Cuckoo

by Richard Wright

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not listed in the book. Are you sure this is the right hotel?”

  Yes, damn it, drunk he was, but not that drunk. He paused. No, he was positive it was the Ramkin he had booked, even paying in advance. Besides, how could he embarrass himself in front of Georgina by admitting he might be wrong? Deciding he had no choice but to bluff, he attempted a steely expression.

  “You’re certain. Nothing under Johnson?” The clerk shook his head. “Very well, have you any other rooms for the evening?” They did and he paid the extra money, informing the young man that he would be having strong words with the manager in the morning.

  Leading the way to the lift, he looked back at his companion before breathing a grateful sigh of relief. If he was any judge of character, and he liked to think this was the case, Georgina had been impressed by his firm handling of the matter. Quite right too. Greg Summers was also a man who could handle a tough situation. Now she knew it. His missing reservation could even be a blessing on the entertainments ahead. Nothing a woman likes more than a show of strength, he thought.

  Odd thing about the reservation though.

  Damned odd.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MASKS

  The observer watches him burn. She wonders, as he writhes and thrashes, if he is aware of making these physical movements. A slit smile breaches the mask of her face. At least he is now awake. She knows this, can see it. His eyes have not opened, nor has he made a sound to indicate his arrival at consciousness, yet she is aware of him. She reaches deep within him to touch his soul, sees the lobster and the hotel. Of course, her own memories of these events are still fresh. She does not need to see. She needs to feel. She does so.

  So naïve when she found him, so full of grief. She had known then, as she knows now, that he was to be the one. It will be a long time before she finds another with his potency. In her own unique way she will miss him when he fades, for together they have explored far, wandering through passions he could once have only imagined. Can he ever appreciate what he is to her?

  But he will wither now. She will be alone again. This is not, in itself, something she seeks. Rather it is the price, a tax without which her future would grow desolate indeed.

  So many times now. So much suffering. A spark ignites in her soul as she thinks this thought. Yes, so very much suffering. Such worthy pain.

  She reaches in again to find…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PAINTWORK

  Blisters in the paintwork of the door revealed the hotel for what it was. A front. A sham. Gregory fought back his disappointment. On the outside of the office the wood was varnished and clean. Good, he had thought, now we are getting somewhere. Here be managers.

  Invigorated by his fine night, he had been up early to speak with someone regarding the confusion of the previous day. Georgina had distracted him briefly. Twice, in fact. Both of them excellent and enjoyable distractions in their own right. Now she had gone home to her flat, leaving him a refund to collect.

  The manager of the Ramkin Hotel, Mr Carlisle, met him in the foyer. He had seemed an efficient and orderly type. Upright, brisk, he stood a clear four inches taller than Greg, his blonde hair brushed tightly over his head to form a small ponytail. An angular face held the promise of a penetrating mind. Mr Carlisle and I, Greg had decided, can communicate. We are That Sort Of Person.

  So he had thought. Now that he had been escorted to the grotty inner sanctum which passed for an office, the sham of Mr Carlisle was also exposed. As soon as the door had closed he lounged into the chair behind the desk, removed some tobacco from the pocket of his immaculately pressed suit, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.

  “Mr Johnson, is it not? Please take a seat. Do you smoke?”

  Ignoring the offer, Greg looked around. Only one extra seat was to be found in the room. Moulded from orange plastic, now extremely weathered, it made him think of garish city bus stations. Suppressing a full-blown scowl, he contented himself with furrowing his brow – a sure signal of his disapproval. Lifting the monstrosity with his fingertips, he placed it firmly opposite the hotel manager. As expected, it was not comfortable. Nothing in the room was. A collection of mismatched junk and discarded scraps. Even the sunlight filtered through the blinds halfheartedly, as though it too would rather be anywhere but within that office.

  Obviously amused by the reaction of his customer, Mr Carlisle tried to hide his smile behind the inhalation of another lungful of carcinogens. When he spoke up a thick cloud of toxins blew from his lips.

  “Very well. I am rather busy at the moment, as you can appreciate, so we’ll keep this as brief as possible. You would like a refund?”

  This was somewhat blunter than Greg had prepared for, and he found himself taken aback.

  “Ah...yes, that about sums it up. I made a booking, along with an advance payment, yesterday afternoon. Your staff denied all knowledge of this when I arrived last night.”

  “So I’ve been told. You paid in person?”

  “I did.”

  “And you signed the register upon payment?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hm. Then perhaps you could explain to me why your signature hasn’t been found in any of the records from yesterday afternoon?”

  Gregory was stopped dead by the man’s sheer effrontery. Was that really going to be his defence? How dare he insinuate that Greg Summers was the type of...

  Summers?

  An unpleasant thought reared up, and his insides churned. What if he had booked under his real name? It was possible. Rushing in during his lunch hour the previous day he had intended to sign the name Johnson, but flustered as he was he could have made the mistake without realising it.

  Time to change his approach.

