Grimm

by Mike Nicholson

  Grimm is burning, Grimm is burning,

  Fire Fire, Fire Fire

  Just ignore it, just ignore it,

  Don’t bring water, don’t bring water

  Singing round

  21. Finkleman and the fire

  Deer, foxes, squirrels, rabbits, hedgehogs, owls and many more creatures sat on the workshop floor; every one of them beautifully carved in stone and larger than life. Details of paws and claws, feathers, fur and whiskers were all carefully ground out of grey granite. The tools that had shaped the animals, hammers of different weights and chisels of varying sizes, lay neatly in rows on a workbench, relics of another era. Rory moved among the animals almost expecting that brushing against them might bring them to life. His mind turned over and over. All of these years and this collection being painstakingly chiselled, carved and polished by his Grandad working alone, for the finished sculptures to sit unseen by anyone. How much of the time as he created each animal had he spent thinking of the Stonemason’s Curse? Or even of Lottie Gilchrist? That was surely the reason why this work had never seen the light of day; a fear that anything else he created might have similar deadly consequences.

  Rory looked more closely at the first row of animals. They were brilliant. He couldn’t help thinking of his mother in recent years with her exhibitions of household objects and statements of the obvious to go with them. Here was the real talent in the family but no one even knew about it. It seemed such a waste. He felt a creeping sense of embarrassment at the fact that he was falsely thought of as a genius, when here were the results of decades of his Grandad’s creativity right in front of him.

  The animals were stacked a few deep right across the width of the room and on a rough count Rory could see at least fifty. It felt like he was standing in some kind of stone-sculptured Noah’s Ark. He wanted to stay and try to take it all in, but deep down he knew that what he really wanted was to see his Grandad again.

  As he reached the back door, he could hear raised voices at the front of the house. Going through the kitchen he found both Bonnie and Grandad in the hall having just closed the front door.

  “I reckon the heat might be about to be turned up on the hotel, Rory,” said Bonnie.

  “What’s happened?” said Rory.

  “There was a bit of a commotion outside. People running past. So we went to check it out. Sounds like Gracie and Gordon have pushed Stobo just a little too far.”

  “Aye, the wee man has struck back. Quite right too if you ask me,” said Grandad working his slow way back into the living room and easing himself into his armchair.

  “They were on a dare to go right inside a cable car,” explained Bonnie. “Probably planning to leave something horrible in there. Anyway, Stobo spotted them coming so he left them to it, but as soon as they were in the car, he closed the doors and set it off a few hundred metres, then stopped it.”

  Rory couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Gracie and Gordon suspended in mid-air high above Scrab Hill, with no hint of when they might get down.

  “Anyway,” continued Bonnie. “It seems that Gracie had her mobile phone so of course she immediately called her Dad who went absolutely ballistic and came down at ninety miles an hour to sort things out. He’s coming out with all sorts of accusations of kidnapping children and assault.”

  “Aye, but good on Donald Stobo,” said Grandad chuckling. “Apparently he said, “If I wanted to kidnap someone they would be the last people I would want to spend time with … and why would anyone want to pay a ransom for them anyway?””

  “So where are they now?” said Rory.

  “Back down on the ground,” said Bonnie. “That was them all heading back into town there. Gracie and Gordon were both bubbling their eyes out. Apparently Gordon’s not that good with heights.”

  “What a laugh!” said Rory. “It’s brilliant they’re getting a taste of their own medicine.”

  “Yeah, but what’s The Chronicle going to do about this, Rory?” asked Bonnie. “Stand by for the backlash. I think your job might be about to get harder.”

  As they settled down again, Rory got the chance to explain to Bonnie and speak to his Grandad about the secrets of the workshop.

  “Sorry I spoke to you like that, Grandad. The things you’ve done down there are just amazing.”

  His Grandad spoke a little about why he had worked away in secret over the years.

  “I loved my work at the park,” he said, “but my real love was working in stone. I just couldn’t do it in public again though. I was too afraid after what happened up at the hotel. If anybody else had been harmed, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  It seemed as though the events of the last hour had worn Grandad out and after a short time Bonnie gave Rory a nod to suggest that they should leave the old man alone for a while. They left the house talking about some of the day’s long list of events. Rory could hardly believe it was only that morning he had been up at the hotel.

  Whilst all of the stories from Grandad’s younger days were incredible, what was increasingly troubling him was the fact that a Curse did seem to have been the start of the Hotel’s problems.

  “Just how am I supposed to come up with something that beats that?” asked Rory.

  “All these things could still just be coincidence and misfortune, Rory,” said Bonnie. “You’ve said it yourself. You can look at things in a different light. Nothing has happened to you from all the contact you’ve had with the place.”

  Not yet, thought Rory.

  Looking forward to a quiet evening, Rory returned home to find that his day of unfolding stories had not yet come to an end. As he came in the door there was a shout from his mum.

  “Rory! Call for you!”

  Going into the kitchen he found Momo McKenna on the phone with a huge dippy smile on her face. “That’s him here now,” she spoke into the phone, “I’ll hand you over.”

