The Ottoman Motel

by Christopher Currie

  Ned rubbed his neck. ‘It’s sort of hard to explain.’ He moved his tongue around in front of his teeth. ‘Is there something you love doing, Simon?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is there something that you’d always rather be doing, rather than anything else?’

  Simon thought. ‘I like reading,’ he said. ‘Reading books.’

  ‘Well, that’s what cooking was like for me. But imagine if someone told you where you had to read every day, which books you had to read, how fast you had to finish them—how would that feel?’

  ‘Not too good,’ Simon said.

  ‘Well cooking got to be like that for me. Once people knew I was good at it, they wanted more and more.’

  Simon thought he understood. ‘You mean, it wasn’t fun any-

  more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ned. ‘My life wasn’t just in a kitchen anymore. It was art galleries and racecourses and business meetings. No one was there to enjoy my food, they had other things on their mind.’ Ned gripped his head suddenly, trying to hold it still. He closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tight. ‘This place,’ he said. ‘Reception…Stephanie—my wife—she was a local.’ He smiled, but Simon thought he saw a glint of moisture at the edges of his eyes.

  Simon looked at the floor.

  ‘When she went…when she—’ Ned sighed. ‘It was like the sun had gone.’

  Simon thought about the game where he waited, trying to catch the moment when the light had completely gone away and afternoon became night. He never could. Time would just stretch out and slow so much that he would always forget to watch and by the time he’d remember what he was doing, it would already be night.

  ‘Anyway.’ Ned shook his head and winced. ‘Just wanted to check you were okay.’ He got up and walked to the door. ‘I’ll probably make some lunch soon,’ he said. ‘If you’re hungry.’

  Simon went to fetch a jumper from the pile of clothes Ned had left for him the night before. He felt all the better for having talked to Ned; his mind had settled. It was strange the way the sick feeling came in waves, one moment he was panicked, the next, calm. He pulled the jumper over his head and decided that he would walk down to the ocean. Out the front door, around the house, through the garden and over the dunes. He ached to see the water up close.

  As he walked out the bedroom door, he knew something strange was happening. It was a series of noises: slipping, straining sounds, and underneath a deep painful creak: Simon thought again of a ship. Coming out the door, he realised the sound was coming from a thick multicoloured rope tied to the banister on the landing, shifting and straining under a weight which Simon realised too slowly was Pony. The other end of the rope was wound around Pony’s belt. He leaned back into thin air, his feet planted firmly below the banister. He was wearing a battered felt hat, the kind they wore in the outback. Simon couldn’t work out how the thin rope was holding him up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Simon couldn’t help the waver of panic in his voice. Pony whipped his head up; his body swayed on the rope.

  ‘Standard safety tests,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ Simon pictured the entire banister giving way, Pony’s body spinning to the ground.

  ‘I’m seeing how much pressure it can take.’

  ‘But—but what if it breaks?’

  ‘Then I’ll know it’s not safe. Don’t you listen to anything?’

  Simon’s leg itched. ‘But won’t it be weaker if you keep putting pressure on it? Won’t it be less safe than if you did nothing at all?’

  Pony gave him a dark stare. ‘How’s the search going?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure. Ned had…you probably heard. The rock.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pony’s face fell. ‘Help me back, can you?’

  Simon took Pony’s hand, and helped him clamber back onto the landing. Pony unwound the rope from his waist, loosening a series of complicated knots. ‘You want a muesli bar?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Simon. ‘Thanks.’ He realised he was quite hungry.

  Pony pulled out two bars with faded wrappers and gave one to Simon. He sat down with his back against the banister and Simon did the same.

  Simon had never really seen Pony’s face close up. Most of the pores on his nose and down his cheeks were clogged with dirt. Simon had learned all about pores from his mother. He’d seen diagrams in the brochures she had. Cleansers and toners penetrating deep into pores: little drawings of blue arrows driving out particles of dirt from the evil bulbous holes.

