by Paul Magrs
She was quite right, I was sure. I knew what would become of me, should I come to their attention.
‘I don’t understand, Brenda,’ Effie broke in. She was astonished at my submission and my silence. ‘What is she saying to you? What does it all mean? What have you done, Brenda?’
‘It’s just words,’ said Robert. ‘She’s just weaselling and wriggling. She’s threatening Brenda. Bullying and browbeating her, like she does with everyone. She’s a wicked old hag. An evil succubus.’
‘Robert,’ laughed Mrs Claus, ‘you flatter me.’
‘What have you done to my aunt? ’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Claus, slowly and gently. ‘You found her, I hear. Now, that is very unfortunate. How terrible for you. What an awful shock. You must be brave, my dear. You must be a brave little boy. Your poor aunt, I am sorry to tell you, is dead.’
‘We know that,’ he spat. ‘We saw her. Frozen blue in your meat locker. And, presumably, about to be hacked into pieces and baked into a pie.’
‘What?’ Mrs Claus gave a strangled cry of delight. ‘A pie? Auntie Jessie baked in a pie? A waitress pie, hm? A chambermaid tart?’ She chortled and wiggled her fat painted toes at the end of the kimono. ‘Now, whatever gave you such an idea, my boy?’
He paused. ‘Well,’ he stammered, ‘Jessie did. She kept telling me, and others, that that’s what you and Chef were up to. The vanished elves. Baked in pies.’
‘Delicious!’ cried Mrs Claus. ‘Ridiculous!’ She clapped her hands with glee. ‘Do you hear that, Chef McFee? We’ve turned cannibals here at the Christmas Hotel! It must be true, if dear old Jessie was saying so. Tell me, Chef McFee, do you have many recipes for human flesh, hm?’
The chef was laughing, too. A wheezing, discomfiting noise. Beside him the night porter seemed uneasy, as he tried to join in with the laughter.
‘Pies, indeed.’ Mrs Claus shook her head. ‘My dear boy, your poor aunt’s mind was gone. It had shrivelled to the size of a raisin. Her good sense had vanished. She had become a most peculiar person, in the last, late days of her life. Since her final visits to the Deadly Boutique, I believe she had lost her reason, along with her youthful looks. Pies, for goodness’ sake! I love my little elves! Why on earth would I feed them to my clientele?’
Robert flinched. ‘I don’t know. But my aunt is still dead. Why is she dead? Why is she in your meat locker?’
The woman’s face twisted into a sympathetic leer. ‘We have been trying to get hold of you all evening. Since yesterday we have been trying to think of the best way to tell you. The gentlest way.’
‘What?’
‘Your aunt’s body was exhausted. It had taken too much punishment in the Deadly Boutique. You know what Mr Danby was up to? He was draining the life force out of the women who visited it. He was using his bizarre machine to drain the excess years out of them, bottling all their unwanted time, then siphoning it into his old mother. Well, at least that’s finished now. But the process was tricky and sometimes disastrous. Your poor auntie reverted, didn’t she? Her body couldn’t stand the strain. She was discovered in the morning room yesterday. She’d been dusting, bless her.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘As I said, we wanted to break it gently.’
‘I thought she had vanished. Been murdered. Because she knew too much.’
Mrs Claus tutted. ‘You’ve been hanging around with these two silly old women. They’ve filled your lovely head with their paranoid, lurid fantasies. They’ve made you believe outlandish things.’
‘But Jessie’s in the freezer . . .’
‘Only until tomorrow. We could hardly have her lying about in the hotel, could we?’
‘I - I don’t know what to think . . .’
‘Don’t believe her,’ snapped Effie. ‘She twists everyone round her little finger.’
‘You’re tired, my boy,’ said Mrs Claus. ‘You need to rest. You need to absorb this terrible news about your aunt. You need to get over the shock.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. I feel . . . numb with it.’
‘That is to be expected.’ Mrs Claus clicked her fingers. ‘Colin, Timothy.’ Two of the elves dancing attendance on her stepped forward. ‘Take Robert back to the staff quarters. See that he rests. Give him anything he needs. Take him some cocoa. Comfort him as best you can.’ The elves nodded and gave their mistress a queer, elvish salute.