  She put her hand over the receiver and whispered in a far too loud voice. “Don’t worry I’ve been keeping him occupied for the last wee while! It’s that nice American, Mr Finkleman. I think he might be interested in sponsoring my exhibition!” Rory looked at her in despair as he grabbed the phone.

  “Hi, Mr Finkleman, it’s Rory here.”

  “Heh there, buddy … how’s it going? Just had a great little talk with your mom. Boy, she’s a character, huh? Must be great fun to live with.”

  “Er yeah … quite … um … unusual.”

  “Listen, buddy, I needed to touch base with you about a few things. There is some Zizz business, or Zizzness as the marketing guys are calling it now, to attend to soon. I think China is going to be massive for us and the guys over there are interested in your story.”

  Rory’s head slumped. Not more publicity, please! he thought.

  Finkleman continued. “But the real reason for this call though is that I wanted to let you know about this bizarre family coincidence I mentioned in my e-mail. When I met you at the café on my holiday all that time ago, I had bought a bunch of postcards of your pretty little town. Anyways, the way things went after I met you it was months before I actually got round to sending them. When I did, one of them went to my Aunt Agatha in Wisconsin. Turns out, not only has she been to Aberfintry years ago — and I’m talking years ago — but, wait for it, she says she owes her life to some guy in your town! She was very insistent that if I ever get to Scotland again I’m to hunt this guy down and shake him by the hand!”

  “A guy from Aberfintry saved your aunt’s life?” said Rory, wearying slightly that his day appeared to be gaining further complications.

  “Yup, so the story goes. Apparently it was quite a big local incident. She was staying in a hotel and there was a fire …”

  Rory felt his throat tightening as he spoke. “Do you happen to know the name of the hotel?”

  “Yeah … it sounds a bit weird to me but apparently it’s the family name.”

  “Hotel Grimm?” asked Rory, picturing a Chronicle headline ab
out a fire from the framed pages beside Deirdre Dunbar’s desk.

  “That’s the one. You know it?”

  “Just a bit,” said Rory weakly. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Excellent! You can fill me in when I come over next week.”

  “You’re coming over next week?” shouted Rory, picturing Finkleman arriving in the midst of The Chronicle kicking up a stink about the one place that he wanted to visit.

  “Yeah, don’t sound so happy about it, buddy!”

  “Sorry, sorry, it’s just there is quite a lot going on in the town at the moment.”

  “Perfect,” said Finkleman. “I always like to visit a place when it’s buzzing.”

  That’s one word for it thought Rory. “Anyway,” he said. “Do you know who the guy was that saved her life?”

  “Some guy called … wait a minute. I have it here … Alistair McGroggan.”

  Rory looked blank. McGroggan? The name meant nothing to him. Unless … Grog? He tried to picture The Chronicle headline he had seen. Inferno at Hotel Grimm. American tourist and staff member recovering in hospital.

  “Apparently he was the butler there,” continued Finkleman. “Aunt Aggie took quite a shine to him from the sounds of things.”

  Rory tried to picture anyone finding Grog attractive and dismissed the thought immediately. “We can’t be thinking about the same person then.”

  “He was a bit of a dancer apparently. My aunt would have loved that. Anyway the story goes that there was a fire in one of the rooms one night. One of the guests had left a candle burning. Aunt Aggie was next door to this, and the first she knew was this butler guy busting down the door and carrying her out. Real superhero stuff.”

  The painting of Grog that Rory had seen on Grimson’s wall suddenly popped into his head. An upright man with a proud gaze and a look of fearlessness.

  “Aunt Aggie needed a night or two in hospital, but she reckons she’d have been a gonner but for this character, McGroggan.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?” asked Rory, posing the question as innocently as possible.

  “Apparently he did himself some damage in rescuing her, which she says she always felt guilty about.”

  “What sort of damage?” said Rory picturing the coughing, limping Grog.

  “Pretty bad smoke inhalation and then just as he got her out of the building he fell and broke his ankle real bad. Do you think you can fix me up with a trip to this hotel when I come over?”

  “Can we talk about it when you arrive?” said Rory.

  “Sure thing, buddy. I’m looking forward to catching up with you. Need to talk to you about the next stage of the Zizz campaign too of course. Ever been to China?”

  Rory just managed to stop himself groaning audibly before he put the phone down and sank his head firmly into his hands.

  No ifs no buts

  It has to shut

  No ifs no buts

  It has to shut

  Chant of the Campaign for Closure

  22. The campaign for closure

  “This is outrageous.” Rory slapped the copy of The Chronicle onto Grandad’s cluttered coffee table. Old cups rattled in their saucers and a half-eaten biscuit catapulted on to the floor. The front page headline on the discarded paper lay taunting the room. “HOTEL MUST CLOSE NOW! Kidnap Cable Car Horror for Kids”

  “Outrageous, but not very surprising,” said Bonnie.

  “Read it out to me,” said Grandad.

  “Do I have to read that rubbish?” asked Rory not really noticing that Grandad sounded weary today.

  “Are you denying an old man his paper?” protested Grandad, trying to raise a joke and lifting his hands in a mock plea to Rory.

  “Oh, give us a break. You turn that ‘old man’ routine on too often,” snipped Rory reaching for the paper. Grandad put out a petted lip in jest, but said no more.

