Room 119

by T F Lince

  “Yes, I need a break,” Dean replied.

  “OK, sir,” said the guard with his ready smile. “Go out of the station and turn right. It’s about a mile’s walk up the lane on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Think I’ll get a cab.”

  “I don’t think there is such a thing as a cab round these parts, sir. I hope you have comfy shoes on.” The guard looked down at Dean’s brown brogues. “You should be OK in them, sir. Mind how you go.”

  The guard moved into the next carriage, shouting, “Welnetham Station, next stop.”

  The train pulled into the station. Dean had to slide the window down to get to the outside door handle, which reminded him of when he used to go to Saltburn for the day as a teenager. The guard was one carriage up now, making sure everyone who needed to get off did so, and then making sure that all the doors were closed. He gave Dean a last smile before blowing his whistle, and the train slowly disappeared into the distance.

  Dean checked the timetable, which was in a cabinet between two advertising boards. There was a train every two hours on a Sunday with the last leaving at 6pm. He made a mental note to catch the 4pm then left the station behind him and headed off up the hill as instructed.

  It was a much longer and steeper walk than Dean had expected, but eventually he saw the lights of a large building appearing from the gloom. It was not dark yet, far from it, but it was a gloomy, foggy type of day which rounded off the edges of buildings and made things seem further away than they really were. A large black sign with gold writing proudly announced to all that they were passing Welnetham Hall and it might be a good idea to pop in. Dean had no choice; he was staying there.

  No escaping now, he thought as he walked up to the entrance, wondering what was in store for him. He could hear Albert’s voice in his head: “They can help people like you, Dean.” What did that even mean? Was he going to attend happy-clappy classes where everyone would stand up and admit how badly they had screwed up their lives? How would telling everyone about it make them feel better? Happy and especially clappy were not really Dean’s forte.

  In a grand Edwardian entrance hall, everything looked and felt like it was a little too big for the space it was occupying. Dean walked over to the reception and rang the bell. He had to hit the button on top of the bell with the flat of his hand, and there was something rather satisfying about the clear ringing that echoed around the hallway. Dean was half hoping nobody would respond – he quite fancied ringing the bell again.

  “I’m on my way, I’ll be there in a tick.” The voice came from behind a red curtain which was draped over what used to be a doorway. The curtain morphed into a body shape as a lady struggled to find the gap in Morecambe and Wise fashion. “Oh, there we are!” she exclaimed as she eventually wriggled through. “Right, how can I help you?”

  The woman who emerged was wearing a black satin uniform and had wild blonde hair that looked as if it had never seen a comb. Dean thought she looked a bit mad. Her eyebrows were very high up on her head and she looked like she had put her makeup on in the dark, all whites and pastel blues and pinks.

  “Well?” she prompted. Dean was still allowing his brain time to absorb her look. “Name?” She opened a book, raising her eyebrows at him as if they could get any higher. Putting on some half-moon reading glasses, she peered over them, her pen poised above the hotel register.

  “Errrr, Harrison. Dean Harrison.”

  “Mmmm, I see you have booked Room 119. Are you happy with being in that room, Mr Harrison?”

  “Why? Should I be worried?” Dean laughed as he said this, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation. She again trained her eyes on him.

  “You asked for that room, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Yes.” Dean thought he’d leave the funnies out for now. They were clearly not appreciated.

  “Well, I trust you will find everything in order, sir. Room 119 it is.”

  She turned around and pressed on the wooden panelling at the back of reception. A well-hidden cabinet opened. Dean noticed her name badge: Mrs McCauley, Hotel Reception Manager.

  Mrs McCauley handed Dean the key with explicit instructions on how to find the room – up the stairs and third room on the right, just past the shoe cleaning rollers.

  “OK, thanks,” said Dean, taking the key and placing into his pocket. He bent his knees to pick up his bag, then put it down again and asked, “So, Mrs McCauley, what fun have you got planned for me?”

  She looked him up and down. “You make your own fun here, Mr Harrison. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Good day.”

  With that, she logged his arrival time into her book. Dean shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Mrs McCauley was weird, but Dean liked weird. Better than boring. He wouldn’t forget her in a hurry, that was for sure.

  Dean headed up the stairs to find his room. He felt an excited nervousness as he stood outside the door. What was all the mystery about Room 119? Why had the receptionist he’d spoken to on the phone not wanted him to stay in this room? Why had Mad Mrs McCauley downstairs asked if he was sure about this room? It was only a room. Dean had lots of questions and as yet no answers.

  The key was an old mortise style one, like a typical house key from the 1970s. One turn would only half unlock the door, so Dean had to turn it twice to get in. Click, click – the door was now unlocked. He turned the door handle and entered.

  Well, that’s a let-down, he thought. It was a nice room, but it was just like any other room. Everything was large, like everything else in the hotel. A four-poster bed sat in the centre of the room, there were a couple of hunting pictures on the wall, and a tub chair was in the corner, next to a writing table. There was also a door that Dean assumed went to an en suite. There was no TV, but to be honest, he would not miss it.

