Room 119

by T F Lince

  After fishing for an hour or so with no luck, Dean had hooked a monster. The rod under his arms kicked twice to indicate the bite, and he struck it hard as his dad had taught him. The fiberglass fishing rod was bent double and nearly pulled him over the side. His dad held on to his braces, laughing as Dean struggled to reel in the fish. Dean knew that it would have been easy for his dad to take over, but landing the fish on his own had been one of life’s lessons.

  “He’s definitely a son of yours, Sam,” one of the crew said to Dean’s dad.

  “And we all thought he looked more like the milkman,” another added, laughing.

  “I’ll fucking sort you out in a minute,” said Dean’s dad, Sam.

  “That’s what the milkman said to your Rosie.” Everyone laughed once again until one of them got a small fish on the line.

  “Ignore them, Deano, you’re definitely a Harrison. Come on, keep its head up, son,” his dad had urged him.

  As the fish broke the surface, Dean’s dad grabbed the line and lifted it into the boat by its gills. Dean slumped back onto the seat of the boat, exhausted.

  “What is it, Dad?” The fish was thin, and definitely not a cod, haddock or whiting.

  “It’s a monster, Dean, that’s what it is.”

  “I know it’s a monster, Dad, but what is it?”

  “It’s a ling, Dean, and I’ve never seen bigger one.”

  Dean had made his dad so proud that day, and his dad didn’t normally let him know he was proud of anything. Dean hadn’t ever forgotten that; it had been a special day, and always would be.

  Opening his eyes, Dean found himself balanced precariously at the top of the cliff. His dad would be waiting for him on the other side. He smiled and leaned forward to join his father.

  “No one will miss you, Dean, you coward,” the man behind him shouted. Dean nearly fell, his arms rotating forward to re-establish his balance. Struggling, he managed to get one foot back onto firmer land as his other fell forward over the cliff face. He pushed back with the one foot still in touch with terra firma and fell into a heap at the top of the cliff.

  Dean picked himself up and walked purposefully towards the couple.

  “What did you say?” He looked at the man, his eyes sharp. “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘No one will miss you, you coward’.” The man shuffled back in his chair. Dean was towering over him.

  “No, you didn’t, you said Dean. You said, ‘No one will miss you, Dean.’ How do you know I am called Dean? What’s going on? Do I know you?”

  “Listen, my wife and I have Alzheimer’s. My memory drifts in and out, but she’s more or less gone. That’s why she’s being so quiet. I don’t know your name; you must be mistaken. Look, we’re not after any trouble. Anyway, I thought you were jumping.” The man made a hand gesture towards the cliff edge. “Go on, if you’re going to jump. You haven’t got all day.”

  “I’m no longer in the mood.” Dean shook his head, a wry smile on his face.

  “But you’ve come all this way.”

  “I might come back tomorrow when there is not an audience. I’m not really one for entertaining crowds. But how did you know my name?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean…”

  “See, you said it again – Dean.”

  “Well I’m assuming you are called Dean since you’ve been accusing me of calling you Dean since you came down from the edge.”

  “I thought you’d called me by my name.”

  The man shook his head to plead his innocence.

  “What are your names, anyway?” Dean enquired, remembering his manners. Manners seemed important again now he wasn’t dead.

  “I’m Albert and this is my Betty, Dean. We’re both glad you’re still here. How did you get into a mess like this?”

  “I don’t really know. Everything has been going wrong at the moment, Albert – you did say Albert, right?” Albert nodded. “I thought it was the only way out. I’m not sure if it still may be, to be honest. I’m sorry to cause you all this hassle. I’m sure you don’t need it.”

  Dean put out his hand and Albert shook it.

  “I don’t think you realise what you have done today, Albert, but I appreciate it. If you hadn’t been here…oh, never mind.”

