The Last Resort

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The Last Resort Page 11

by Yvonne Morrin


  “Horse-riding sounds good,” Craig replied, still working on the gauntlet’s finger hinges. “But I suppose you’re going to make us learn something while we’re here,” he added turning to his big sister.

  “I was planning to organise a history lecture for us,” Lisa admitted, “I was going to try to get the Count to tell us about Mortavia and the castle.” But thinking about the Count’s penetrating black eyes, Lisa wasn’t so sure. She shivered.

  “Aha!” Craig said, finally releasing the sword with a huge clatter.

  #

  Amy Fisher sat quietly on the edge of her bed, hugging her doll and regarding her parents with big round eyes. “I’m just saying,” Albert bellowed, “that you would expect there would be a room for us and an adjoining one for the kiddies, that’s all. It seems a bit off, putting us all in the same room.”

  “Well,” his wife said quietly, “we can’t really complain, it is free after all.”

  Albert snorted. “Hmmf. Free? Free? I don’t think. Nothing’s free in this world, my lass. Everyone wants something, and these Romanoffs only invited us so that the Travel Network will do a feature on them, what? Only they didn’t bargain on a tough nut like Albert Fisher. I won’t have my arm twisted so easily, and I won’t be dictated to by foreigners.” He threw open his suitcase and began to toss clothes onto the floor. “Now, where’d I put my shaver?”

  The toilet flushed, and Christopher emerged from the bathroom carrying a pamphlet outlining the castle’s facilities. He crumpled it up and shot it towards the wastebasket. It bounced off the rim, and landed on the wooden floor. “This place sucks,” he said, kicking the corner of his bed. “There’s nothing to do.”

  “That’s as maybe,” said Albert, changing his tune, “but it’s free. I’m not made of money you know. We can’t go skiing every holiday.”

  “There’s lots to do,” Penny said, picking up the crumpled pamphlet and smoothing it out. We can go horse-riding, or fishing. Oh, and remember, there’s a babysitter too, so we don’t have to worry about Amy.”

  Both Christopher and Albert looked over at Amy as if they had forgotten she existed. “Well, that’s one good thing,” Albert said.

  #

  “Wasn’t he handsome?” Emily Trellis wheezed breathlessly. She was peering at herself in a large gilt-framed mirror, holding an old-fashioned blue floral skirted bathing suit up against her scrawny body.

  “Oh yes!” Hortense Meeks replied, her rheumy eyes alight. “Simply marvellous!” She tucked her wispy grey hair up under a pink bathing cap and jostled her friend out of the way of the mirror so she could examine the effect.

  “That voice, so heavenly,” Emily cooed, doing a twirl. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  “And that smile!” Hortense effused. “Simply stunning.”

  Emily hesitated. She didn’t want to let her best friend know how badly her sight was failing her. “He… um… still had such lustrous bronzed skin, didn’t he?” she guessed.

  “Oh…um…yes,” Hortense agreed. In truth, she couldn’t see too well these days. She had actually thought what little of Blake’s skin she was able to view up close had been bluish, but that couldn’t be right, could it? But there was no need to let Emily know what she had thought. “Wonderfully bronzed,” she confirmed.

  “No need to ask what we’re doing tomorrow?” Emily said.

  The two old ladies looked at each other. “Snorkelling!” they both shouted at once, then collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  #

  The man who had introduced himself as Ken Trepid, travel journalist and explorer extraordinaire, locked the door to his room, slid his brand new hard-sided suitcase under the wardrobe, and then put his metal attaché case on top of the bed. Any reader of Ken Trepid’s books would be surprised at seeing this luggage. Where was the shabby rucksack that had earned its scars and war wounds in the jungles of South America and deserts of Africa? Where was the tattered day pack that had accompanied him to the top of the highest temple in the Himalayas, and to the bottom of the deepest cave in New Zealand?

  Several objects were nestled in moulded foam packing within the attaché case. The man ran his hands almost lovingly over them. The first things he removed were an electro-magnetic field detector and an infra-red thermometer. These he switched on, then held in either hand and ran them all around the bedroom and bathroom. There were some readings associated with the walls, particularly behind the shower cabinet, but he assumed these to be electrical in nature – cables and such-like. Satisfied that the room itself was clean, he put down the two meters and picked up a large jar containing iron filings. He had ground the iron himself, out of nails extracted from a graveyard under a full moon. Well, you couldn’t be too careful in his line of work. He unscrewed the lid and then proceeded to spread the filings out, in an unbroken line, all the way around the perimeter of the bedroom and bathroom. Once this was complete, he checked that his pockets were still full of salt, and that his obsidian necklace, bracelets, anklets and belt were in place. Then he turned on the meters again. The room was still clean. Satisfied, the man reached up into his tousled mass of golden locks, hair which would have been so familiar to fans of Ken Trepid’s travel books, seen in photos peeking out from under a Papua New Guinean headdress, or being chewed by lion cubs on a Kenyan game reserve. The man pulled off the curly wig, and deposited it gently onto a chest of drawers. Only then did he allow himself to relax.