  Dean unpacked his stuff into an overly large wardrobe, his clothes looking a bit lonely in such a big space. He looked at his phone – no signal. That was no surprise as he was in the middle of nowhere. Having a signal would have been more of a shock.

  Dean opened the curtains and looked out of the window. The fields rolled on as far as he could see, undeniably England’s green and pleasant land. He opened the en suite door and was pleasantly surprised. The bathroom was half the size of the main room with a free-standing bath and generous washbasin area. He popped back into the bedroom and picked up his wash bag, which he had dumped on the bed while he was unpacking his case, and placed it in the bathroom.

  He climbed onto the bed and lay down, thinking of Albert giving him the hotel’s card on Beachy Head.

  “OK, Albert, you’ve got me here. Now what is so special about this place?”

  Before his mind had time to answer, his thoughts had moved on to Sarah and Jodie and what he had put them through. Then before another thought could interrupt, he nodded off.

  Chapter 13 – Big Wheels and Waltzers

  Dean woke up with a start as if someone had walked across his grave. He stood up and did the shuddery shoulder type of thing which seems to be the international reset for when a person feels like they’ve been grave walked, accompanying it with a “Brrrrr.”

  He could hear dampened down organ music in the distance, along with the odd scream. When he walked over to the window, the view was no longer of lush green fields for miles and miles. The once empty fields were now lit up with fairground rides, a circus Big Top and a hive of activity of the funfair variety.

  “What the…” He left the sentence unfinished. Looking at his watch, he saw it was 9.30pm – he’d only been asleep for two or three hours at most, and someone appeared to have built a fairground and pitched an enormous circus tent in what was technically his back yard.

  As he was up now and had nothing better to do, he thought he’d go and see what all the fuss was about. When he got outside, he could hear the sounds more clearly. The shrieks were piercing as the rides reached their high points before spinning, twisting and corkscrewing back down to earth, safely deliverin
g their passengers and eagerly picking up some more willing volunteers.

  Dean could not see the fairground from the hotel driveway so followed the sounds and the lights which were forming a glow in the night sky. He knew his room was at the far side of the hotel and he could see the funfair from his window, so he set off in that general direction back down the lane he had walked up from the station.

  After a few hundred yards, Dean got a sense that he was being followed. Not that he had seen or heard anything, he just had a feeling he was being watched. He turned quickly, hoping to catch out who or whatever it was, but everything was as it should be. If someone or something was following him, they were good at it.

  He continued along the lane, the music and screams getting louder and louder. There was a track on the right-hand side with a hand-painted sign pointing off the main road: Funfair. The sign wasn’t very engaging or convincing, almost as though it was apologising for mentioning the fact. Dean followed it anyway.

  The track narrowed as he got nearer to the fair, the trees on either side appearing to have joined forces and interlocked their branches to form a canopy. The sounds of the fair were dampened by this canopy, allowing Dean to hear a tick-tick-tick behind him. He felt eyes burning a hole in the back of his head; again he turned quickly. This time he saw a tall, dark silhouette of a man with a silver-topped stick shining in the moonlight.

  The man was well over six feet tall and was not in the mood for stopping. His face could not be seen, hidden by a fedora hat with the wide brim angled down. Tick-tick-tick. An icy feeling flowed through Dean’s body. If the man was following him, Dean thought it would be a good idea to get some distance between them. Falconer International Trading would still be a bit pissed off with him, and Dexter might have sent in the heavies to collect whatever they could from him. If they wanted some kind of payment, he didn’t really want to find out what form that payment would take. He wheeled around and continued up the track a little more briskly than before, heading for the safety of numbers in the fair.

  Even though he was getting closer to the fairground, he could still hear the ticking of the man’s cane on the path behind him, and it seemed to be getting closer by the minute. Dean brushed past a few people and he could now see the entrance to the fair. He took a sneaky look back on the kink of a bend and the man was nowhere in sight. Had Dean lost him? Then he heard the ticking and saw the man’s large frame appear from around the bend.

  Paranoia was setting in. Dean felt a mild comfort in knowing the man was twenty steps behind him as opposed to not knowing where he had gone. He then started to think rationally – the man might not even be following him. He might be just heading to the funfair like everyone else.

  Dean entered the fair through a grand archway which was all lit up by individual bulbs set out in rainbow shapes, flashing in their respective rows. He could see waltzers, bumper cars and numerous other rides with queues of people ready to feed their need for a kick of adrenaline. This was the last thing Dean needed right now; his adrenaline was pumping so fast through his veins it was almost protruding from his temples.

  He looked around once more and saw the man gaining on him. Dean took a sharp right and forced his way through the queue for the waltzer. Behind him, the people in the queue parted to let the man through. Maybe this was in deference to his size, but it seemed more that subconsciously they felt they should not be in his way.

  Dean was in no doubt now that the man was focusing on him. While running round behind the whirling seats of the waltzer, he managed to get a better glimpse of his pursuer.

  He was thin faced with deep set eyes. The stare he gave Dean said, “You can run all day, but I’ve got a lifetime to catch you.” This made Dean run even harder, but the man was still catching up on him with minimal effort. Everyone in his path was moving to the side. It was like Dean was creating a human jet stream, making life easy for the man who had not even broken into a sweat.