  Dean smiled at Betty. She didn’t look as though she was in the real world, and reminded Dean of his dad’s final months. Occasionally, a beaming smile would break across his dad’s face, so Dean knew wherever his mind was wandering off to, sometimes it was somewhere good.

  “Have you been together long?” Dean asked, not taking his eyes from Betty.

  “Forty-three years this year and counting.” Albert smiled at his wife and took her hand in his. “You really need to get yourself sorted, Dean. I’m sure you have someone who will miss you?”

  Dean looked over to the cliff face. “Yes, and to be honest, I’m just happy they’re not scraping me off that cliff at the moment. Don’t know where my mind was. It was as if I was on autopilot, and yes, I suppose they would miss me.”

  As Dean said this, Albert took a crumpled old beermat out of his pocket. He smiled as he read the words on it before carefully folding it back up and placing it in his jacket pocket, giving it a respectful tap. He then went into his wallet and pulled out a black and gold embossed business card, the gold shimmering in what little daylight there was left.

  “I’m glad we were up here to help, Dean. Give these people a ring. They are good at dealing with people like you. It’s where we spent our honeymoon. Make sure you book into Room 119. It’s the best room they have.”

  Dean looked at the card and thanked Albert and gave Betty a kiss on the cheek. “Do you need a hand back down the hill?” he asked, only then noticing the blankets were covering wheelchairs.

  “No, Dr Rhodes is coming to take us back to the home.”

  “Well, I don’t know why you were here, but thank you so much for giving me a second chance.”

  Dean gave the old couple a nod of appreciation then turned to leave.

  “Book into that hotel. It will really help. Oh, and Dean? Sorry about the ‘coward’ bit.”

  Dean looked back over his shoulder at Albert.

  “You weren’t wrong, Albert, suicide is a coward’s way out.”

  Dean walked down the hill, making his way to the car. He put the picture of Sarah and Jodie back on the passenger seat then took another look at the business card.

  “Welnetham Hall, mmm, Room 119, eh? Fuck knows, I need a break.”

  Dean placed the card under the sun visor and left Beachy Head a lot less dead than he’d expected to be.

  Chapter 11 – Putting Things Right

  Dean’s head was racing with thoughts, but the demons had gone. He felt like he was in Second Chance Saloon, and Second Chance Saloon was a much nicer place to be than Last Chance Saloon. He punched ‘Home London’ into the satnav and turned the sound off – he couldn’t be doing with Little Miss Know-it-all’s directions right now as he needed to think. Should he ring Sarah? What would he tell her? He could hardly say, “Sarah, I tried killing myself, but now I’m OK.” He had to do better than that.

  It was now 10pm and dark. The satnav was taking him down a small country lane, twisting and turning in between two farmers’ fields, barely wide enough for one car. But Dean didn’t care; he felt re-energised and full of happy thoughts.

  He thought about Sarah and how he’d been a prick with her. He’d not looked after the two people he loved more than anything else in the world. Picking up his new pay as you go brick, he rang Sarah. Whatever she said, he could deal with. It wasn’t about him, it was about her.

  “Hi, this is Sarah. I can’t take your call right now, leave me a message…”

  Beep.

  “Sarah, I love you so much and I have so much to tell you. I’ve been a dick, I know that now. I miss you both so much…I can’t wait to see you. I’m going to put things right, Sarah. I know you won’t believe me, but I lov
e you to bits. I can’t wait for the rest of our lives. Love to you both.”

  Dean looked at the phone and smiled. Everything was going to be fine – he was going to make sure of it.

  He went round a sharp bend and saw two fox eyes reflecting his headlights. He instinctively swerved, skidding first to the left and then to the right before losing control. His Porsche ploughed into a ditch, the airbag deploying into Dean’s face. He was out cold.

  When Dean woke up, it took a few seconds for his brain to compute what his eyes were telling him. He looked at his watch. It was 3.30am.

  “Jesus Christ, bloody fox.” He adjusted his position to get a look at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had a cut above his eye which had led to a stream of blood working its way down his face. He reached for some wipes in the glove compartment and dabbed the wound.