  #

  “Well, isn’t this lovely!” Doreen gushed as she led the way into their shared bedroom. Her daughter Peaches grunted. “Just look at these old stone walls. Imagine what they must have witnessed!”

  “Boring people doing boring things I expect,” Peaches mumbled.

  Doreen sighed. “You know, if you have already determined that you’re not going to enjoy this holiday, then you won’t.” She looked sideways at Peaches, expecting another sarcastic response, but Peaches merely grunted again, and Doreen decided not to push it. She was here to enjoy herself, and down a few free cocktails. What did she care if Peaches wanted to be a misery-guts? Sprawled on one of the beds, Peaches was fiddling with her MP3 player. She’d barely removed the thing since England.

  “Pants!” Peaches said, her frown deeper than usual.

  “What?”

  “Oh, one of my earbuds has been cutting in and out, and now it’s gone completely. I’m going to have to listen in mono now.”

  “You could try getting it repaired,” Doreen suggested.

  “What, here? In the arse-end-of-nowhere?”

  Doreen pursed her lips. She wished her ex-husband would take Peaches more often. “Yes, here. Weren’t you listening at the staff introductions just now? No, I suppose you weren’t. Well, they’ve got a sort of handyman person, called the Professor, and he’s supposed to be really good at fixing electrical and mechanical stuff.”

  Peaches looked dubious. “Never mind,” she said, unzipping her bag and pulling out a magazine. She flipped over onto her tummy to read it – or rather, flick through it, looking at the pictures. Doreen was still talking. Peaches cranked up the volume on her MP3 player to try to drown her out. The one working earbud cracked sharply several times, then cut in and out twice, then died completely. “Pants!” Peaches said again.

  #

  The ghostly sisters weren’t supposed to enter the rooms while guests were inside, but Boudica just couldn’t help herself. In life, she’d always been interested in other people. There was nothing she had liked more than snooping about other people’s homes when she had called upon them for a charity subscription, or eavesdropping on conversations at the local café, or gossiping with other spinsters over a cup of tea after church. Death had curtailed all of that, trapped as she was in the house she and her sisters had died in, until that whippersnapper of a priest had exorcised them. Being free, and a ghost should have been wonderful. Boo should have enjoyed the opportunity to spy on whoever she wanted, whenever she chose. Her sisters, however, never felt settled in t
he ghostly realm. Although they initially delighted in haunting people, they missed the cosy familiarity of their old house, and found the living world too fast paced. They were terrified of cars, and trains, and aeroplanes, (one of which had flown right through Louise in 1962). And so, they had chosen to settle here at the castle, a sanctuary where they felt at home. Boudica couldn’t spy in secrecy on the castle residents, of course, since supernatural beings could almost always detect each other. Besides, it didn’t feel right. So, for many years, her natural curiosity had been thwarted. Now, however, there were new people in the castle, people who wouldn’t be able to tell she was there. It wouldn’t hurt, would it, to just pop in and see what people were up to?

  So Boo had spent a happy afternoon darting from room to room. Now, however, she lingered in one particular room. It belonged to the married couple, Phil and Rachel, and Phil was in the process of lighting up a cigarette.

  “You’re not supposed to, you know,” his wife admonished, as she headed for the bathroom. “Health and safety regulations. No smoking anywhere inside.”

  “It’s just one,” he replied. “Besides, who’s going to know?”

  Me, Boo thought. And I can’t abide smoking. Filthy, disgusting habit! As a young woman, Boudica had been very popular with gentleman suitors. Everyone felt sure Boo would marry and settle down. However, each time Boo thought she might have found Mr. Right, he would light a gasper and her regard for him would drift away like smoke in the wind. In her opinion, tobacco was to blame for the loneliness she had felt for most of her life.