  Dean was scared now. “What the fuck is going on?” he said as he bolted around another corner in between a ‘hook a duck’ stall and a rifle range. To the annoyance of the stall owner, Dean threw some big cuddly toy prizes on the ground behind him, hoping to slow down his relentless pursuer. Glancing back to see what effect they had, he saw the toys move out of the way without the man even touching them.

  In a clearing near the circus tent, Dean stopped. Think, Dean, think. He saw a door on the left-hand side and entered it. Leaving the door open ever so slightly, he hoped to see the man dash past. The man didn’t; instead, he stopped outside the door, trying to figure out which way Dean had gone.

  Dean was breathing in slow motion, trying to be as quiet as he could. The tall figure had his back to the door Dean was peering through. He speared his silver-topped cane into the muddy ground and retrieved an old book from the inside pocket of his black coat. Dean could just about make out a map of what appeared to be the layout of the funfair. But that wasn’t what shocked him. Dean’s name and date of birth were underlined at the top of the book above the map: Dean Harrison – 22 November 1974. On the map, a red dot was slowly fading in and out.

  His pursuer was looking around the clearing, confused. He stepped into the centre of the clearing and surveyed the area, slowly moving round in a circle, looking for his prey. At one point he was looking straight at Dean, who was still peering through the crack of the door, motionless and too scared even to take a breath. The man then shook his head and closed the book, replacing it in the inside pocket of his black overcoat before straightening his hat. Then, slowly and calmly, he walked back past the stalls in the direction from which he had come. People were acknowledging him, and he slid his thin fingers across the rim of his hat to thank them for allowing him through. Dean watched as the man stopped to pick up the two large teddy bears and apologise with a nod to the ‘hook a duck’ stall owner before paying him a coin for his troubles.

  Then the coast was clear. Dean started to breathe at a normal volume and cadence, checking once more that the man was no longer in sight. Preparing to leave, he opened the door a little wider.

  “If you leave through that door, Dean,” said a voice behind him, “you are as good as dead. You can only run so long before he catches you.”

  Chapter 14 – Send In The Clown

  Dean turned around to see a large clown wearing a multi-coloured outfit sitting in front of a dressing table. He was taking care making up his face, looking in the centre one of three angled mirrors surrounded by bright white lightbulbs. Dean could see in the left-hand mirror that the clown’s face was half made up with white foundation and light blue eyeshadow. There was an assortment of brightly coloured wigs on mannequin heads to the clown’s left.

  “Happy or sad?” he asked Dean.

  “A bit of both, to be honest,” said Dean. “I have not got a clue what’s going on. It all seems a bit weird, and to be honest, this isn’t helping me to make any sense of it.”

  Dean turned to take another peek through the crack in the door. He wasn’t sure who was worse – the scary man outside or the scary clown in the room with him.

  “I’m not on about you. Should I put a happy or sad face on today?”

  “Oh, sorry. Happy, I suppose. You lot are scary enough, you don’t need any help.” Dean’s heart rate seemed to be returning to normal and the adrenalin was levelling off in his veins.

  “Happy it is, then.” The clown started to apply an upturned mouth to his already busy face.

  “What did you mean, I’m as good as dead if I leave?” Dean shut the door and placed a chair in front of the handle. He wasn’t sure if that would stop anyone forcing their way in, but he’d seen it in films and it always seemed to do the trick.

  “Life’s about choices, Dean, and that door does not look a good choice to me right now. What do you think?”

  Dean took another look at the door before responding.

  “I think he’s from the company I used to work for. They might be after me. They think I owe them
some money.”

  Dean turned and looked into the clown’s overly large eyes.

  “No, you don’t think that, Dean. You’re saying it as it makes you feel better. He’s after a lot more than money, and you know that.” The clown was adding the finishing touches to his makeup with a soft brush, applying some rouge to the cheek area. “I like being a happy clown. Good choice, Dean.”

  “How do you know I’m called Dean?”

  Dean remembered the cliff top. He hadn’t been sure whether Albert had really said his name as he was standing on the cliff edge, but the clown had definitely called him Dean ever since he’d entered the room.

  “Just a guess, Dean. How could I possible know your name? Or that the man outside is not after money?” Without leaving a gap for an answer, the clown looked at the wigs. “Red or yellow?”

  “I don’t know. Err, red, I suppose.” Dean wasn’t that bothered about the clown’s looks right now. His head was spinning, trying to make some sense of the last hour or so.

  “See, Dean, you can make choices when you feel like it. You’re good at it.” The clown looked proudly into the three mirrors which all reflected a happy face back to him.

  “So who is he, then? And what does he want with me?”

  Dean wanted a straight answer, but the clown had other ideas.

  “Not so much who as what.” The clown put on his jacket. As clown-like music came through one of the doors behind the dressing table, he made a move towards it as if he was being drawn in to perform.

  Dean said, “I give up,” and moved the chair from the door handle. The clown looked at him.

  “I told you, Dean, go out of that door and you are as good as dead.”

  The clown continued moving towards his pending performance.

  “Well, at least I’d know what the fuck is going on. You are all fucking mad here. What’s the worst that could happen?”