by Mark Morris
The landlord and the grizzled man marked the end of their conversation with a roar of laughter, and then the landlord came jangling towards me. He was wearing a pair of polychromatic glasses which had gone quite dark in the sunny pub, reducing his eyes to nothing more than pools of shadow.
‘Now then, miss, what can I do for you?’ he asked, his voice not as gruff as I’d expected it to be.
I returned the smile he gave me. ‘I’d like a room, please, if you’ve got one. I saw your sign outside.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘In fact, we’ve got nine rooms. Nine rooms, nine vacancies. Take your pick.’
‘Business a bit slow, is it?’ I said.
‘It’s the off season,’ he said and laughed. ‘People don’t come here for their holidays, but businessmen come here sometimes. Conferences and stuff. It’s all or nothing with us.’
‘OK, which room is the nicest?’ I asked him.
He put his elbows on the bar and leaned towards me. I got a whiff of expensive aftershave. ‘Oh, they’re all nice. It’s all top-quality accommodation here, none of your rubbish. En-suite bathrooms, colour TVs. We’ve even got cable, though not your adult channel,’ he said with a grin and a wink, ‘but then you can’t have everything, can you?’
I smiled along with him, though without allowing him to think I was doing anything other than sharing his joke. ‘Which one is the quietest, then?’ I asked.
‘That’ll be our attic room. Number nine. Furthest away from the bar.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said.
He got the accommodation register and we sorted out the details. I told him I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying, but paid for two nights, half of which he said would be refundable if I only stayed for one.
‘If you give them two a chance to finish their game, I’ll get one of them to cover while I carry your bag up,’ he said, indicating a couple of men playing pool in the corner. ‘The wife’s out shopping and the bar staff don’t come in till later. You could have a drink while you’re waiting. On the house, of course.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, picking up my bag. ‘I can manage. It’s not very heavy.’
He grinned again. ‘You modern women, eh? You’ll be the death of old-fashioned blokes like me. Hang on a sec, then, love, and I’ll get you some keys.’
The door that led upstairs was to the right of the bar. To make up for not carrying my bag, the landlord held the door open, puffing out his chest as if he expected me to swoon with desire at the sight of the little grey curls that poked out of the V at his throat. ‘Name’s Jim by the way,’ he said.
‘Ruth,’ I replied.
‘No, Jim,’ he said, deadpan, then laughed. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist that. I already know your name, though, don’t I?’
‘Do you?’ I said warily.
‘Oh aye. I can read upside-down.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When you signed the register. Comes through years of practice. Ruth Gemmill, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘I don’t think so. Should it?’
‘My brother lives in Greenwell. Alex Gemmill. He’s a teacher at the local secondary school.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve happened to come across him, have you? Maybe he’s been in here for a drink?’
‘Happen he has, love. Lots of people come in here. They don’t all tell me their names, though.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they do.’ I paused, then said, ‘It’s just that I’m a bit worried. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him for a few days. I’ve driven up from London to see if he’s all right.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he will be, love. There’s not a lot happens in Greenwell. Someone sneezes round here and everyone else knows about it.’
I nodded, smiling faintly, though I was thinking that that wasn’t the impression I’d got of the town at all. It seemed an apathetic place, not an inquisitive one. If the landlord was telling the truth, though, and there was no reason to suspect he wasn’t, then it was obvious that I’d underestimated what I’d seen and heard so far. Just because there hadn’t been blatant curiosity shown towards my arrival didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t any.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, ‘but I was due for a visit anyway. To be honest, I don’t even know the name of the school where Alex teaches.’
‘Well, if he teaches in Greenwell he’ll be at the high school, won’t he?’
‘Greenwell High School?’
‘Solomon Wedge.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Who is this Solomon Wedge anyway?’
‘Town benefactor. He paid for the high school and the hospital and the civic buildings to be built. Mind you, he was a bit of a bugger, by all accounts. Ruled his family and his employees with a rod of iron. Hit his wife over the head once with a walking stick, nearly bloody killed her. He got things done, though. You can’t fault him for that.’
I thought of Matt. Matt and his big, bony fists. Matt and his terrifying rages.
He got things done, though. You can’t fault him for that.
I smiled before the memory could grow strong enough to show on my face, and said, ‘Well, thanks for your help, Mr … um … Jim.’
‘My pleasure, love,’ he said. ‘Now if there’s anything else you want, just give me a shout, all right?’
I went up to my room, two floors above the bar. The final staircase was narrow and ended in a landing no bigger than the inside of a lift. Two doors faced each other across this short gap, one numbered eight, the other nine. I unlocked the door of my room and went inside.
It was a lovely light room with a sloping ceiling and a skylight. The walls were yellow and the duvet on the brass-framed double bed was white with yellow flowers. With the bed taking up so much floor space, together with a big pine wardrobe against one wall, a dressing table against another and a colour TV sitting on top of a little chest of drawers in the corner, there wasn’t much room to walk around, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted somewhere to dump my stuff and lay my head.
