“Unlucky, aye, Janet and Kevin both,” McCann reiterated, with a customary nod and confidential finger tapping his nose. “But as tae who was unluckiest . . . well, at least Janet’s still here!”
“Kevin?” I raised a querying eyebrow.
“He was her husband,” McCann answered. “And he had the self-same problem as mah old man and yersel’ – er, no offence! But ye’ll ken mah meanin’.”
“No offence taken,” I answered. “And I’m not convinced that I was ever a full-fledged alcoholic anyway. You see, it affects me very quickly and so badly that I’ve never been able to drink that much in the first place! But whether or no, I’m off it and glad to be.” Which was at least half true: I was off it.
“Enough said,” said he, and again his nod of understanding.
“So?” I shrugged, as if only casually interested. “This, er, Kevin is Mrs Anderson’s husband? And he what? Ran off and left her or something?”
He gave me an odd look. “Aye, or somethin’ . . .” But then:
“Ye ken,” said McCann, “I’ve always believed there’s only one right and proper way tae tell a story, and that’s frae the beginnin’. And for that I’ll need tae take ye back tae Polperro all of seven long years ago. That’s where they met and wed, and began their first business venture together: a small hotel that was on the slide when they bought it and kept right on slidin’. The Andersons, aye – a verra odd couple from the start! Janet, so straight-laced and, well, just straight! – but naturally so, ye ken? I mean: never holier-than-thou, no, not at all. Just a steady, levelheaded lass. As for Kevin, her junior by some seven or eight years: he was a wee bit immature, somethin’ o’ a Jack-the-lad, if ye get mah meanin’. Like chalk and cheese, the pair o’ them, but they do say opposites attract. And anyway, who was I tae judge or make observations? Nobody.
“As to who I really was:
“I was the top chef on a cruise liner until I lost mah job tae a poncy French cook who was havin’ it off with the captain! Anyway, that’s a whole other story. The thing is, I was discharged frae mah duties in Plymouth in the summer, and so took time off to rethink mah life. A bit o’ tourin’ found me in Polperro, and that’s where I met up with Kevin in a pub one night. He had a few personal problems, too, for which reason he was sinkin’ a dram or two . . . or perhaps three or four. This was before Janet knew just how dependent he was becomin’ – on booze, ye ken.
“But how’s this for a coincidence, eh? Kevin and Janet Anderson, they’d purchased their wee place just a month ago, since when a cook they’d taken on had walked out over some petty argument or other. So there they were without a chef, and me, Gavin McCann, I was without mah cook’s whites! But no for long.
“Well, I took the job, got mahsel’ installed in the Lookout – a place as wee and quaint as ye could imagine, sittin’ there on a hill – and cooked mah heart out for the pair; because ‘A’ they paid a decent wage and ‘B’ I really liked them. They treated me right and were like family, the Andersons. She was like a little sister, while he . . . well, I found Kevin much o’ a muchness as I mahsel’ had been as a young man fifteen years earlier. So I could sort o’ watch over her while yet enjoyin’ a wee dram with him frae time tae time. That was before his drinkin’ got a lot more disruptive, which, lookin’ back on it now, didn’t take all that long. No, not long at all.
“Ye see, the fact is he couldn’t face up tae responsibility o’ any kind. Kevin wasn’t a waster as such – he wasn’t a complete good-for-nothin’, ye understand – but simply immature. And when it came tae takin’ charge, makin’ decisions, well, he just couldn’t. Which put a load o’ weight on poor Janet’s wee shoulders. And him feelin’ useless, which I can only suppose he must have, that fuelled the need which only drink could satisfy. And it’s a fact that many alcoholics drink because they’re unhappy. Kevin was unhappy, I’m certain sure o’ that . . . not with Janet, but with his own weaknesses.