  ‘So,’ said Pony, chewing a large mouthful, ‘Why don’t you ever talk?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t seem to talk that much. You don’t seem to be interested in other people.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  Pony shook his head. He finished his muesli bar in another giant mouthful and put the wrapper back into his pocket.

  ‘I suppose I don’t talk to anyone that much,’ said Simon.

  ‘You mean, not just here?’

  Simon didn’t say anything.

  Pony stared at the floor. Then he said, ‘Remember I told you both my parents died?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘You never asked me how it happened.’

  Simon fished in his mouth. A piece of nut from the muesli bar had lodged between two of his teeth. ‘I didn’t know you then. It would have been rude.’

  ‘I didn’t know you,’ said Pony, ‘and I asked about your parents.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Simon, not particularly meaning it.

  Pony cracked his knuckles. ‘That’s okay.’

  For a moment, Simon didn’t know what to say. Why should he have spoken to Pony? His parents had gone missing: making friends wasn’t the thing at the very front of his mind. Especially with someone who threw rocks at his door and made fun of his scars.

  ‘We’re not that different,’ said Pony. ‘That’s all I’m saying. I know it can be…not easy. When it’s your parents, I mean.’ His fingers twisted themselves into the rope.

  ‘Is this why you came here?’ said Simon. ‘Did the Gales adopt you?’

  Pony snorted, his laugh shooting out of him like a mistake too late to take back. ‘Not exactly,’ he said.

  Simon took a deep breath. ‘Do you think I’ll have to be adopted,’ he said, ‘if my mum and dad don’t come back?’

  Pony shook his head. ‘You’ve probably got other family to look after you.’

  ‘Not really.’ He thought. ‘There’s only Ir—my grandma. And she’s…not well.’

  ‘Iris.’ Pony rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Not well indeed.’

  Simon didn’t know what this was supposed to mean.

  ‘But your parents have got friends, or neighbours? People to look after you?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘We’ve moved around so much. My dad used to call his business his best friend.’ Simon felt a fresh sadness rustle in his stomach.

  ‘So it’s just you.’ Pony folded his mouth up. ‘We’re pretty much alike, then.’

  ‘Are we? I thought you didn’t like me.’

  ‘Because I tackled you.’

  ‘And made fun of my scars.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pony. ‘Sorry.’ He poked his fingers at Simon’s leg. ‘How did you get them?’

  ‘I fell out a window,’ he said. ‘When I was little. At my grandma’s house. She was looking after me.’

  ‘The window cut up your leg?’

  ‘No, the window was open. I fell into a greenhouse. Broke both my legs.’

  Pony winced. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’ Simon imagined him safety testing all the hotel’s window frames.

  ‘My grandma left me alone in my grandpa’s old study. She was gone a long time, and I climbed up on a desk and was leaning to look out the window when I…fell.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Not at first. I remember falling, but I can never really think about falling through the greenhouse. It was just a small one, where my grandma used to grow f
lowers. I broke…I got cut up pretty badly, especially—’ he pointed at his scars. ‘I was knocked out and my grandma didn’t find me for a while.’

  ‘Why not? Wouldn’t she have heard the crash?’

  ‘She was…taking some medicine. She was taking medicine then that wasn’t really good for her.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Pony. ‘Iris.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Simon, ‘but my mum didn’t let us talk to her after that.’

  Pony suddenly stood up. ‘What are you doing today Simon?’

  ‘I was going to go to the beach,’ said Simon. ‘I wanted to see the water.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Pony. ‘I know somewhere even better.’

  Sometimes, lying with his back to her, he would feel her fingers tracing down his back. She would smooth down his hunched shoulders, draw her hands over the old gouges of acne, over the deeper lesions: cigarette burns and unhealed bruises, cuts from forgotten blades. Her fingertips would sketch his spine as if tracing backwards through his life, making each wound disappear.

