapped around her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ the woman said. ‘Let me take it from you.’
Electra smiled as she handed over the heavy tray. ‘I hope you enjoy your champagne. If you need anything else just give me a call.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ The woman was eager to close the door.
‘Would you like me to add the champagne to your room bill?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
Fiona closed the door with her foot.
‘Champagne,’ she said to Matt who lay face down on the bed, naked as the day he was born. ‘And it’s ice-cold.’
He smiled, chuckled. ‘And just what are you going to do with it, pray?’
‘Drink it. And you, dear, shall be my cup.’ She set the tray down on a table then, lifting the bottle from the ice bucket, poured a little into the hollow of his back where it pooled, fizzing.
‘Yikes.’ The man’s legs muscles spasmed.
‘Cold?’
‘Very cold.’
‘Here, let naughty girl lick it off you.’
‘Is naughty girl in a licking mood?’
‘Naughty girl is. Mmm…’ She licked the champagne off his skin, the bubbles pricking her tongue. ‘Anything else you require licking, sir?’
‘Now you come to mention it…’ With a broad smile on his handsome face he turned over onto his back.
Fiona felt a pang of excitement. This is it. There really was a first time for everything. She dribbled a little champagne from the bottle onto his penis; licked her lips; then lowered her head down onto him.
Outside the wind blew hard; rain spattered the window. Thunder growled like an ancient demon across the hills. The storm was just about to break.
CHAPTER 19
1
From out of the darkness the gale tore down from the mountainside, bending trees, shearing branches, rattling car ports, buffeting drinkers walking along the street, carrying away newspapers high over the town. A front page hit a window of pebbled glass on the first storey of the Station Hotel, momentarily pasting itself there.
‘What’s that?’ Fiona asked, throwing a startled glance at the bathroom window. A white object flapped against it, looking like a huge bird against the night sky.
‘Just a piece of paper…now, are you going to get in this bath or not?’
She smiled. ‘It’s not big enough.’
‘You can sit on my legs.’
He grinned as he ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair. ‘Come on, plenty of room for two.’
Steam hung in the bathroom, misting the mirror and the tiled walls. Matt sat in the bath, champagne glass held in his strong fingers.
Giggly from the champagne and six hours of sheer unadulterated sex, Fiona leaned over the bath to kiss his forehead, ‘I don’t want this weekend to end,’ she said.
‘Me neither.’
‘Will you still notice me on Monday?’
‘I will.’
‘I won’t be just another girl in the office?’
‘You won’t.’
‘Promise me, Matt.’
‘Promise.’
‘How will you show it?’
‘Tell you what, wear a short skirt, no knickers.’
She giggled as he spoke.
‘When I walk into the office, I’ll drop my pen. As I bend down you cross your legs and give me a flash of that sweet little thing of yours.’
He reached out of the bath and touched her between her legs.
‘Oh.’ She trembled at the feel of his fingers. Slippery with soap and hot water they glided over the lips between her legs and slid inside her. She kissed him passionately. She wanted him out of the bath and on the bathroom floor where she could straddle him and feel his beautiful — oh, say it! — his beautiful cock sliding into her with all the firmness of a column of rock.
She kissed him hard and ran her hand across his chest.
‘Fuck me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Now. Fuck me on the floor. Christ, I want you so much. I want to —’
‘Damn.’
There was knock on the door. Quite low; almost a secretive knock. He scowled, and there was a hardness in his eyes she’d never noticed before. ‘Who the hell can that be?’
‘Ignore it, Matt.’
He sighed. ‘It might be about the car.’
‘It won’t be. Don’t worry, we’ve bolted the door, they can’t get into the hotel room.’
The knock came again.
‘Oh, damnation,’ he grunted. ‘I best see what they want.’
‘Matt…ignore it. They’ll go away.’
‘It might be about the car,’ he said again woodenly. ‘I didn’t like the look of the car park. It’s too far from the hotel.’
‘Matt…’
He ignored her. ‘All I need is another insurance claim. Clarice’ll nag.’