  “Would it be possible for me to check your register? I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, and…“

  “You’re more than welcome to peruse the pages Mr Johnson, but I feel it should be pointed out to you that I am not a foolish man, nor am I in the habit of employing fools.” Carlisle’s face was as cold as his words. “My staff informs me that you did not book a room here yesterday. Ergo, you did not. However, should you care to wait here for a moment I shall bring you the proof you need to refresh your memory.” Reverting to the upright individual who had met him in the foyer, the manager took a last draw on his cigarette, stubbed it in an overflowing glass ashtray, then marched out of the office.

  Greg knew he had signed that book. Last night he had been a little confused, with the alcohol trying to convince him that he might have wandered into the wrong hotel. But in the light of a sober morning he knew this wasn’t the case. He was in the right place, he was sure of it. So why did the rest of the world insist otherwise?

  By that point he was prepared to abandon the whole idea of a refund. A night of pleasure was what he had sought, and that was what he had received. Georgina possessed an inhuman imagination, not to mention impossible physical stamina, when it came to matters of sex. Previous rushed encounters had only hinted at what she was capable of given a whole night and a double bed. Never having been inclined towards the unusual, the gusto with which he had approached handcuffs and a blindfold shocked him.

  Of course he resented paying double for the use of the room, but ultimately the experience had proven worthwhile. It was now curiosity that pinned him to his bus station chair. Mr Carlisle could be as smug as he chose, but for his own peace of mind Greg needed to know what had gone wrong.

  Hearing the door close behind him, he realised with a start that Carlisle was back in the office. In his hands he bore a distinctive leather-bound register. Gold lilt, a red ribbon marking the page, the top right-hand corner bent out of shape. Yes, that was the document he had signed yesterday. He would swear on it.

  As he took it in his hands, before the book was even opened, Carlisle’s superior smile had already told him what he would find. He was correct. No Mr Johnson.

  But no Summers either.
r />   Running his finger down the page he found the precise time-slot he had filled in. A Mrs L. Harris was signed securely in his place. There was no correcting fluid, no doctoring of the letters, no obvious means of erasing his name. To all intents and purposes this woman had signed in a blank space.

  Confused as it already was his mind resisted the jump, wrestling it down in the effort to suppress it. Reality became a hazy, far away thing as wars raged in his head and chest, each battle stinging him as a physical hurt. When Mr Carlisle took a step back from him, shock scrawled across his face, Greg could not be sure if it was real or imagined.

  And his mind did not simply jump. It leapt.

  Understanding came late for Greg. Thirteen years old. That was when he finally comprehended the day of the coffee scald. Looking down at the still body of his mother, he found that he too wanted to hit something. Someone.

  Worm food, he thought. My mother has become worm food. When she is buried they will feast. With the church-quiet murmur of mourners all around him he wondered if, should he pull back on her eyelids, he would find her eyes still intact. Eyes are the mirrors of the soul, or so he had read somewhere. Where would her eyes take him, if he gazed too long into them? What would he see reflected back? He nearly did it then, so easy would it be to just reach out and peel her worm food eyelids apart.

  Over-rehearsed explanations had spilled from the lips of his father. It was not, of course, Greg’s fault that this tragedy was visiting upon them. She had been troubled, had never fully recovered from the death of her sister. Stress had been the cause. Nobody had reason to suffer for her suicide. Especially not little Gregory.

  So often had this been expressed that he had begun to doubt there was any substance to the platitude. Contemplating the words of his father, he thought the truth obvious.

  Question: what causes stress?

  Answer: other people.

  Question: which person had she spent more time with than any other?

  Answer: Gregory. Her son. Her murderer.

  Wishing her happiness with her worms, he turned aside. In many ways it was easier on him than anybody could guess. After accepting that he was a murderer, by default a bad person, the pain and suffering he should have endured were easily dismissed. Grief was for the good, an elite grouping in which he no longer belonged.

  For some reason his face hurt…

  “Mr Johnson? Mr Johnson?”

  Hurt. His face hurt. As he surfaced through varying levels of consciousness he realised that this was because somebody was hitting him. Rolling instinctively to his feet, he lashed blindly in the direction of his assailant. Connecting firmly with Carlisle’s jaw, he sent the man spinning across his chipboard desk. Coming to rest, Carlisle sat up, clutching his chin with a look of almost childish shock.

  As Greg stared across the room, his crouched body a reflection of the adrenaline-tensed frame of the other man, his impression was of two wild beasts circling each other before some fierce territorial battle. Neither wished to make the first move as neither were sure they could win the final conflict.

  Grinning at the absurdity, he put his hands up in a placatory gesture of submission.

  Carlisle shook his head and allowed himself a nervous smile. “Hardly the best way to get your refund. You passed out. I was trying to revive you.”

  “By hitting me? Thank god you never went into medicine.”

  “I think I saw it on Grey’s Anatomy. Always works for them.”

  All the tension had been beaten from the conversation. Greg was too exhausted to maintain his stubbornness.

  “Did you really sign in here yesterday Mr Johnson?”

  “I really did. Where the name Harris now appears.”

  “And is your name really Johnson?”

  An awkward pause threatened to eliminate the tentative salubrity which had taken the men. Anxious to avoid further conflict, Greg put a final end to the lie.