  ‘I can’t stay.’ Tarden’s voice rumbled in the quiet room. His feet moved up and down rhythmically against Iris’s leg.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  Tarden always reached a stage, when he was with Iris, when he would feel suddenly lost. Always a moment when he would find himself out of place in the ivory sheets and dappled seaside light. This was not where he belonged. He would never belong somewhere like here.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of important.’

  Iris rolled over, taking his face with her hands. ‘You’re a good man, Jack Tarden. You know that?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’ Even her hands: softer and more tender than he ever deserved.

  ‘You are. The way you’re helping with Bill and Louise. The whole town is lucky to have you. And poor Simon.’

  Tarden ran his hands over his face. He groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. His voice was muffled by his hands. He smelled seawater and wet plastic. Damp rust.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  For all the world, he wanted to tell her. For all the world, he wanted to take her away.

  ‘You can tell me.’ Iris stroked his arm.

  Tarden knew this feeling too well, words roaring red in his mind, demons too big to exit his body. Then another thought, another layer. ‘Simon told me you were sick.’ These words came out lightly, with no comprehension of their weight.

  Iris shrank away from him and drew up the sheets. ‘Did he.’

  Tarden turned to face her. His arm ached, had ached for years. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But…Jesus. I had no idea.’

  Her eyelids fluttered and closed.

  He said, ‘You were the reason they came here.’ It sounded cruel.

  ‘Five years,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know how long that actually is? Not to hear your daughter’s voice, your grandson’s?’ A tear shivered at the inner corner of her eye.

  Tarden reached out a hand, touched her temple. He was sure he could feel her blood, running just below the skin. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s not something you ask someone like me, is it. Any family? Any life outside these four walls?’ She turned over, cocooning in the sheet, so all Tarden could see was her back: the soft white skin of her shoulders.

  ‘You could have told me,’ he said.

  Iris started to cry, a sound that still gave Tarden chills of white-hot guilt. ‘You shouldn’t feel like…it’s not your fault.’

  Iris let out a wet laugh. ‘You have no idea. I’m the reason I haven’t seen them in so long. I’m the reason they came here. I’m the reason they went missing.’ Her sobbing became a howl of lost breath.

  Tarden drew her in close, holding her tightly. ‘Don’t say that. It’s not true.’ He pictured Bill and Louise’s car parked inside his shed. He said, ‘They’ll turn up soon. We’ll find them.’ He moved his face closer to hers. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘This bloody town,’ she whispered.

  ‘This town?’

  ‘It’s a bolt-hole. All of us—we’re not doing anything right.’

  Tarden felt a prickle of heat. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Life isn’t—’ she paused. ‘There’s always something trailing you, and it’ll always catch up. Like a…well that you’re drawing up.’

  ‘Well I sure as hell didn’t come here to haul up my past.’

  ‘Jack,’ Iris turned back to him, ‘I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean you.’

  Tarden looked away from her gaze. ‘Nearly sixty years of my life, and this is all anyone thinks of me.’

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘No. You’re right. This place is an escape. This town is for people who have apparently not done one worthwhile thing in their life. This is what you get for being honest with people.’ Tarden stuck out his hand to an imaginary partner. ‘Pleased to meet you. Name’s Jack Tarden. Recovering alcoholic. Recovering gambler. Fifteen years for accessory to murder.’

  Iris held his gaze. ‘This isn’t you,’ she said.

  Tarden’s head burned. ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘And I’ll be fucked if I’ll do it anymore.’

  ‘Jack. Stay with me. We’ll talk some more.’

  She was just a helpless old woman. Tarden saw this now. Her eyes spider-veined, her mouth hinged with lines of sadness. He got out of the bed and started pulling on his trousers. ‘If it’s all the same with you,’ he said, ‘I’m pretty sick of talking. Time I actually did something.’

  She reached out for him as he walked away. ‘Jack, just—’

  ‘Shall I send in whoever’s next?’ He watched Iris’s face fall, and felt the sharp edge of satisfaction at having wounded her so deeply.

  The afternoon sun was low and Pony adjusted his hat for shade. ‘This is it.’