  “Aghhh, fuck!”

  He cleaned up his face and tried opening the door, but it was jammed against the hedge. Crawling into the passenger seat, he decided no bones were broken before opening the door. He crawled out of the car, making sure all his limbs were functioning as they should be.

  It was dark, but he could see he’d damaged the front right wing of the car, which was not as bad as he had been dreading. He climbed back into the car and started it up, putting it into reverse and trying to back out of the ditch, but the ditch was having none of it. The wheels spun, so he started to rock the car back and forth, putting it in first and then back into reverse to gain some momentum. That did the trick and he managed to get the car back on the road, although it was making a horrible non-Porsche-like noise. He got out and kicked the wheel arch where it had caved into the tyre.

  “What else?” he said out loud, a few more kicks making the front of the car look more car shaped. At least it was drivable, but he’d have to get back home before daylight or he’d be pulled by the police in no time.

  Dean got the car back into the underground car park at his apartment at 4.30am. As he got out, he had another look at the damage. Bollocks, he thought as he pressed the key, turned on the alarm and punched in the code for the lift.

  Dean hit the bed – what a day. The pillow was his friend that night; Dean was out like a light, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

  Dean woke up late, which was to be expected. It was already early afternoon when he got out of bed, feeling like he had been run over by a bus which had reversed back over him for good measure. His neck was killing him and his head had to move in tandem with his shoulders. The crash must have been worse than he’d thought.

  Walking as if he was on glass, not knowing which leg to hobble on, he went to the bathroom to assess the damage. The cut above his eye was not as bad as the blood that had gushed out of it last night had made it seem. It still needed cleaning up, though.

  He took some cotton buds out of the bathroom cabinet and put some antiseptic on them. Dabbing it on his eye, he let out a loud, “Aghhh! That hurt.”

  He could see that he was also getting another black eye – after the episode in the strip club, he had just been getting his looks back. Back to square one, he thought.

  He came out of the bathroom into what used to look like his living area. “Dean, for fuck’s sake!” he said, realising for the first time in two weeks that the place was a tip. He picked up the pizza boxes and cans of beer which had been dumped in every room, the dishwasher, washing machine, vacuum cleaner and even the iron getting an outing as his apartment slowly started to look like his apartment again. Then he made four or five trips down to the basement with the rubbish he’d filled into various bags. Sarah would be proud of him right now.

  He afforded a look at his car opposite the bin area and walked over to it. How the hell had he driven it home in that state? In the light, he could see the extent of the damage. The front bumper was hanging off and must have been dragging on the ground, and the wing was a mess, crumpled in and out in equal measure. The ‘in’ bit must have been the crash impact; the ‘out’ bit was Dean kicking the shit out of it to get it back into a shape that would make the car drivable. The midnight blue paint had been scratched by the hedge along the whole right-hand side of the car, and the front right alloy was full of mud.

  Dean opened the car to find the driver’s side airbag deployed and blood and mud all over the seats. He was about to lock up the car again and walk away when he remembered what Albert had said on the cliff top.

  “Room 119. Say I sent you.”

  The card? Where did I put the card? Dean looked in the glove box and central panel before checking the sun visors. It fell onto the driver’s seat as the visor was lowered – a black card embossed in shimmering gold.

  “Welnetham Hall Hotel. Room 119, you say, Albert? OK, you’re on.”

  Dean headed back upstairs, slid the lift cage open and placed the card on the kitchen worktop before running a much needed bath. He soaked in the bath and had a shave before checking his wardrobe for something suitable for a man on the up rather than a man dossing around the town. Looking in the mirror, he saw he was still a mess, but more of an organised mess.

  He phoned Sarah, but there was no answer. Maybe he’d give her a couple of days to calm down. She must have got his message, and she’d come round in time. He would make sure that he gave her every opportunity to do so.