I found tea- and coffee-making facilities on a tray in the bottom of the wardrobe, so after unpacking my bag I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the bed, my back against a pillow, my legs stretched out. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. I wondered what Alex was doing now, where he was. After drinking the tea and eating the two pieces of shortbread that had also been provided, I took out my mobile and dialled Alex’s number. I didn’t expect him to reply, but I still felt disappointed when after five rings his answerphone cut in.
I gave a brief rundown of what I’d done that day, said I was at the Solomon Wedge waiting for his call, and rang off. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was twenty past twelve. How had the morning slipped by so quickly? I ought to get some lunch, especially as I’d skipped breakfast, anxious to be off, but I had too much nervous energy to be hungry. My stomach had felt jumpy all morning, as if I’d been about to go into an exam. Promising myself that I’d eat a large meal that evening, hopefully with Alex for company, I adjusted the pillows behind me, lay down and closed my eyes.
The mattress was incredibly comfortable, and even though I was only lying on top of the duvet I felt enclosed by warmth. I realized that I was clenching my fists over my belly as though anticipating a punch there, and that my feet were crossed at the ankles, and I made an effort to unclench my fists and put my hands by my sides and to uncross my ankles, even though it felt unnatural to do so. A year or so ago, when I was staying with Alex after the whole Matt thing, my brother bought me a relaxation tape which consisted of a soothing female voice with sounds of nature in the background – running water, gentle birdsong, that kind of thing. The woman on the tape talked about uncrossing arms and legs, allowing negative energy to flow from the toes and the fingertips, and it wasn’t until then that I realized how clenched and bunched up I was. It was a defensive instinct, I suppose. I was br
acing myself against attack, drawing myself in to make as small a target as possible. I’d made a real effort to change – I might be a victim, but I didn’t want to look like one – but even now, during times of stress, I still catch myself retreating like a snail into its shell. Sometimes I become aware that my fists are aching because I’m clenching them so tight.
I lay on my back and imagined the negative energy flowing out of me, and after a while, in the warmth and comfort and silence, I forgot where I was, what time it was, why I was there. My thoughts began to drift, my head filling up with nonsense that in my semi-conscious state seemed to make a weird sort of sense. Somewhere along the line, drugged by tiredness and unable to resist, sleep kidnapped me.
‘Shit.’ I came awake to the sound of my own voice. Immediately I felt anxious, as though there was something vital I had forgotten to do. I looked around, blinking. Where the hell was I? What time was it? I felt utterly confused. I’ve often wondered if this is what Alzheimer’s is like, a permanent state of the kind of disorientation you get when you wake up in a strange place at an odd time of day.
I held my watch in front of my face and stared at it, waiting for it to make sense. Eventually it did, and as I registered the time – twenty to five – I realized why I felt so agitated. I’d drifted off to sleep with the half-baked notion that maybe I could meet Alex when he came out of school. But now it was too late for that, and I felt bad. Despite everything I’d done, I couldn’t help feeling that falling asleep meant I didn’t care about my brother enough.
I reached for my mobile and punched in his number again. Getting no reply felt like the punishment that I thought I deserved. I broke the connection as his answer-phone cut in. I had nothing to add to my last message beyond asking him where he was and why he hadn’t rung me, which I couldn’t have made sound anything other than whiny and churlish.
Despite my sleep I felt exhausted, but I made myself sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room had become hot, stuffy. I opened the skylight and pushed my face forward, trying to catch what little breeze there was. I felt grimy in my clothes, even though I’d dressed for the Indian summer we’d been enjoying in London, in shorts and a sleeveless top. I crossed to the door in the corner of the room beside the dressing table and looked into the en-suite bathroom. It was small, modestly done out, but nice and clean. There was an overhead shower in the bath, and the colour of the bathroom suite was what would probably have been called avocado in the brochure. I decided to have a shower to try to wake myself up a bit. Once I’d got undressed it took a while to get the temperature right, and I stood in the bath, fiddling with the dial and trying to avoid the powerful jets of water that were spattering up off the plastic, veering between boiling hot and freezing cold. I wanted the water to be lukewarm so it would cool me down. I’ve never been very good with heat.
Eventually I got the temperature right, and I stood under the water for a long time, savouring the warm, gentle pummelling on my shoulders and head, feeling cosily enclosed in the rushing, spattering barrage of sound. As a little girl I used to pretend I was caught in a tropical downpour whenever I took a shower. I’d sit at the periphery of the jets of water and pretend I was sheltering under a tree while the rain hammered down in front of me.
At last I turned off the shower, towelled myself dry and stepped out of the bath. I crossed to the mirror and squeakily wiped the condensation away with my fingers. I’m thirty-one, and work out and swim and run when I can, so I guess I’ve got a pretty good figure. I’m small (5’ 1”) and slim, and, more often than not, people use the adjective ‘cute’ to describe me. This sometimes makes me feel like a chipmunk, but I guess on the whole it’s OK. In the early days, before he revealed his psycho tendencies, Matt used to say I looked like a dark-haired Meg Ryan. I mean, I’m not that cute, but I’m lucky in that I come from a good-looking family. Alex is tall, with sandy-blond hair, dark eyebrows and cheekbones to die for; Dad is chiselled and straight-backed, like some ex-sergeant major who has never allowed himself to run to seed; and I’ve got a picture of mum in her twenties sitting on a beach in a swimsuit, looking like a blonde Elizabeth Taylor.