  Simon could still see the Gales’ house, a corner of it. They had taken a right turn at the bottom of the driveway and followed a short overgrown track. Pony was on his bike and Simon had borrowed an old one of Ned’s, but it was such a short distance Simon wondered why they hadn’t just walked. A tall chain-link fence was once a barrier to intruders, but had now either collapsed or rusted away. The iron gate had long ago come off its hinges and fallen onto the ground by the entrance.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Pony. ‘Come on.’

  He led Simon through the entrance; Simon followed Pony’s footsteps exactly. Dry leaves and fern fronds covered the ground. By the entrance was the old ticket booth, an oblong sentry’s box with a faded sign, a glittering carpet of broken glass on the ground around it.

  ‘Ned told me they built it about fifteen years ago,’ said Pony. ‘Didn’t stay open long because it was so close to the beach where you could swim for free. Stupid, really. Ned also told me to stay away because it’s dangerous.’ He grinned.

  Simon saw horrible images of children running barefoot over the glass, blood running into cement cracks.

  ‘I’m going to restore it,’ said Pony.

  ‘Restore it?’

  ‘Yeah. No one uses it anymore, so I’ve claimed it.’ Pony stuck his thumbs under his armpits as if he was wearing braces. ‘Squatter’s rights.’

  ‘But won’t people still go to swim at the beach?’

  Pony looked at Simon like he was slow. ‘I’m not going to reopen it as a swimming pool,’ he said. ‘I’m going to reopen it as a restaurant.’ He pointed to the ticket booth. ‘That’ll be the cloakroom. The front gate is where I’ll be most of the time, greeting people, seeing who’s arriving.’ He walked away from Simon. ‘This is the best bit, though.’

  Simon followed him, gingerly stepping over broken glass and cracked pavers. They came to the pool itself, which was far bigger than Simon had imagined. At the near end—the shallow end—there was an angry mass of wrinkled canvas: an old pool cover, faded and desiccated by countless summers. Dirt and foliage caked the once-white pool f
loor, the black lane markers now only pale suggestions. At the deep end, someone had abandoned an old card table. It looked for all the world like some cumbersome animal that had lost its balance and toppled in.

  ‘Up here!’ Pony’s voice cracked overhead. Simon looked up to see Pony strutting along the top tier of a wooden grandstand, the seats nothing more than long benches. One entire row had completely fallen away, and others were rotten and crumbling.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ said Simon.

  Pony turned around. ‘I’ve tested it,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’ He scrambled down the rows, zigzagging back and forth, stuttering steps in places, loping full strides in others. ‘Come on!’

  Simon peered down the gap. He saw remnants of the bench below, pieces covered in moss. The grass was striped too, green and brown, where the rain and sun fell between the gaps.

  ‘Here we go then,’ said Pony, stretching across to place one foot either side of the gap. He held out his hands. Simon looked at him sceptically. ‘Don’t be a pussy,’ said Pony, grabbing Simon under the armpits and swinging him effortlessly across the gap. Simon gasped at Pony’s strength. ‘There,’ said Pony. ‘Easy.’ He swung his leg back past Simon and bustled past him.

  ‘Wait,’ said Simon. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Really?’

  Pony spun around. ‘What? Just because I’m short.’

  ‘No,’ said Simon, ‘sorry. I didn’t mean—it’s just I didn’t realise how strong you were.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You have to be, don’t you.’

  Simon knew this was another question that didn’t want to be answered. He followed Pony to the top of the grandstand, and Pony pulled two more muesli bars from his pockets. ‘I don’t know if I’ll keep these seats,’ he said. ‘I want the best views to be from down there.’ He pointed at the pool.

  ‘How will the waiters get down with the food?’ said Simon. ‘They won’t be able to carry it down a ladder.’

  ‘I’ll put in steps, probably,’ said Pony. ‘Or a door in the side. But the people who come here to eat will have to climb down to get to the dining room floor.’