  “Right, Albert, they are good at dealing with people like me, you say?”

  He took the business card and called the number.

  “Hello, Welnetham Hall Hotel. How can I help?”

  “Hi, I would like to book a room for tomorrow night, please.”

  “No problem, sir, can I take your name?”

  “Yes, it’s Dean Harrison. Do you need my card details?”

  Dean walked over to his wallet, which was lighter than normal after his donation to the windscreen of the Alzheimer’s minibus. He had forgotten all about that and his face contorted into a smile.

  “That won’t be necessary. We are strictly cash here, sir.” There was surprise in the receptionist’s voice that Dean would even offer a card. “OK, sir, that’s you booked in.”

  And that should have been that, but Dean then remembered he was supposed to ask for the best room.

  “I nearly forgot, may I have Room 119? I really need a break right now, and Albert said it was the best room.”

  Dean laughed to himself. God, did he need a break right now!

  “Wait there, sir.” The receptionist’s voice changed in tone, and Dean could hear her mumble in the background, “He wants Room 119.”

  “Tell him it’s taken.”

  “I’ve already taken the booking now.”

  “Well tell him you made a mistake, we are full.”

  The lady came back on the phone. “Sorry, sir, I’ve checked again and I made a mistake. We are fully booked.”

  Dean was having none of it.

  “What, no rooms at all? I’m sorry, but you have taken the booking now. I will be there tomorrow night and you’d better make sure 119 is free.”

  There was a pause.

  “Can you put on the manager, please?” Dean added.

  “No need, sir, it looks like we might be able to shuffle a couple of things round. Are you sure you want 119? We have much better rooms.”

  Dean looked at his phone as if it was stupid.

  “I will be there at six pm, and yes, I want Room 119 if it’s not too much trouble?” Dean’s tone suggested there would be trouble if it was too much trouble.

  “OK, sir, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Dean came off the phone.

  “They’re taking the piss! Thanks, Albert, for sending me to a fucking nut house.”

  Part Two – Welnetham Hall

  Chapter 12 – The Journey is Half the Fun

  Dean woke up with a lot fewer aches and pain than yesterday. His joints felt like they had been oiled overnight. He rang Sarah again, but there was no answer. She would ring him when she was ready.

  He googled Welnetham Hall, which looked nothi
ng special. It was in the middle of nowhere, but at least it was near a train station. His car was out of action for a while, but to be honest, it was only a car and he had bigger fish to fry right now. Dean then packed an overnight bag, had a bite to eat and headed off to the train station in the early afternoon.

  The train he boarded from Liverpool Street looked like something from the Dark Ages with corridors between the carriages. He’d obviously been travelling in first class for too long. If nothing else, it would be character building living back in the real world for a while. There was a loud whistle and the train slowly pulled out of the station, and before long the rhythmic sounds of the wheels on the tracks lulled him to sleep, his head resting on his folded arms on the table.

  Dean was abruptly woken by a guard with a thick grey moustache and eyebrows to match shaking his shoulder.

  “Tickets, please,” said the guard with a friendly smile.

  Dean lifted his head and as if on autopilot produced a ticket from his wallet, checking his watch at the same time. He’d been asleep a couple of hours.

  “You’re off at the next stop, sir.”

  The train slowed and Dean got ready near the door. The guard was still punching the last couple of tickets in the carriage, and said, “You’ve got ten minutes yet, sir, this station is no longer in use,” with a smile as he walked past Dean.

  “OK, thanks.” Dean gave out a yawn – he’d obviously needed that kip. The train crawled through the disused station, and he saw the sign ‘COCKFIELD STATION’ with a strapline of ‘Part of the Long Melford Branch Line’.

  “This station closed down in 1961, sir, not stopped here since,” the guard claimed with the authority of someone who knew everything about trains. “You’re the next stop – Welnetham Station opened in 1865. You staying at the hotel, sir?”