‘Robert . . .’ I began, before they whisked him away, but the words died in my throat. It was hopeless, I knew. The anger had died in him. He had been reabsorbed into life at the Christmas Hotel.
Effie and I were left standing there, facing Mrs Claus. Effie jutted out her chin defiantly. ‘What are you going to do with us?’
The proprietress rattled cerise nails against perfect teeth. ‘I’m not sure yet, Effie dear. But I can’t have the pair of you running about the countryside, broadcasting my secrets to all and sundry. I shall have to think carefully about how to proceed.’
She knew she had won this round. The fight had gone out of us. When she commanded her chef and her porter to drag us away and lock us up, we could barely summon the energy to resist.
They took us to a tiny boxroom, hidden at the top of the building, where we were roughly tied up and gagged.
Escapology turned out to be an amateur enthusiasm of Effie’s. Which was handy, although she had mastered only half the skills necessary to free us. She had learned enough, though, to undo the most chafing and uncomfortable knots. Then she ungagged us.
With all the wriggling and writhing (where on earth, I wondered, had she learned escapology?), Effie wore herself out. We sat there, semi-liberated, in the attic gloom. Then: ‘I’ve got a knife!’ she remembered. She fished around in her bag and produced the glinting implement.
‘Pity you didn’t think of it sooner,’ I said.
‘What? Fight our way out?’ She whistled through her false teeth. ‘Stabbed them all and made a run for it? I think there’s been enough violence, don’t you?’ My wrists were burning as she sawed at the thick rope. ‘Keep still, woman.’
‘I don’t believe her for a second,’ I said, ‘about Jessie dropping dead. Do you?’
‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she said tersely.
‘Look how shifty they are. What sort of people hide bodies in meat lockers? So maybe they aren’t making them into pies, but they’re definitely hiding something. I think Jessie got too near the truth.’
Effie grunted with exertion, sawing through the last tough fibres of the bonds that held my wrists. She moved on to my ankles. ‘They’re all hellish creatures, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘What?’
‘All of them. Mrs Claus. Mr Danby. All these strange people we keep coming up against. What was it that voice told you the other night? Hell is bursting at the seams? Some of its inhabitants are already here among us? Well, I think we’ve met some already.’
‘I believe you’re right.’ Now I was thinking about Robert, drawn back into the world of this macabre hotel, whisked away from us, drugs in his cocoa, hidden away with the elves.
‘And you, Brenda,’ Effie said. ‘Are you one of the damned?’
I swallowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But I knew she had had to ask, after everything Mrs Claus had insinuated. The owner of the Christmas Hotel knew so much about our recent activities, and seemed to know so much about me, and she had aired snippets of those secrets tantalisingly in front of Effie. It was as if she understood how little I had divulged about myself, even to my best friend in Whitby.
‘I don’t think I’m damned,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Not if that word means what I believe it means. There’s no place reserved for me in hell or anywhere else. Nowhere in the hereafter will have any room for me. I have to stay on the earth. I’m made of clay. Nothing else.’
I felt Effie’s hands withdraw. She had stopped sawing at the ropes. I felt her inch away from me. ‘What are you?’ she said, in a small voice.
I paused. ‘You . . . have had certain ideas about me. You’ve had your suspicions. You knew I wasn’t quite normal. I rather hoped, Effie, that we could leave it at that. You trusted me. You knew as much as you needed to know.’
‘That was fine,’ she said, ‘for a time. I could live with not quite knowing who . . . or what you are. But things have changed, haven’t they, Brenda? I feel like we’re stepping into a situation . . . a whole world of new and terrible dangers. We . . . I need to be prepared for whatever we might face.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘You deserve to know the truth.’ I rubbed my sore ankles together. ‘Would you mind continuing to free me? I’m not going to hurt you, am I?’
Effie shook her head dumbly, and set back to work. ‘I’ve been going round in circles, trying to figure out what it was about you,’ she whispered. ‘I was beating my brains, trying to work it out. I’ve formed the most outlandish theories. I thought you were . . . Well, never mind.’