  Her temper flaring at the sight of this man’s forbidden cigarette, she flew down and hovered above his shoulder as he struck a match. Boo blew the flame out smartly. “Huh,” Phil said, and lit another. Again, Boo extinguished it. “Must be a draft,” he muttered to himself. He cupped his hand around next match, in such a way that Boo could not blow on it. Instead, she reached through his hand and pinched out the flame. As her ghostly hand passed through his, Phil felt like he was being pricked by a million tiny shards of ice. “Ow,” he said, and dropped the match. Shaking his hand, he pulled out another match. He tried again, and again, replacing the matches with a lighter, but to no avail. Still, he didn’t give up. Boo couldn’t believe he wasn’t getting the message. Finally, she grabbed the unlit cigarette from between his lips, held it out in front of her and tore it into little pieces, then hissed “We said, no smoking!” into Phil’s ear.

  Phil goggled in disbelief. “Who’s there?” he said.

  “Sorry honey?” his wife called from the bathroom. “Did you say something?”

  “Uh, no,” Phil called back. He was walking forward now, whipping his hands through the air where he had just seem his cigarette spontaneously fly up and tear itself to shreds. Boo giggled as she dodged his hands. On hearing the giggle, Phil froze.

  After a moment, he called out to his wife, “Sweetheart, can you bring me out a cold wet flannel? I’m going to have a lie down.”

  Rachel came out of the bathroom to find him lying on their bed, sweating. She plopped the flannel on his forehead, then noticed the cigarette lying broken on the ground. “Oh, aren’t you going to have a smoke after all?”

  “No,” Phil replied, with a shudder. “I don’t think I’m ever going to smoke again!”

  “Well, good,” said Rachel. Boo flew up and out of the room, her face stretched into a smirk of satisfaction.

  #

  Doreen had left her sulky daughter, and encouraged Della to go for a walk around the grounds, but Beryl stayed in. She flung herself onto her massive four poster bed and snuggled contentedly into the luxurious duvet. This was her reason for becoming a travel agent. Oh, sure, at her job interview she had made up something about wanting to help people to discover other countries and broaden their minds, and become more tolerant of each other, ultimately leading to world peace. She suspected her interviewer knew this was a lie, but he had nodded sagely, said, “Oh, me too!” and then he had told her about the perks. Ah, the fabulous perks! So far in her five years in the travel industry, Beryl had been on four junkets. Her first was a tropical island paradise – a heady mix of sand, sun and surf, not to mention cocktails in the pool bar. It was while perched on a bamboo barstool at Tricky Ricky’s Sticky-Tiki Lounge that Beryl had met Della and Doreen, each there representing competing travel agencies. Finding so much in common, the three had become firm friends. They had stuck cocktail umbrellas into their hair, and danced to throbbing music in sarongs and bare feet long into the night. Since then, they had contacted each other anytime a travel freebie was offered. It was Della who had seen this advertisement – a week of resort-style luxury in an ancient castle, owned by a real count! They had booked immediately – it was just a pity that Doreen had to bring her daughter. Beryl had joked with the others that the count was probably a withered old crusty with thick glasses and a Zimmer frame. Well, they would find out tonight.

  Beryl sat up on the bed and pulled her handbag to her, opening the zip, and rummaging inside for the castle’s pamphlet. She smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the details yet again. Well, the room was certainly as described, beautifully appointed, with real antiques. Ah, here we are, she thought. “Enjoy a relaxing spa in the comfort of your room with state-of-the-art massaging shower heads. A touch of luxury.” That sounded divine. Beryl checked that the door was unlocked, so that her roommates could get in when they returned. Then she slipped out of her clothes and into a towel. She padded softly into the bathroom, opened the shower door and turned on the water.

  Under the torrent of hot water, Beryl felt the stresses of work begin to wash away. She breathed in the hot steam and let herself relax. There was a button on the wall of the shower marked “Massage.” With a little sigh of bliss, Beryl pushed the button. Behind the wall of the shower, levers tripped, cogs turned, magnets rotated, and a little spark of electricity re-animated long-dead tissue. A panel slid jerkily to one side, and an avocado green arm emerged. Its hand landed heavily on one of Beryl’s naked shoulders and began to knead and pummel the muscles it found there. Beryl screamed and jumped back, spinning to confront her attacker. The arm, deprived of its client, began to grope blindly about the shower cabinet. Beryl screamed again as the hideous fingertips brushed against her cheek, and bolted. Naked and dripping, she shot out of the bathroom and across her bedroom, flinging open the door and plunging hysterically into the corridor. As she dashed through the hallway, her cries of alarm brought other guests to their doors. Most of the guests were bemused to see a streak of pink flesh rocketing by.