  Rory began to read. “Whatever has gone on before, however patient the townspeople of Aberfintry have been, now is the time to rise up and demand the closure of the establishment that has blighted our beautiful town for over fifty years. Join the campaign now. Sign our petition. Cut out the poster page from your paper and put it in your window. Show your fellow citizens how you feel. Stand up and be counted.”

  Rory held up the page which readers were being encouraged to turn into their own window poster. It said “NO IFS NO BUTS. IT HAS TO SHUT.” The words ran across a silhouette of Hotel Grimm, which had a big red cross scored through it. He carried on reading.

  “Don’t sit back and accept this any longer. Get up and join us. Show your commitment and come to the public demonstration at 11am on 22nd June at the Lachlan Stagg statue. There we will state our case and set out a timescale for action to end this period of shame in the life of our town and look forward together to a new beginning.”

  “Derek Goodman is like a one-man mission to shut that place down,” said Bonnie.

  “Aye well, we’ll soon see if he is just a one-man mission, I suppose,” said Grandad. “I think this’ll bring a fair few people out of the woodwork.”

  “Well his usual sources have also contributed,” said Rory reading on from the paper. “Bella Valentine, who has suffered at the hands of the hotel in the past commented, ‘I’m just glad those kiddies are safe. That cable car contraption is an accident waiting to happen and the man who runs it ought to be turfed out of his bedroom in his garage.’” Rory then read out how Bella was inviting the Goodman twins to join her in setting up a survivors group for others like them who had experienced “a brush with death” at the hands of Hotel Grimm.

  There was a downbeat mood in the room for the rest of the time that Rory and Bonnie were there. It seemed that recent events had had an impact on Grandad. He had lost some of his sparkle and appeared content just to sit and let Rory and Bonnie do most of the talking. The two of them found they were pretty much at a loss. They periodically picked up the paper and re-read it, as if hoping to find that the words had changed or that they had missed something positive.

  Eventually realizing that Grandad was going to be happier just having a doze and not having to think about things that might bring up stories from the past, Rory and Bonnie left. With Grandad’s earlier prediction still ringing in their ears, they headed up Boglehole Road wondering if people really were about to show their true colours. Their question was answered within the first two streets as they counted five windows sporting the cut-out posters.

  “I thought it might have been worse,” said Rory trying to be optimistic.

  Bonnie was more gloomy. “Yeah, but that’s only the start. The paper has only just come out. Some people won’t have bought it yet. Others will but they won’t have read it or had the time to track down their sticky tape”.

  “Got your copy yet?” The shout took them both by surprise. Max Fletcher was cycling past, and judging from the brightly-coloured bag he had on, he was in the middle of his paper round.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, putting these through people’s doors,” shouted Bonnie.

  “Shut up, Worm,” said Fletcher. “It’s the end of the line for that place, and there’s nothing you or Zizz Boy can do to stop it.” His bike disappeared round the corner.

  Bonnie and Rory agreed to check the same route the next day and sure enough the number of houses displaying posters had gone up to thirteen, with some shops joining in too. The day after that it was at twenty-nine. Rory began to feel very uncomfortable and decided to stop counting.

  The worst thing was that even at school the campaign was taking shape, and it was no surprise that it was being led by Gordon and Gracie Goodman, who had now recovered from their cable car incident and were enjoying new-found celebrity status.

  The first Rory knew about it was when he was approached by a second year he didn’t know and asked if he wanted a “NO IFS NO BUTS” sticker for his schoolbag.

  “Er, no thanks.”

  “You’re the first one to say no,” the girl said, as if thi
s was big news in itself. As soon as he heard that, Rory knew that reports would soon get back that he wasn’t joining in with the crowd. He thought about taking one just to save himself a lot of bother but knew he couldn’t walk around sporting the slogan when he didn’t agree with it. It only took a couple of days for word to get around and for the taunts to begin.

  “Heh, Zizz Boy, I hear you’re not joining in the campaign.”

  “He’s best pals with the Grimms. I’ve heard he sits down to tea with them every now and then.”

  “Thinking of changing his name to Grimm Boy instead of Zizz Boy, isn’t he?”

  “Setting up camp on Scrab Hill is what I heard.”

  “Yeah, a tent for two for him and Bonnie.”

  “Zizz Boy and Bonnie are an item? That’s wheely funny!”

  Rory had hoped that the school might take a line on not allowing this sort of campaign to happen on the premises, but there was no such message coming out of the headteacher, Mrs Horne’s office. In fact, some of the teachers had “NO IFS NO BUTS” car stickers much to Gracie and Gordon Goodman’s delight. They were now holding lunchtime meetings in the playground with updates on the latest people to sign up to the campaign. There was much excitement one day as they were delighted to announce that Mrs Horne herself now had a car sticker. Shortly after this revelation, the Goodmans began the second phase of the campaign. Arriving at school and lost in thought about the demonstration which was now just ten days away, Rory had nearly walked past the people on the school gate holding clipboards before he realized what he had done.

  “Oi! Sign this,” said Max Fletcher.

  “Sorry?” said Rory genuinely confused.