‘You thought I was what?’
‘I thought you’d been a man at one point. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said. I thought you were a man trying to live as a woman. I thought, Don’t pry. Live and let live. And then I thought . . . perhaps she’s a criminal. A murderess who has paid her debt to society and wants to start afresh. Or perhaps you were on a witness-protection programme, living under an alias. I mean, it’s all very strange, you having no family, no friends, no history to speak of. Just a few vague mentions of your travels, all the different places and people and homes you’ve known.’
Poor Effie. It didn’t seem fair somehow, that I’d kept her in the dark. As a person, Effie is quite straightforward - prosaic, Mrs Claus had mockingly called her. She likes to know what’s what. No ambiguities. No vagueness or coyness. I must have driven her crazy with all my evasions.
‘Then,’ she went on, still sawing away, ‘I realised something odd. About your age. I thought you must be about the same as me. Remember that chat we had about bus passes? But you drop in references to things that even I’m too young to remember. The abdication. I remember you saying something about the newspapers then and I was brought up short. Could you really be as old as that? You mentioned the Martians’ invasion. That was at the end of the nineteenth century - the very end! There seemed no way you could be that old. And I stared at you, trying to gauge how old you were. And it’s very hard to tell, Brenda, because of how thick you wear your makeup. And - forgive me - the scars on your face made me wonder . . . whether something truly awful had happened to you. During the war, perhaps. Or some accident that had left you terribly damaged and traumatised. Things, at any rate, that you would never, ever talk about. And perhaps you were an amnesiac - you didn’t even know what atrocious things had happened to you . . . to make you like this.’
Effie fell silent. Hot tears were going down my face and they itched. They made all that makeup feel sticky and claggy. ‘Am I really so monstrous?’ I asked. ‘Am I really so strange to look at? I thought - I hoped - I was blending in?’
Effie got up and twisted round. Still kneeling, she came closer to me. We’re both bad at proximity. We’re neither of us touchy-feely people. But just then Effie overcame her natural reserve and hugged me. Hard and rather fiercely. ‘You’re not a monster,’ she whispered.
By then I was sobbing loudly. Ashamed to think of it now. There we were. Locked up. Mortal danger. Me crying like a baby. ‘You don’t understand, Effie. I really am a monster. My father’s second monster. He created my husband. And my husband demanded that a second creature was made. A female. A bride, Effie. Me.’
Not much more was said that evening.
There would be time, later, to talk further. Should we escape, that was.
Now we had to turn our attention to effecting that escape: to leaving this sinister hotel safely and getting home.
But I had let my mask drop. I had let my secret out. The worst thing I could imagine doing. I had told Effie the most frightening, unbelievable truth about myself.
I had watched her face as she swallowed it. As she understood. Her eyes had widened fractionally. She had nodded. Then she set to work again and soon we were free, rubbing life back into our limbs.
‘The door’s not terribly secure,’ she said. ‘This lock isn’t up to much.’
I took my cue. She knew how strong I was. I had no need to hide it now. I took a few steps back and launched myself at the boxroom door. Its lock splintered easily from the wormy wood.
Effie and I advanced into the long corridor, she brandishing her stolen knife, me prepared to punch somebody’s lights out. But on that top floor we saw no one. We found a staircase, smelling of lino and bleach, and hurried down several flights. Still we saw no one. Dawn was breaking over the headland. We peered out of a dirty window to see the pale, streaky pink light. ‘Shall we try to find Robert?’
Effie shook her head. ‘I think he’ll be safe for now. And we don’t want to end up in the same place as Jessie.’
I was in two minds. I didn’t think Robert would be particularly safe, but he would have to take his chances. Effie and I had a duty to look after ourselves.
We emerged from our staircase on to an upper landing at the head of the stairs that led to Reception. In the gloom before dawn, all the tinsel and streamers were even more macabre. The fairylights on the tall artificial tree failed to instil any cheer: they were icy blue.