“Now, I’ve told ye how the Lookout was goin’ downhill. That was partly because it had been up for sale, empty for a year or so, and was in need o’ repairs, some sprucin’ up and a touch o’ paint here and there. And bein’ located inland a mile or so, it wasn’t exactly ye’re typical seafront property. Janet’s plan -and ye’ll note I say her plan, because she was the thinker, aye and the doer, too - was tae refurbish the place in the autumn and through the winter, when tourism fell off, and get it ready for the spring and summer seasons, when all the grockles – the holidaymakers – would be back in force. O’ course, with bills and a mercifully small mortgage tae be paid, it was still necessary that the Lookout should tick over and stay in the black through that first winter.
“Anyway, I ken now that I was perhaps a bit insensitive tae what was happenin’ with Kevin but it was Janet hersel’ brought it tae mah attention. She asked me straight out but in a verra cordial manner, not tae drink so much with Kevin because it was ‘interferin" with business. And I finally saw what she meant.
“Kevin sometimes worked the bar: oh aye, servin’ drinks was one of the few things he was good at. In fact he was verra good at it! For every drink I bought in the bar when I was done with mah work in the kitchen, there’d be another ‘on the house’ frae him. And for every free one Kevin served me, he’d serve another tae himsel’. The bar was scarcely makin’ a penny because he was drinkin’ it up as fast as he took it in!
“But though his eyes might glaze and his speech slur a wee, he was rarely anythin’ other than steady as a rock on his feet. That’s the kind o’ drunk he was, aye. Which I suppose makes his passin’ just a might more peculiar. I mean, it was unlike Kevin tae fall, no matter how much he’d put down his neck . . . But fall he did. Cracked his skull, broke his back, and even crushed his ribs, though how that last came about is anybody’s guess . . . !”
When McCann paused to sip at his drink I took the opportunity to get a few questions in. “Kevin’s passing? You mean there was as accident: he got drunk, fell and died? My God! But with all those injuries . . . that must have been some fall, and from one hell of a height!”
“Ye’d think so, would ye no?” McCann cocked his head on one side enquiringly. “But no, not really. No more than nine or ten feet, actually, or maybe thirteen, if ye include the balcony wall.”
The balcony wall? And then, as certain of the Seaview’s hitherto unexplained curiosities – its mysteries – began slotting themselves uneasily into place, suddenly I saw it coming. But to be absolutely certain: “And what balcony would that be?” I asked, my own voice and question distant in my ears, as if spoken by some other.
“The one on the corner there,” he answered. “The balcony on room number seven, which Janet lets stand empty now, though for no good reason that I can see. A room’s a room, is it no? If we were all tae shun rooms or houses where kith and kin died, why, there’d be nowhere left for us tae live! I mean, a body has tae die somewhere, does he no?”
To which, for a moment or two, I could find no answer . . .
He had obviously seen the look on my face and sensed the change in me.
“Ah hah!” he gasped. “But . . . ye came in today, did ye no? And ye found the place full tae brimmin’, all except room seven. Well, well! And she actually let ye have it, did she? So then, maybe things are lookin’ up after all. And no before time at that.”
While I now understood something of what had happened here, there were still several vague areas. Since McCann had intimate knowledge of the Andersons, however – since he’d known them and worked for them all those years – it seemed more than likely he would be able to fill in the blank spots.
Unfortunately, before I could get anything more out of him, Janet Anderson herself came into the bar-room, smiling and nodding at myself and her chef as she crossed to the bar where one of the Czech girls was serving. The pair spoke briefly over the bar, before Mrs Anderson headed back our way and paused to have a word with us, or rather with McCann.
“Do excuse me,” she spoke to me first. And then
to McCann: “Gavin, I know you’re off-duty and I so dislike disturbing you, but would you mind doing up some sandwiches – say nine or ten rounds – for an evening fishing party? I would have asked you earlier, but they’ve only just spoken to me. And of course you may keep the proceeds.”
McCann was up on his feet at once. “No problem at all, mah bonny,” he said. And to me, as he turned to go: “I’m obliged to ye for ye’re company—” with a knowing wink and a finger to his nose, “—But now ye must excuse me.” With which he was gone . . .
I too had stood up at Janet Anderson’s approach. Now I offered her a seat and asked if she would like something: a soft drink, perhaps? But she shook her head, saying: “It’s kind of you, but there’s always work: things to be done, problems to solve.” And yet, seeming uncertain of herself and of two minds, she continued to hover there, until finally I felt I had to enquire: “Is there perhaps, er, something . . . ?”