He climbed out o
f the bath, dripping water onto the floor. Muttering about the car being broken into, the CD player being stolen, the leather upholstery being slashed, he wrapped one of the big white bath towels around himself. Now the expression he wore on his face looked the way it did in the office when he was preoccupied with profit and loss and winning new contracts or sourly shaking his head over Jackson’s sloppy accounting.
Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. Even in that dozen seconds she felt she was losing him.
‘The car’ll be fine,’ she said, hearing the note of pleading in her voice. ‘Stay in the bath. I’ll soap your neck.’
He shot her a smile — the suddenness of it made her wonder if it was artificial. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll find out what they want…and if it’s that woman with the champagne bill I’ll send her away with a flea in her ear. Spooky cow.’ He swathed his fine stomach and hips with the towel. She watched him walk out of the bathroom and into the room with its wildly disordered bed and clothes strewn across the table and chairs.
She loved the look of his broad wet back, shining from the lamp on the table. She wished there was a way to keep him loving and warm; she didn’t like the sudden glimpse of his hard side, with the glint of managerial cruelty in his eyes.
Matt pulled back the bolt on the door. Suddenly she realized she was standing there naked in the bathroom doorway. Quickly she stepped back into the bathroom, closed the door.
Sliding the bathroom bolt across was simply habit.
Oh well, she thought, in a couple of minutes he’d be back. It was probably only the proprietor of the hotel asking if they wanted breakfast in their room or something. She hoped Matt wouldn’t get angry with her; she didn’t want to hear his voice turn hard and cold-sounding. She wanted it to be soft, loving, warm. She picked up the champagne glass and stood there in the middle of the bathroom floor, sipping the cold liquid and wanting Matt to come back and hold her.
Beyond the bathroom door she heard the clunks and clicks of Matt twisting the key in the lock of the room door, then turning the door handle.
She imagined beads of water trickling down his back.
She glanced up at the pebbled glass window above the bathroom door. A soft yellow light from the table lamp glowed through.
There was a flicker of shadows, no doubt from Matt opening the door.
She heard his voice. ‘Yes?’
Then…
A sudden silence.
Only a little one. But striking in its…its completeness.
She stared up at the pebbled glass, feeling an inexplicable shock.
At the same time a cold draught blew under the gap between the bottom of the bathroom door and the carpet.
Matt’s voice, annoyed. Surprised? ‘What on earth do you want? Is this some kind of joke? How the hell —’
Fiona’s blood turned icy, even in the steamy heat of the bathroom. She shuddered. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
She put the glass down on the side of the bath and hurried to the door.
Now there was a thumping sound. Matt started to say something, then he made this odd little cry that sounded like a cross between a laugh of disbelief and an expression of fear.
Crash.
Something hit the door of the bathroom — it sounded like a piece of concrete. Or — or
— a body.
Then she knew Matt was being attacked.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘Leave him alone! I’ll call the police. The police are coming!’ It was a stupid thing to yell, but in her sudden panic it was the first thing that came into her head.
There were more crashes; it sounded as if Matt was being thrown around the room like a cloth doll.
Another crash as a body hit the bathroom door, shaking it against the bolt.
‘Please…’ Matt’s voice sounded high and frightened. ‘Please, Fiona. Let me in. Please, for Godsakes let me in…let me in!’
She heard hammering as he pounded on the door. She ran to it, reached out to grab the bolt.
Then paused. She was naked. Unarmed. What could she do?
If they’re muggers, they’ll take his wallet and go. The voice of reason came as clear as a bell. If you go out there naked it won’t help. Why, they might take one look at you and decide to…
‘Oh, God, Fiona…Fiona!’
Matt was crying her name through the thick timber of the door.
‘Fiona…Fiona. Don’t let them…’ Then came garbled words. The door shook as Matt either pounded on it — or (the thought sickened her) or his head was beaten against it.
She dropped to her knees. She had to see. This not knowing what was happening out there was indescribable; she felt she would burst.
What were they doing to him?
How could anyone make a strong man like Matt cry like a child in sixty seconds flat?
There was no keyhole in the bathroom door.
Still on her knees she looked up. The pebbled glass set above the door was no way transparent enough to see through, even if she could reach it. All she could see against it were flickering shadows.