‘Almost there, Effie,’ I whispered.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t been seen—’
Just at that moment the night porter spotted us. He was slumped in his alcove, dozing on the job. He jerked awake with a cry of outrage as we were hustling ourselves down the staircase and thundering past him across the monogrammed carpet. ‘You two!’ he yelled. ‘You two again! Sneaking out! After we found a nice snug room for you!’ He was on his feet, heading towards us.
I judged the distance to the main doors. Could we outrun him? They would be locked, perhaps. He was the night porter. That was what he was there for: to unlock the doors when strangers came knocking. The light slanting through them was chilly and bleak, but to me it was beautiful. It meant freedom. A new day. Fresh air. Things that, at various points in that night, I hadn’t expected to experience again.
‘Let us out!’ I shouted. ‘How dare you lot keep us prisoner? Let us out of this madhouse!’ If I woke some of the guests early, I didn’t care. Let them come down. Let them see what all the fuss was about.
Effie produced her knife and waggled it at him menacingly. He shrank back, laughing uneasily. ‘You may well laugh,’ she said, seething with anger, ‘but if you don’t let us out I’m going to cut off your testicles. Your precious mistress can use them as baubles for her tree, for all I care.’
He laughed and, with a speed I couldn’t believe in a man of his age, darted forward to bring down his hand on Effie’s wrist in a stinging karate chop. The knife clattered to the floor and poor Effie was hoisted sideways, landing heavily on the carpet with a dreadful crunch. ‘Ha!’ cried the night porter, and I realised he must be just as crackers as the rest in that hotel. He rounded on me, preparing to do his worst.
Effie howled in pain. She was struggling feebly to stand up.
‘You’d have stayed in your cell,’ the night porter said, ‘if you’d known what was good for you, until it was time for us to deal with you.’ He was ranting, producing flecks of spittle. I think he’d been having the cocoa, too. He and I were dancing warily about each other, keeping back, darting forward, missing each other’s swings. Once he came a mite too close, so I rewarded him with a slap. My shovel hand must have set his ears ablaze. They’d be ringing for days. Then he jabbed me hard in the gut and I doubled over. He’ll get me now, I thought. I’ve had it. Effie was clambering gingerly to her feet, but she’d be no help, ju-jitsu lessons or no . . .
Someone was rattling at the front door, hammering hard on the outer windows, wanting in, calling for attention in a deep, commanding tone.
The night porter was
distracted enough for me to help Effie up. She assured me that nothing was broken, but she was trembling with fright.
‘We aren’t open!’ the night porter yelled through the door. ‘I can’t let you in!’
The muffled, booming voice rang out again. Was it the police? We couldn’t quite see.
‘Please!’ Effie shrieked. ‘Help us! You, out there! They’re keeping us prisoner!’
The night porter hissed as we approached and waved us back. Effie bent painfully to retrieve her knife.
‘I will not let you in!’ he shouted. ‘Now, go away! You’ll disturb our guests!’
Then something odd happened. The porter hadn’t unlocked the door. In fact, we’d watched him putting on extra chains to prevent the interloper getting in. But that made no difference: the door unlatched itself, seemingly of its own accord, and swung inwards, easily and smoothly.
The night porter stumbled backwards with a cry - he almost bumped into us. Effie and I let him fall to sprawl full length on the parquet floor. I’d have gladly kicked him as he lay there, had my attention not been taken by the man who was now stepping over the threshold into the hotel.
‘You!’ Effie cried. There was terror in her voice, but of a delicious kind. A delighted terror. She grasped my arm for support as the intruder stepped towards us.
It was Effie’s handsome stranger from the café. In the morning light he was more alluring than even the first time we had seen him, immaculate in his black suit, hair smarmed back just so. His eyes were emerald: dazzling.
‘Is something untoward going on here? Are you two ladies in need of my assistance?’ His voice was honeyed and warm.
‘Oh, yes,’ gasped Effie. ‘Oh, yes, we are!’
He nodded, and glanced down at the night porter, who was trying to get up off the floor. ‘This gentleman is refusing to let you leave the building?’
‘Ha!’ cried Effie. ‘That’s the least of it, believe me. But, yes, getting away from here is chief among our concerns.’