“Oh, no!” She smiled, her hand on my arm, where I sensed a tremor coming through the sleeve of my light jacket. But in another moment the smile left her face, and taking a deep breath, as if suddenly arriving at a decision, she said, “Please do sit down, Mr Smith.” And as I seated myself she quickly, nervously continued: “You see, I . . . well, it’s just that I’ve been wondering about . . . about your room. Room number seven hasn’t had a paying guest for quite a while, and empty rooms often develop a sort of neglected, even unfriendly atmosphere. I mean, what I’m trying to say is: do you find the room comfortable enough? Have you any complaints? Does the room feel, well, right for you?”
“Why, yes!” I replied. “Everything feels just fine!” Which wasn’t exactly true, and I would have preferred to answer: “Why are you asking me such odd questions, Mrs Anderson? I mean, what else is there about that room – other than what I already know of your troubles – that so concerns you?” But since I did know at least that much, and since it was obvious that she was close to the edge, I was naturally unwilling to risk pushing her over. And anyway, if anything remained to be discovered, I believed I could probably find out about it later from McCann. But for the moment, because she was still standing there, I added, “In fact you needn’t be at all concerned, because I find the room private and very pleasant. As for complaints: I simply don’t have any! I would have to be very fussy to call one small fault a complaint, now wouldn’t I? And—”
“—A fault?” she cut me off. “Something . . . well, not quite right? Something you find just a little, er, odd, perhaps?” Her voice was beginning to shake along with her hands.
“No,” I quickly answered, finding her nervousness – or perhaps more properly her anxiety – disconcerting. “Nothing at all that you might call ‘odd’.” Which again wasn’t the entire truth. “It’s just the view, Mrs Anderson! Just the view from the balcony.” By which I meant the partial or sidelong view of the seafront, the beach, and the blue expanse of the bay itself.
But she obviously thought I meant something else. “The view across the road,” she said with a knowing nod. “And up the hill to that awful old place.” And even though she was steadier now, still her words had come out as breathless as a whisper.
“No, really—” I began, shaking my head. “I’m only talking about—”
But she had already turned and was moving a little unsteadily away, and over her shoulder, interrupting me before I could continue, she very quietly said, “Well if I were you, Mr Smith, I wouldn’t look at it. Yes, it’s best not to look at it, that’s all . . .”
And that did it. Whatever this thing is in me – this lodestone that forever seeks to point me towards the strange and the nonesuch – I was feeling it now as an almost tangible force. And of course I knew that having begun to investigate I must follow it through and track the mystery down. Because if once again I was about to come face to face with . . . well whatever, then I damn well wanted to know everything there was to know about it!
And so I stayed there at that corner table, nursing nothing like a real drink, for at least another hour, until it was dark out and the bar had all but emptied, and still Gavin McCann had not returned. Finally, as the last few guests went off to their rooms or wherever, and the Czech girl was shuttering the bar, I went to her and enquired after the Seaview’s chef.
“Gavin?” she said, smiling. “Oh, he’ll have gone into town. I think there’s a place where they playing the jazz musics. Gavin like a lot these musics. He going most nights.”
More than a little frustrated, I said my thanks, goodnight, and went up to my room. There was always tomorrow . . . perhaps
I could find this jazz bar tomorrow night. But in any case, right now I was feeling tired. It had been a long day. And a weird one . . .
I went out on my balcony, sat in the deckchair in the darkness, with only the street lighting, the glimmer of myriad stars in a clear sky, and the sweeping headlights of vehicles on the steep road for company. Though the flow of the traffic wasn’t especially heavy, still the engine sounds of the cars seemed subdued. Which wasn’t so strange really, because as I had already noted – and as McCann had pointed out in detailing Kevin Anderson’s tragic fall – the balcony was some nine or ten feet above the pavement. This meant that most of the noise was muffled, contained within the road’s canyon-like cutting, while the rest of it was deflected upwards by the balcony’s wall.