There was a lot of movement going on in the bedroom.
‘Fiona…Oh, oh…’
‘Leave him, you bastards,’ she screamed. ‘Leave him!’
A cold draught blew against her bare knees as they rested against the carpet.
She looked down. The gap between door and carpet was quite wide.
Quickly she bent down like a Moslem at prayer, pressed the side of her head against the carpet and looked through.
Bare feet. That was what she saw first. With toes nearest the door.
They were holding Matt face forward against the door.
‘Leave him, you bastards. I’ve called the police.’ Again the impossible claim, but what else could she say? ‘I’ve called them. They’re coming! They’ll get you, you bastards!’
She looked under the gap in the door, eyes watering from the force of the icy draught.
Now she saw other feet. They were a woman’s feet. They were dirty, but she saw the woman wore a pair of expensive sandals, her toenails varnished red.
Then came another pair of feet.
These were bare.
Another pair of bare feet?
This didn’t make sense.
Fiona slapped the door and screamed. ‘I’ve called the police, get out, you bastards!’ No reply. ‘Matt, you’ll be all right. Oh God, you’ll be all right. I promise.’
Matt made no reply.
She pressed her face harder to the carpet, trying to see the muggers. She thought: the police will need a description. But, oh, the police? Now Matt’s wife will find out about the affair.
Even as the thoughts of being confronted by a hysterical wife ran through her head, there was a sudden flurry of knocks against the bathroom door.
Then a face thumped down against the carpet. It was only centimetres from her own. She could have even slipped her fingers under the door and touched it. Through the gap between carpet and door she could see the iron-grey hair, the forehead still wet with bath water, the eyes…
They stared back sightlessly.
She backed away from the door, still on hands and knees. She backed until her bare rump came up against the toilet. She couldn’t retreat any further.
A volcanic pressure was building inside of her — coming from her stomach, up through her chest, to her throat, fighting to burst from her mouth.
…tap tap…
Eyes wide, she looked up at the pane of glass set above the door.
…tap tap…
Blurred by the pebbled glass, two heads appeared.
…tap tap…
A finger rapped against the glass.
They wanted her to open the bathroom door. They wanted her, too.
…tap tap…
That’s when the volcano inside of her erupted — she opened her mouth and began to scream.
2
High above the naked dead man, and the screaming woman in the bath
room of Room 101, Bernice applied a blood-red lipstick.
She had thought of slipping out to the wine bar and turning some heads. But the rain blasted from out of the darkness like machine-gun bullets to rattle the window panes. Thunder rumbled. The wind screamed round the towers of the hotel.
Filthy night. Filthy, terrible night. She dabbed her lips with a tissue and admired the result in the mirror.
No, shed stay in her room. Safe and sound.
3
Down in the hotel bar Electra nursed along another vodka and tonic. Was this number three…or six?
Oh hell, who’s counting?
Got to live a little before you die, haven’t you? She helped herself to ice from the Ice To See You bucket and watched Jack Black collecting glasses from the tables. The other drinkers watched the tattooed beast of a man with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Nice bum, she thought, eyeing his tight jeans.
She smiled to herself, sipped her drink.
Despite the Godawful weather the bar was buzzing. Maybe business on Saturday nights was picking up. A couple of teenage girls in leather miniskirts were murdering an old Rolling Stones number on the karaoke:
‘SATISFACTION…YEAH!’
They were loud enough to raise the dead.
Electra returned to her currently favourite pastime: watching Jack Black walk around the bar collecting those empty glasses smeared with foam and lipstick. He moved fast, aggressively, like a crocodile.
The thugs who normally came into the bar to get drunk and start fights were behaving themselves tonight. They were sitting like a bunch of nervous schoolkids in the corner of the bar as if frightened to draw the attention of the great and terrible Mr Black to themselves.
I’m glad he’s here, she thought, surprised by the idea; it’s as if he always should have been here. There was a piece missing from this hotel; he fills it. He’s an integral part of its structure. A keystone.
Oh, getting poetic, are we? she thought. Time for another drink. Steadily, showing no sign of being at all drunk, she raised the glass to the optic and injected another splash of crystal-pure vodka into her glass.