  “No. My name is Summers. Greg Summers. I wasn’t here with my wife.”

  Another pause, one which filled Greg with stifling trepidation. For three months a fear of this moment, this admittance, had tortured him daily. Judgement was about to be levelled and he knew too well that he would be found wanting. Annoyed and surprised at himself, he found tears forming. Shaking with the effort of covering his feelings, he welcomed the plastic chair as he sank back onto it.

  Then Carlisle relaxed, a genuine smile breaking across his thin lips.

  “In that case I owe you an apology and a drink. Will you join me in the bar? Perhaps we can work out just what is going on.”

  Alex Carlisle was far better company than first impressions had indicated. Smiling over the top of his glass, Greg was surprised at how much he was enjoying the first real conversation he had engaged in for days. The cause of the smile was Alex’s umpteenth apology.

  “I admit I was a little hostile, but the only two members of staff working reception yesterday are people I know very well. They’d never heard of you before last night. It wasn’t even that we were busy yesterday, especially not for a Friday.”

  “I know, you said.” For some time now the discussion had been weaving elaborate circles around the subject of the missing signature. “Several times. But I was definitely here. Summers or Johnson, I must have signed something.”

  Confession, it seemed, really was good for the soul. As soon as the first drink was downed, at the too early hour of one in the afternoon, Greg had told the whole story of his affair. Hesitant at first, but later showing an openness he had not known himself capable of, he had given a detailed account of his life as an adulterer. Alex had been a generous and willing listener. He also had a blunt and refreshing way of stating the facts.

  “But sign you did not. I hate to ask again, but you are sure?“

  “That it was this hotel I signed into. Yes, I’m sure.” Since they had entered the bar he had been trying to think of a way to verify this. Carlisle believed him, for which he was grateful, but he needed to give the man some hard evidence. Something which nobody, including himself, could question.

  Only then did the obvious occur to him, and he almost laughed. Alex raised an angular eyebrow as Greg rushed to explain.

  “Look, I know this isn’t proof in itself, I could easily have put it there as part of my elaborate fraud, but I noted it on my phone so I wouldn’t forget to make the reservation.”

  New Year’s Eve. His present from Jennifer. She had been extremely annoyed that he had nothing to give her in return, but the gift she offered him was a cherished one. Encased in a real leather cover, replete with the earthy smell of newly tanned hide, the smartphone went everywhere with him.

  Pulling it from his jacket pocket, he slid his fingers across the screen, opening up his schedule for the previous day. Beckoning Alex over, he held it up so they could each see the backlit screen.

  Both men stared in bemusement at a display notifying the owner of a lunch meeting with somebody called Stewart the previous day at half past one. There was nothing else. Greg looked up at Alex. Alex looked back. Then both men burst into laughter.

  A drunken hysteria raced to take Greg, lifting him from worry to place him right next to Alex in a world of honest astonishment. An even more surreal thought struck him. Between giggles, he squeezed the observation out.

  “I don’t even know anyone called Stewart.”

  Five hours later, Greg was in Alex Carlisle’s West End flat. Both men were extremely drunk.

  “It’s a very, very nice flat,” said Greg, ignoring the feeling that he had already said this many, many times. It was a splendid flat and any such repetition was justified. Stylish black suede furnishings on a cream carpet. Very simple, very plain. The walls were adorned with equally simple black framed posters from recent cinema releases. The only vaguely colourful fixture in the room was the drinks cabinet. Greg had been right all along. He and Alex could communicate very well indeed. As a self-demonstration he communicated his desire for another scotch.

>   “Coming your way. Never let it be said that Alex Carlisle leaves his clientele dissatisfied.”

  Another whiskey was duly presented to a grateful customer.

  “So Mr Johnso…Summers?” Greg nodded vaguely. “Mr Summers. Have you often seduced young women in my hotel?”

  “Frequently. The bed in twenty-four squeaks appallingly.”

  Laughter again. Healthy, genuine laughter that scrubbed Greg clean of the grime from weeks of anxiety. Lies he had hated telling, truths he had been unable to share – none of them were important at that moment. He wished he had known this man for longer.

  “I had best get that seen to then.” Alex was scrolling through Greg’s smartphone. Extraordinarily, what would once have been impertinence was now nothing more sinister than a friend’s idle curiosity.

  “This Stewart, whom you don’t know, has been spending an awful lot of time with you recently.”

  “Lucky him. I hope he had a more memorable experience of it than I did.”

  Memory.

  Stewart.

  A soaring red ball.

  Pain.

  Shaking his head, he decided that the alcohol was affecting him more than he had thought.

  “Greg? Are you all right? You’re not going to have another fit are you?”

  A weak smile calmed his host, and Greg looked round for the door. It must be here somewhere, he considered. I walked through it barely two hours ago. Locating a suitable looking rectangle in the wall, he tried to stand.

  “Fresh air,” he mumbled. “Back in a tick.”

  Robert grinned, waved him towards the door, then glanced down at the phone in his hand. Greg was still battling for balance when Alex looked up again. He looked puzzled.