With Anderson’s demise in mind, I went to the low wall and looked over. Hard to imagine that someone toppling to the road from here could actually kill himself. Or maybe not, not if he fell on his head. But as for broken ribs: well, that was difficult to picture. Was it possible he’d slipped and fallen with his chest across the wall before he toppled over?
I shook my head, went and sat down again.
The night was refreshingly cool now. To my right, far down below, the glow of seafront illuminations fell on a straggle of couples in holiday finery, strolling arm in arm along the promenade. But I was straining my neck again, and in a little while I averted my gaze, repositioned and reclined my deckchair, and lay back more or less at ease.
Looking across the road and up at a steep angle, I saw the upper reaches of the hillside silhouetted as a solid black mass set against a faint blue nimbus: the glow from the town centre, nestled in a shallow valley lying just beyond the ridge. But as my eyes gradually adjusted, so the silhouette took on a variety of dusky shapes, the most recognizable being that of the derelict hotel.
Where before warm summer sunlight had come slanting through the flat roof’s ornamental gables, now there was only the glow of the hidden town’s lights . . . like huge three-cornered eyes, burning faintly in the night. And the longer I looked the more acute my night vision became, so that soon the hotel’s entire façade was visible to me, if only in degrees of grey and black shade. But . . . that feeling, that sensation, of other, perhaps inimical eyes staring at me was back, and it was persistent. I gave myself a shake, told myself to wake up, laughed at my own fancies. But then, when the chuckles had died away, I strained my eyes more yet to penetrate the night, the smoky frontage of that forsaken old place. And as before I examined its façade – or what I could see of it – from top to toe.
First the flat roof and false gables with their background glow: ghostly but lifeless, inert. Next the face of the place: its window eyes – yet more eyes, yes, but glazed and blind – staring sightlessly out over their balconies. And three floors down the balustraded patio with its trio of guardian parasols.
Except now they were no longer a trio, only a pair . . .
I stared harder yet. On the far right, as before, that one leaned like a bowsprit or a slender figurehead over the corner of the parapet wall. At the far left its opposite number – the one with the partly collapsed canopy – continued to stand upright, but in the still of the night its torn canvas no longer flapped but simply hung there like a dislodged bandage.
So then, maybe the third member of the watch, the one that had seemed intact, had finally fallen over, the victim of grav
ity or a rotted, broken pole, or both.
But here an odd and fanciful thought. Perhaps there was a reason – albeit a hitherto subconscious one – why I imagined and likened these inanimate things to sentinels, guardians, or more properly yet guardian angels: simply that there was something about them. But what? At which point in my introspection, as my gaze continued its semi-automatic descent down the overgrown hillside’s night dark terraces, I discovered the missing parasol.
It stood halfway down the terraces facing in my direction. Now I say “facing” because in the darkness it had taken on the looks of a basically human figure that seemed to be gazing out across the bay . . . or perhaps not. Perhaps it was staring down at me?
Let me explain, because I’m pretty sure that you will know what I mean – that you will have seen and even sheltered from the sun under any number of these eight-foot-tall umbrellas in as many hotel gardens and forecourts home and abroad – and so will recognize the following description and understand what I am trying to say.
At the apex of a parasol, its spokes are hinged on a tough wire ring threaded through a circular wooden block. Now this is a vulnerable junction of moving parts – indeed the most important part of the entire ensemble – for which reason it is protected overhead by a scalloped canvas cowl which also serves to overlap the main canopy, keeping unseasonal rains out. When the parasol is not in use and folded down, however, this cowl often looks like a small tent atop the main body of the thing.
Now, though, with visibility limited by the dark of night, and the canvas canopy not quite fully collapsed, it looked like something else entirely and loaned the contraption this vaguely human shape. The cowl had transformed into a peaked hood, while the partly folded canopy had become a cloak or cassock, so that overall the parasol’s appearance was now that of a stylized anthropomorph. It looked “human” but to much the same degree as a snowman looks human. It could be argued, however, that the snowman looks more nearly human on account of having eyes – albeit that they’re made from lumps of coal.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Page 45