I dried my hair, which I’d had cut quite short recently, bunged some mousse in it and scrunched it to give it that Natalie Imbruglia tousled look. As I put on clean underwear and a pale lilac dress with thin shoulder straps, I started to think about food. It was now five thirty, and despite the unfocused nervousness still fluttering in my stomach, I was feeling pretty hungry. Grabbing my shoulder bag, I went downstairs to the bar.
There were more people in here than before, maybe thirty or so, mostly men in overalls or suits who’d come in for a drink after work. Apart from myself there were only four other women in the room: a girl in her late teens who was flirting shamelessly with a group of lads over by the pool table; a woman whose partner and herself were dressed up enough to make me guess that they were just calling in for a quick one before going on somewhere a bit more salubrious; a thick-set, red-faced woman who was sitting with her equally thick-set, red-faced husband, both of them staring silently into space as if they’d run out of things to say to each other decades ago …
And the landlady.
To say that she took an instant dislike to me would be an understatement. As soon as I entered the room, she shot me a look of such open hostility that I faltered in my stride. Then I thought that I must have been mistaken, that her filthy look couldn’t possibly have been intended for me. I walked up to the bar and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’m—’
‘I know who you are. You’re the one my husband gave a room to upstairs.’
She was a well-built woman with dyed blonde hair and a face like a baleful bullfrog. Her aggressive stance made her bright red dress seem like a shout of rage.
‘That’s right,’ I said, the smile stiffening on my lips. ‘Is it a problem?’
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, clearly meaning the opposite. ‘It’s no problem at all!’
‘Because if it is,’ I said, ‘I’ll find somewhere else. I don’t mind.’
‘I said it’s no problem!’ she snapped, her eyes flashing. ‘How is your room?’
‘It’s very nice,’ I said. ‘Lovely, in fact.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘Er … I wondered whether you did evening meals?’
She looked at me as if in some way I was adding insult to injury. ‘No. We don’t,’ she said curtly.
Refusing to be intimidated, I said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d know somewhere nearby then, would you?’
She stared at me hard. Then she said, ‘Ask Tony. He’ll know.’
‘Tony?’ I said, but she was already moving to the other end of the bar without even asking if I wanted a drink.
‘Someone call?’ said a voice behind me, and I turned to see a small, wiry man in his early thirties with a ferrety face and a receding hairline. He was carrying five empty beer glasses in each hand, a finger in each one, and despite his stature he looked as though he could handle himself. As he put the glasses on the bar, I noticed a tattoo on his wrist of a fanged cobra rearing up, its mouth gaping wide.
‘Are you Tony?’ I asked.
‘I was when I looked earlier.’
‘The landlady said you might be able to tell me where I can get something to eat.’
‘Depends what you fancy. Fish and chips, Chinese, Indian …’
‘Chinese might be nice, if it’s a good one.’
‘It’s not bad. The Red Dragon on Livermore Street.’
He gave me directions. I thanked him, then just as he was about to move away I said, ‘Tony, do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘Depends what it is.’
I glanced along the bar at the landlady. ‘Is she all right?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just that I’m staying here for a night or two and she didn’t seem to like it. She was really off with me.’
> As I spoke she turned and looked at me, giving me the impression that she could hear every word we were saying. Maybe Tony thought so too, because he leaned forward and murmured, ‘Mirror, mirror.’
‘What do you—’ I said, then nodded. ‘Oh yeah, I see what you mean.’
I decided to walk to the restaurant. It wasn’t far and it was still warm even though the evenings were drawing in. Despite the warmth, there was a sort of haze in the air, something that seemed peculiar to the town itself. It was as though the dark brickwork of the narrow streets absorbed the light. I kept blinking, sure there was something in my eye, but there wasn’t.
It was not hard to imagine the landlady as the evil queen in a fairy story. It was insulting to think that she might suspect me of being her husband’s bit on the side, though maybe her hostility was due to bitter experience. I’d have to watch jovial Jim for the duration of my stay at the Solomon Wedge, make sure I didn’t say anything that he might construe as encouragement. As an added precaution, I’d keep my room door locked when I was in there, and my key in the keyhole. Not that I was overly worried. After my experiences with Matt I reckoned that, if the situation called for it, I could handle jovial Jim without too much trouble.
The Red Dragon looked like most other Chinese restaurants. There was a black sign with red Oriental-style writing, the name of the place bookended by two dragons curled into an ‘S’ shape, claws outstretched, breathing fire. Inside there were Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling and long strips of what looked like parchment in bamboo frames with Chinese characters on them. There were about twenty tables, all empty except for one by the bar which had four Chinese waiters sitting around it, talking and drinking pale, milkless tea. The waiters all looked at me when I walked in. The one nearest the door pushed his chair back, stood up and smiled.