  “Must’ve seen a mouse in her room, silly girlie,” Mr. Fisher remarked to his wife. Beryl hurtled down the main staircase and came to a halt in the foyer, crashing into Norm. Norm stared at her, jaw slack, trying to work out what he was seeing. Beryl stared back at him, trying control her panic. Harriet came bustling out of the reception office at that moment.

  “What on Earth…?” she began, then seeing Beryl’s state of undress, said sharply, “Norm! Give this young lady your jacket!”

  Big mistake. Norm shook himself and unzipped the oversize jacket of his track suit, offering it to Beryl, who slipped it on gratefully, then goggled. Although the physical trainer’s face and hands were an acceptable skin colour, his arms were the same revolting shade of green as the…thing…that attacked her in the shower. Beryl let out a wretched sob, and flung herself at Harriet, burying her face in the stocky woman’s shoulder. Harriet stroked her tangled wet hair, murmuring “There, there,” and making furious faces at Norm. “Go and hide,” she mouthed silently. After a few moments, Norm nodded slowly, and shuffled off.

  “His…arms!” Beryl snuffled.

  “Mmm,” Harriet agreed. “They were rather green, weren’t they? I…um…” She wracked her brain. “Um… I believe Norm has been clearing algae out of our goldfish pond.”

  “But he…I mean…his arms…his arm…he was in my shower!”

  Harriet frowned. What was this woman talking about
? “Your shower?”

  “My shower!” Beryl wailed.

  Confused and concerned, Harriet steered the distraught guest into an office behind the reception desk, and made her a cup of sweet milky tea. “There,” she said. “You’ll be quite safe here while I go and investigate.” Wide-eyed, Beryl nodded and sipped her soothing drink.

  Harriet found the door to Beryl’s room wide open. Cautiously, she entered. The bathroom door was open too, clouds of steam billowing out, accompanied by the sound of running water. Gingerly, she stepped into the offending room. In the shower, a muscular green arm was protruding from a hole in the wall, bent at the elbow and drumming its fingers against the wall, evidently bored.

  “Oh for goodness sake,” Harriet muttered. She took off her tweed jacket, rolled up the sleeve of her sensible blouse, and reached into the shower. The arm, detecting the tension in Harriet’s muscles, tried to massage her, but Harriet slapped it impatiently away, and depressed the massage button. The arm went limp, and with a whir and a whine, retracted into the wall. The white-tiled panel slid into place, and the shower once more looked harmless and inviting.

  Harriet sighed. She turned off the water, dried her arm on a towel, and replaced her jacket. Alright, she thought, step one, damage limitation. Aloud, she summoned Boo, Sue and Lou, all of whom appeared at once, materialising in crisp maid’s uniforms, (which Harriet found odd, as they would never be seen by guests). Harriet gave them their instructions. They were to go invisibly into the bathroom of every guest room in turn, and, without raising suspicion, ease shut the door and somehow wedge it closed, perhaps with towels. If a guest was already in the bathroom, they needed to wait until he or she left. If a guest was in the shower… well, then they had to get in the shower too, and by any means necessary prevent the massage panel from sliding across.

  At this, the old ghosts huffed indignantly. Getting in a shower with naked people! The very idea! However, Harriet was insistent, and so off they flew, still complaining, to carry out the task.

  Next, Harriet scooped up Beryl’s discarded clothes and took them down to the distraught girl. Then she summoned Violetta, and explained the situation. Leaving her to deal with the weeping Beryl, not to mention the new complaints that were now rolling in about jammed bathroom doors, Harriet strode out of the castle proper, through the kitchen gardens, and into the outbuildings that were designated the caretaker’s workroom. She paused for a moment, listening to the cacophony of mechanical rumblings from within, then rapped sharply on the old oak door. It creaked open by itself. “Hello?” she called out, entering the maelstrom. Inside, the cottage had been gutted. Its internal walls had been torn out, the cheery fireplaces demolished and the flagstone floor pulled up. Billows of steam were causing the wallpaper to peel forlornly away from the remaining walls. Gigantic cogs, wheels, camshafts, pulleys, ratchets and rack and pinion systems churned away, all spinning, grinding, pumping and pulling, working some mysterious magic deep in the castle, by means of connected ropes, belts and levers. A huge boiler in the middle of the room rattled and whined, a whistling steam-kettle noise issuing from its vent every few seconds. This beast was connected to a set of fat pipes which dove underground and presumably led to the castle. Scattered around the room, disembodied hands held pieces of equipment in place, or scampered to and fro carrying tools. In the middle of this chaos was the Professor, conducting the machines as if he was the focus of a symphony orchestra.

 

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