In between the last shown chapter and this one there has been a temporary guest at the hotel who is obsessed with a fading ex-TV cop from the seventies starring in a local production of Guys and Dolls. Setting up this chapter, Daniel has heard of a young woman who is a permanent resident, trying to escape her past and avoids all modern communication and social media. Chaper 9 Sally The dirt on the mirror was relentless. Every morning she would look in it and have to spread a cloth across the surface in order to get an accurate picture. Alex had brought her some special spray the last time she had complained of it, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. She was tempted to leave it but dust made her anxious. There was so much stigma attached to it, as though she was Miss Havisham rotting away in a fortress. She always kept the place immaculate, despite the fact that she didn’t think anybody would ever see it. At least, not in the near future. She refused any help, the 'Do Not Disturb' sign never leaving the door handle. *** She didn’t know how Alex had encouraged her to do it. Apart from he was so good to her, far too good. His request wasn’t even for himself, which was typical. Yet she felt herself catching her breath every time she thought about it. Exposure was exactly what she was running from. She had borrowed the hotel phone to talk to the writer guy in question. He sounded friendly and unassuming and something in her said Yes. She regretted it almost immediately when she handed the phone back. In fact, she had ran downstairs at 2am banging on Alex’s door to see if she could call the guy back and cancel. Alex, in his impossibly calm way had told her to wait until morning, that she could come downstairs and use the phone immediately on waking, that there was no pressure whatsoever. She had fallen, less restlessly back into bed where she found herself able to sleep. The next morning Alex had slipped a note under her door saying the phone was available if she still needed it. She surprised herself to find that she didn’t. The phone, the internet, cameras...they never used to scare her. It was a gateway to being herself. Away from the religious strict household she had only ever known. She didn’t want to leave her religion- she was an Agnostic not an Atheist despite what was whispered- but just to explore another side of herself without fear of her family thinking less of her. She needed to experiment, make mistakes. The virtual world seemed like the place to do it, rather than reality. She looked at Lily, one of the hotels residents and wished she was computer illiterate like her. Well, that was an assumption. Lily was incredibly old and if the whispers were to be believed, had very old fashioned views. She tried not to listen to whispers though. They were the equivalent of toxic tweets and messages. So she always made a point of saying good morning knowing full well she wouldn’t get one in return. But she couldn’t help looking at her and envying that her mistakes could be forgotten. There was likely no Google search of photos from Lily’s nights out, her drunken antics... Google Lily whatever her last name was and at the most there would be a photo of her helping at some coffee morning. Sally scolded herself again for being stereotypical. Lily, for all she knew, could be a pot smoking, club hopping maniac. She wouldn’t know. She hadn’t Googled anything in a year. As usual, she chose a mocha and two slices of toast for her breakfast. The full-English was neither full nor appetising. If Bradley was outside she would request it and then slip whatever was easy into a serviette to give to him. Her story was one of cliché but truth. *** She attended a Roman Catholic School when she was eleven. The whole experience had been heart-breaking because this meant moving away from her friends. She had begged, cried and locked herself in her bedroom [by pushing her bed and wardrobe up against the door]. Her parents had tried to get her into the school twenty minutes away- it wasn’t ideal but at least they wouldn’t have to move and she could still see her friends after school, but she didn’t fit the catchment area. She had felt hopeful that her parents would give up. Yet she should have known better. Religion was put before everything. If it meant moving house, so be it. She had, on occasion, found comfort in religion. The people, some of them, a blessing of sorts. They would hug her without questioning her. Ask her how she was without prying. She walked out the morning chapel service feeling fresh and new- Clean. She was always fascinated by a statue outside the church. It was an angel but it was shrugging. She had never seen an indifferent angel before. She used to draw it in the back of her Bible and felt comforted by the human emotion. She had even found a postcard of it for 45p in the church shop, the only purchase she had ever made there. University never really improved her independence. Her parents made sure she signed up for the local churches youth group before she even looked at accommodation and it was the first thing they asked about when they called. Two months into her new life at Manchester Met studying Theology, In Christ’s Eyes Youth Club had chosen ‘Love’ as their theme to explore in the creative fair. Love. Hadn’t Jesus and The Beatles covered that market? The meeting had been the same as ever. They had started with a welcoming prayer, followed by a live band rendition of ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine.’ Molly, who Sally knew from home, would insist on singing this louder than anyone [her father was a minster] which always infuriated Mike, a fully trained tenor in the local am-dram, until it became a bizarre screaming match, their eyes screaming, foreheads dripping but their faces still smiling in the way you only see in church. She missed, she realised with bewilderment, the old chapel on the hill. The old dears. The tea and coffee. The musty but comforting smell. The organ. The same hymns. No surprises. Her parents would ring every Wednesday evening to ask how the group had gone. Incidentally they would always slip in that they were in conversation with Molly’s parents often. They had suddenly been having weekly coffee mornings together. Big Brother was watching as much as God. The only thing she really looked forward to at the youth group was Lee. Everyone loved Lee. He was devout, funny, considerate. He drove to church every day rather than by the Magic Bus and would offer lifts home on a first come, first served policy. It was an unspoken thing that Lee was Molly’s. They had grown up together, their mothers meeting at antenatal classes. She pawed at him and would wait until he was ready to leave before hopping into the front seat of the car. Lee also seemed to effortlessly lead a double life on the club scene. His photos on Saturday night filled her Facebook feed, a red-faced Lee, a pint in each hand who still managed to turn up to the 9am service looking and smelling divine. Sally had tried going out. Lots of times. She went out into the city and tentatively picked out outfits and makeup and dressed herself up, painted her face like she used to do with dolls as a child. She tried to blast out music and shove vodka shots down her throat to get in the mood but had failed at the final hurdle and hastily cancelling taxis and telling her flat mates whom she barely knew that she might meet them later. Her own private form of rebellion, which she found she quite enjoyed, was to take herself off to The Whitworth Pub, a two minute walk from her student accommodation. It was down a jetty and was out of the way of the line of pubs and shops. It wasn’t popular, which was why she liked it. There were solar fairy lights around the entrance which occasionally blinked hopefully. Inside she felt safe and enjoyed the familiar regulars who would give her a courtesy nod but nothing more. She was surrounded by people but without the pressure to have to make conversation. She was both warmed and alarmed when the barman no longer asked what she wanted but reached for the sauvignon blanc and poured whilst she handed over the exact change. He had once said she was welcome to open a tab but she felt this could be a familiarity gone too far and a slippery path into the drunkenness she had always been warned against. She always sat in the corner of the pub on a slightly lower second floor next to a Queen themed slot machine. It had been out of order for as long as she had been coming to The Whitworth, but it would occasionally and sporadically offer bursts of ‘We are the Champions’, tinny and affected. She felt irrationally cross whenever anyone else was in her seat and she would catch herself looking into the corner willing them to leave. Best of all, she didn’t know anybody from university or church who had even heard of The Whitworth. ‘Molly?’ She almost choked on her wine. ‘Lee! I..’ She searched desperately for an excuse. ‘May I join you?’ ‘Yes. Of course!’ ‘Same again.’ ‘You don’t have to…’ ‘I insist.’ She looked at her almost full glass. ‘Sauvignon Blanc. Thank you.’ ‘I’ll be right back.’ They had spent most of that first meeting like an interview. Sally would stutter out a question and Lee would give a willing, detailed answer. He didn’t return questions which Sally thanked God for. Lee, at Sally’s both delight and odd annoyance, would show up every other day and join her without conversation, Sally pointedly putting away her book. Yet she was flattered. He began commenting on her hair, clothes, lips. He would order more drinks faster than she could drink them. She had found herself jumping into taxis with him, going to nightclubs, losing shoes and frantically deleting drunken Facebook posts and tweets the next morning, her face burning with embarrassment. It was a month in when he invited her to his, as drunk as she had ever been, her body leading the way like it had never done before. *** She had woken, her head pounding, naked, in an unfamiliar bed, empty bottles on the floor...and Molly Lawson standing in the doorway. What followed was two weeks of hell. She stopped going to her lectures and church, swearing that every eye was on her, accusing and hating. Molly wrote thinly veiled statuses aimed at her daily. She tried to read her Bible and would feel sick. She had been sat in her flat trying to find something that would calm her on television when she found herself calling her Mum’s number. ‘Hello sweetheart, are you okay?’ She had sobbed out everything. Everything. She said it fast in the same way you pulled off a plaster. Her mum didn’t interrupt or even make a sound. There was a pause after Sally finally stopped, heart thumping, her head sore from crying. ‘Sally...I love you, sweetheart. I’m so…’ her Mum’s voice had gone wobbly. ‘I am so pleased you’ve told me. We’ve been so worried. It’s all going to be okay.’ Sally had never felt happier...it was a release. Her mum was the angel, shrugging. The angel saying it was okay, It's okay, hey, you made a mistake but we can sort it. Her mum promised they were getting in the car this second. 'NOW sweetheart, okay, so you read a book or watch a film and then we’ll be with you…' She used to say the same thing to Sally when they were away and her grandparents were watching her What if I can’t sleep, Mummy? Then you play, sweetheart. Or read and before you know it you’ll be in my arms. She came off the phone and wept pure, grateful relief. She thanked God. Over and over she thanked Him. She slept- one of those bizarre naps when you sleep for ten minutes but it feels longer and she woke feeling a gorgeous warmth. So many mornings waking and feeling the dread of the day. The guilt... God, the relief. Sweet, relief. Was there a better emotion in the world than relief? She hadn’t been damned to hell. Her mother hadn’t wailed and declared herself motherless. They were coming to get her. Everything was going to be okay and her poor, battered brain would be soothed and made better. The warmth began to leave somewhat three hours later when her parents hadn’t arrived. Perhaps she had taken ‘now’ too literally. Or maybe there were more road works at Stockport. She breathed deeply, not wanting the relief and calmness to leave her. Her phone buzzed in her hands, a number she didn’t recognise. She always hated answering the phone not knowing who was on the other end. ‘Hello?’ ‘Is that Sally?’ The voice sounded old and shaky. ‘Speaking.’ ‘It’s Sylvia Lands from Church, honey. Listen, I have some very, very sad news. The police should be with you soon, love, but I wanted to catch you before they did. Couldn’t stand the thought of you finding out from strangers… ‘ Sally gripped the edge of the bed, unable to stand. ‘I saw it my love, they were just pulling off Main Street, I was getting off the bus… a little boy ran out in front of their car, they swerved and smashed straight into the tree on the corner, it happened so quickly my love… I’m so sorry...I followed the ambulance but the medic told me there was nothing to be done…’ *** She had accepted the first room they had offered her, not even really looking at it. She had sat on the bed and not unpacked any of the few possessions she had brought. A knock at the door made her start and she hesitated before answering- she noticed with a heavy heart, it didn’t have a peep hole. Why had she not checked? Her Dad would have checked.. ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s Alexander, miss. I work here. The night watchman.’ She paused and then undid the lock. ‘Hello’ ‘Hello, love. I was told we had a new resident and I just wanted to make myself known. I’m Alex- I’m the night watchman but I do a little bit of everything, really.’ ‘Oh.’ He looked friendly enough, a warm smile which was somehow familiar and a genuineness which made her like him immediately. His white, slightly fluffy jumper reminded her of one her grandad used to wear. ‘So anything you need- even if it’s just a natter over a cuppa, just let me know. I’d say come to my office next to reception but chances are I’ll be on my rounds so I’ll be here and there...oh, are you okay my love?’ Sally was ashamed to find the numb feeling momentarily leaving her. Her sadness at this underserved offer of kindness was too much .The tears fell and she angrily tried to brush them away. ‘Oh dear, sweetheart, what can I do to help?’ ‘Nothing.’ The tears just wouldn’t stop. ‘Nothing...I’m so sorry about this.’ ‘Don’t be sorry’, he said softly, his eyebrows creased in concern. ‘I’m sure you have a story to tell- and I’m all ears if you ever want to share it- but I’m also happy to talk about the weather, the book you’re reading, politics if we’re feeling brave.’ She gave a weak laugh. ‘It must seem very lonely at the moment’ he continued. ‘But it doesn’t have to be...okay?’ Without really meaning to, she found herself hugging this kindly man she had just met, burying her head into his jumper. He hesitated and then put his arms around her, returning the hug. ‘It’s going to be okay, poppet. You’ll see.’ *** Daniel stopped writing and looked at the girl in front of him. She was thin, wiry looking. She looked at least ten years older than she was. A black jumper fell limply over her body. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘Please, I don’t want sympathy. I just..I just thought it was time to talk about it to someone other than poor Alex. He’s heard it all enough times and it’s not as if he can change the outcome, is it?’ ‘You don’t… I mean I hope you don’t believe any of it is your fault.’ ‘That God was punishing me, you mean?’ ‘Well, yes.’ ‘That’s what I thought at first. Less so recently. But it never really leaves me. I often feel guilty for wasting mum and dad’s inheritance in this hotel now. So I can’t really catch a break can I?’ ‘Why don’t you leave?’’ She didn’t answer him immediately but when she did her voice was smaller. ‘It seemed too easy to delete Facebook. I felt free for a second until I thought of the screenshots, the whispers, the photos saved on people’s phones. I became obsessed with an old book I had read of published letters, postcards and unpublished writings from people long dead. They always seemed so classy and intelligent. But perhaps though, those poor dead writers and poets, had never intended them to be shared to everyone, these thoughts and feelings. They belong to a moment, a time in that person’s life and these letters bookmark as that person forever even though they had probably changed weeks, months, years after they had written it. It’s not how they would want to be remembered. Do you see? I just want to live without leaving a trace anymore. I don’t want to be remembered for my mistakes.’ Daniel drew his pen away from the page. ‘You think I’m crazy?’ Daniel shook his head. ‘No.’ ‘Then what?’ ‘Scared? ‘Paranoid’ ‘Hard on yourself. You aren’t very kind to yourself...but you know, I kind of felt free coming here. Free that you hadn’t looked me up to make an impression- because I suppose my Facebook is hardly a glowing character reference. ‘ Sally visibly relaxed. ‘I just felt by the end of my first week at the hotel...safe. Not happy, or that relief I spoke about before. But safe. This place...it’s like time has stopped. Just when I needed it to.’ ‘And if it closes?’ Sally smiled softly at him. ‘Then that is God’s will.’ * That night, after a couple of hours of pacing and worrying, she sat herself down and did her breathing. She kept waiting to panic specifically about Daniel and her confession in someone else’s notebook… but the panic never came. She looked into the bag she had arrived with six months before. At the bottom, where she knew it would be, was the image of the angel shrugging. Was it really that bad? Haven’t you served your time on that one? Did you NEED to serve it in the first place? She pinned the photo up on her bed post. She was comforted that it would be something she could look on often. That she might see it without noticing… that perhaps God was shrugging kindly too.
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Just before this chapter, Daniel has taken up the job to write a report on the Old Hall Hotel which is rumoured to be shutting. He has attempted to get in touch with Miranda, the owner, but instead has been communicating with Alex, the night watchman who seems to know everything there is to know about the hotel. He has arranged a meeting and tour with him to learn more. Chapter 2 It looked nothing like the brochure. Daniel had been sent an information pack through the post a couple of weeks ago. It had reminded Daniel of the posh hotels you saw in costume dramas, all black uniforms and tall hats. The writing he thought was rather clumsy and mismatched. Were they selling hotel rooms or permanent homes? The front of the brochure showed a black limo pulling up outside the hotel, its doors shining and inviting, a red carpet leading up to them. A bellboy stood at the door, smiling, his arms open wide as though nothing would make him happier than to welcome the pretentious-looking contents of the car and to carry their bags. ‘The Old Hall Hotel. Why choose anything less than luxury?’ Luxury, thought Daniel, was definitely in the eye of the beholder. The grand doors featured on the front of the brochure had been replaced by bizarre revolving doors which would have looked better placed in an airport or a hospital. They looked old, but not fashionably so. The red carpet was still there but it was damp and faded to a weak pink, dirt sticking sporadically in clumps. The rain poured relentlessly but Daniel suspected it wouldn't have looked much better in the most glorious of summer days. An old lantern hung above the door, unlit. Instead of the bellboy, Daniel could see Alex was waiting for him outside, looking desperately apologetic, which seemed, Daniel noticed, to be Alex’s default expression. ‘Daniel, welcome!’ Alex walked forward and held out a hand, shaking it vigorously. ‘So pleased you could make it.’ ‘Yeah, no problem. Thanks for having me.’ ‘Thank you.’ Alex clasped his hand before letting it go. ‘Come on in out of this miserable rain.’ *** There was an awkward few minutes trying to work out the revolving door [‘Not your fault, Daniel, not your fault, they need oiling. It’s on my to-do list’] Once they had finally tumbled through Daniel took in his surroundings. Alex indicated that he should leave his coat on an old wooden chest, which on closer inspection was actually a large, old church money collection box . ‘For alter flowers...cleared daily.’ ‘So you know nobody will nick it’ Alex winked. ‘God is watching.’ Daniel folded the coat around the box and attempted to clean his shoes on the scuffed floor. He walked forward but looked hesitantly back at Alex. He was at the start of a long, opposing corridor. He wondered at first if there had been some kind of power cut. It looked bizarrely and uninvitingly dark and dingy. Why, he wondered, did they at least not have a few well placed lamps if hall lights were too much of an ask? The only slithers of light came from the long windows coming from the two rooms either side of Daniel at the entrance. Two joker-like gargoyle faces stared down at him at the entrance to each. The doors and windows looking into the rooms were clear glass so that Daniel could see into both. It reminded him of the offices at work, his boss always having the ability to peer in to check up on them. Both the rooms looked like near carbon copies of each other, bar a piano in the far corner of the right room, which looked like it had seen better days. Daniel’s mind went fleetingly to a busy room, cocktail parties, a Cole Porter-type playing songs on he piano… Both rooms had green wallpaper which reminded Daniel strongly of how his Great Grandma had decorated her living room. A fireplace was in both, ashes lying old and untouched. There were deep window seats looking onto the street where people hurried past without so much as a glance. ‘Lots of ghosts in there’ Alex interrupted his thoughts. ’I call them the Nothing Rooms; they used to be very popular. These days, you might see someone with a coffee, if you’re lucky.’ ‘Does anyone play the piano?’ ‘Not anymore. At least I don’t think so. Although I hear it sometimes. The same three notes at ridiculous times. Couldn’t possibly be anyone in the hotel that I know of. Odd.’ Alex stared ahead, frowning slightly. If it was an act, it was a good one, Daniel thought. Perhaps a tease for new tourists and guests? It didn’t seem Alex’s style but nor did believing that ghosts were plonking on the piano at all hours. On the corridor walls were what his mum would call ‘knick knacks’. Old pennies found during a restoration of the hotel, old keys from abandoned doors and a peculiar painting of a bear on its four legs with a lead and collar. Underneath someone had written, ‘Exit, pursued by…’ ‘My favourite stage direction of all time’. Alex looked at the picture fondly. ‘Did you write that?’ Daniel pointed at the inscription. ‘Vandalise the hotel? Of course not. Nor did I write, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’ in the kitchen. Right, let’s tell the boss you’re here, shall we?’ *** The reception- unusually- was down at the far end of the corridor. There was a frustrated, frazzled looking woman typing furiously into a large, clunky-looking outdated computer.. Her long, ginger hair kept falling into her eyes and Daniel wondered why she didn’t just tie it up. A portrait of the hotel hung behind her. Ivory hung from the windows and the St George flag flew from the roof. Like the brochure it had an oldness and sadness to it- like the front of an order of service at a funeral. ‘Alex, Daisy has had another fight with Lily and I think maybe...oh.’ She spotted Daniel and reluctantly stood up from behind the screen. ‘Sorry, I lost track of time...Dale was it? The article thing?’ ‘Daniel- yes’ he held out a hand, ‘Nice to meet you.’ ‘Likewise. Sorry I can’t stay but Alex knows the hotel and its secrets better than me anyway.’ ‘Not to worry. Thank you for letting me explore.’ ‘My pleasure. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, Alex. Do you mind keeping an eye on the desk? We’re not expecting anyone but you never know, miracles do happen. Maybe the cast of Barnum will all want rooms, orchestra and all.’ She walked out without another word, leaving the door swinging. ‘So that was the Boss.’ ‘Eeek.’ Alex smiled. ‘A lot on her shoulders. Shall we begin? Anywhere in particular you want to start?’ Daniel grasped for his notebook. ‘Can I meet anyone today?’ Alex paused. ‘Obviously, you might. They live here and it’s not like they’re under lock and key... but I wouldn’t encourage it at the moment.’ ‘It would be great to get some kind of conversation with them…’ ‘I agree.’ Alex surveyed him carefully. ‘But not yet.’ Daniel felt very much as though he was being told by a favourite teacher not to push his luck. Alex smiled. ‘Let me talk to them first, okay? Emotions are kind of high around here at the moment..’ ‘Okay.’ Daniel tried to mask his disappointment. Today was already proving to be a waste of time. ‘Can I offer you a drink before the tour?’ ‘Afterwards perhaps.’ ‘It shouldn’t take long. I’ll tell you as much as I can.’ *** He indicated for Daniel to go through the door opposite labelled ‘residents only’. Through it was an unhealthy, thin staircase which looked like it could barely fit or allow the weight of a small child through, let alone two fully grown men. Alex grinned at the look of trepidation on Daniel’s face. ‘Before we attempt the stairs, I suppose a point of interest is that directly under our feet is a stage.’ ‘A stage?’ ‘Are you a theatre-goer, Daniel?’ ‘I have seen my fair share of shows, I suppose..’ Daniel had attempted the theatre a handful of times but would hardly describe himself as a ‘theatre-goer.’ . His mum and dad had both loudly sobbed their way through Les Miserables, trying to outdo each other. He had found himself on edge, praying that his parents would stop crying and praying for a light hearted moment. When Master of the House came on he was so relieved he could have quite happily picked up a prop tankard and jumped over a few bar stools and sang along with gusto. Daniel just couldn’t lose himself in a performance, no matter how good it was. No matter if it was singing Hobbits, trains on roller skates or Jesus and Judas trying to outsing each other. He waited for the certainty of a line slip-up. It was a constant distraction. Daniel would find himself looking at the actors and wondering what they were having for tea later. If they were happy. Did the cast like each other? Were they in bitchy little groups? Did they hate it when someone nailed a note, take silent pleasure if someone’s voice cracked? Were they cringing as much as him when the male lead sang a solo, leaving the woman to gaze adoringly for four minutes into his eyes as he spat in her face at the high notes? And then the scene would change and he would have no idea what was going on. ‘I think perhaps we'll leave the stage for another day.’ Perhaps Alex could sense his discomfort. ‘Only I left the key in my room and it would be wasting your time, a lot to get through. Definitely worth a look at some point, though.’ ‘Swell. Shit. Did I just say swell?’ ‘You did.’ ‘I have never, ever said the word ‘swell’ in my life. Ever.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really! Fuck me. Swell. Where the hell did swell come from? Via 1930s New York?’ Alex chuckled. ‘Don’t t worry yourself. I think this particular hotel backdrop grabs you and gives you a new character all of your own. And it’s a bugger. It holds no opinion to who you are and which character you would prefer. It’s like ‘Act one, Scene one, do you have your radio mike on?’... you know when you feel like you’re playing a part? When the things coming out of your mouth sound nothing like you?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘Hmm.’ Alex cleared his throat. ‘Any questions yet?’ Daniel shook himself, slightly unnerved. ‘I suppose firstly… is this place really haunted?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘Do you tell all your potential customers that?’ ‘Scared?’ Alex chuckled. ‘It was always a debate whether to mention it in the brochure or not. ‘I’m not scared of ghosts. ’ ‘Some guests are. Most of them if they’re honest.’ ‘You seen one?’ ‘Seen one?’ Alex chuckled. ‘You want that drink now?’ ‘Go on- seriously- have you seen one?’ ‘Now, that’s not fair. I haven't worked you out yet.’ ‘Worked me out? ‘In regards to the ghosts or lack thereof. See, we had a whole morning meeting regarding ‘The Ghost Problem.’ This is the conclusion we came to. Young man walks in, has a Ghostbusters top on or starts talking about other dimensions… We tell him this is the most haunted building in England. We tell him about the noises in the basement. We tell him how the windows swing open of their own accord, even in the most mild of weather. Of the little girl in the pigtails and gas mask who loves nothing more than to learn her alphabet in the key of E at three in the morning. Especially in room 14 which, oh look Mr Ghostbuster, just so happens to be your room.’ Daniel stared. ‘That said, you aren’t swamped in children and an over-polite wife. See, if that were the case I would tell you to ignore anything you heard. That whistling you hear? I am so sorry, guilty as charged, I whistle all the time. Even in my sleep.The windows swinging open? Well, they’ve always been like that.’ ‘Which one is true? ‘Still thinking of staying?’ ‘...Yes’ ‘Room 14 is free. Shall we start?’ There was a sign saying that only residents could go up the staircase but Daniel could see nobody that would stop him even if he didn’t have the authority of Alex next to him. ‘I’m afraid the lift is out of service. It’s not far but the steps are a bit of a death trap, to be honest. Watch your step- and I mean every step.’ Daniel eyed the mismatched steps and the red carpet tufted out on each one. No wonder there are so many ghosts, he thought darkly. Guests would be lucky to survive the night. He followed Alex up to the first floor, stumbling despite himself. Alex, however, seemed to glide up the steps without thought. He stopped beside a bizarrely placed anchor on the landing. ‘Each floor originally had a different theme.’ Alex explained. ‘This floor was the Cruise Liner experience. It was very popular for a while. We kept the anchor. Memory of better days. The guests seem to like it but it does look rather random with the rest of the more...shall we say, mundane furnishings Miranda brought in.’ ‘The floor...it’s safe?’ ‘Oh yes.’ Alex said determinedly ‘Just old and tired.’ Daniel remained unconvinced as they walked along the corridor. The floor squeaked objectively with every step. The carpet looked as though at some point it was a vivid red but very much like the outside, had become a rather unpleasant faded, dirty version of itself. ‘This is my favourite spot in the hotel.’ Alex pulled back the curtain and Daniel felt himself give the first genuine reaction since he’d arrived. ‘It’s beautiful.’ The view, like the interior, seemed to be stuck in a different time. The window framed the Opera House Theatre opposite to the hotel, with the park in the foreground. Daniel could see the tops of a fountain and hear the squeals of delight as children played in the lake. ‘Stunning isn’t it?’ Alex looked proudly on, a touch of relief in his voice. The Opera House Theatre was completely white-bricked, and even in the sad drizzle seemed to shine as though it was a Spanish villa, bathed in bright sunlight. Daniel followed his gaze and looked across to the theatre- matinee crowds were starting to arrive. Little dots, on their first trip to the theatre. The Tiger Who Came to Tea was showing and many had their faces painted. ‘Makes you think doesn’t it?’ Alex said softly. ‘What do you mean?’ Alex didn’t answer him. *** The bar wasn’t what Daniel had been expecting at all. It reminded Daniel of an old traditional pub that had been taken over by a Wetherspoons. Bright, coffee table sized menus lay on each table, with bright orange and purple sofas facing them. It screamed of someone trying to be younger then they were, hiding a more plain yet classy interior under too much makeup. Perhaps sensing this, Alex tried to draw Daniel’s attention to some old cabinets next to the window. These, he said proudly, were some of the hotels best historical artifacts- Daniel peered in, frustrated by the faded football flags hanging down over the display. ‘Here.’ Alex got a key out of his pocket and opened up the cabinet. ‘Miranda won’t let us take the flags down. Says it gives the place a modern feel. They’ve been up since two World Cups ago.’ Alex gestured to Daniel to look in. There was a collection of trophies, certificated and framed photos. Daniel picked up the nearest trophy. ‘3rd prize in the Most Prestigious Toe Battle of 1922?’ Alex smiled. ‘One of my favourites.’ Daniel put it back and looked closely at a photograph. A row of people stood outside, some in army uniforms, unsmiling.It was as faded as everything else but an old handwritten inscription in the corner dated it as 1917. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Alex said. ‘That this place was here then… through it all. Shall we?’ The seating was completely inappropriate for eating. Alex indicated to a sofa which Daniel immediately sank far too deeply in to. The table was positioned far above it and Daniel looked sideways at an elderly lady struggling to get a spoonful of soup into her shaking mouth. He felt ashamed that it made his stomach turn and he turned down the offer of a plate of ham sandwiches, opting only for the local ale instead. Bizarrely, around their table was a collection of drawings of chickens . It made Daniel think of a picture from his mother’s house. There were mainly seascapes and photos on display but in the kitchen there was an inexplicable picture of a highland cow. Never had he heard his mum even make a passing comment on a highland cow or even the picture itself. An unsmiling waitress placed a board down with various offers splashed across it. ‘Win a Dream Holiday!’, ‘3 Fiery Shots for the price of 2!’ ‘Double up on any spirit for only £1.50!’ Alex looked at them sourly. ‘They don’t really go with the optimistic grandeur of the place, do they?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘Not very popular either. Last ditch effort by Miranda I think. Get the cool kids in...I dunno.Can hardly imagine a night of shots amongst the chickens can you?’ Daniel was alarmed that Alex suddenly looked very tired and tearful. ‘Things will pick up soon.’ Daniel said quietly. Alex smiled weakly. ‘That’s what I keep saying. Those exact words.’ He looked across at the old lady. ‘And I hate having to lie to them.’ ‘What if it wasn’t a lie?’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘What if…’ Daniel leant forward, his stomach churning with excitement. ‘What if we saved this place?’ ‘Saved it?’ ‘This article...it could drum up support. A couple of sob stories, some history, some ghosts...who can tell where it could lead?’ Alex gave him a sad smile,’ Sounds good.’ ‘No, I mean it! Get it up on social media, #savetheoldhall- get some interviews with staff, residents… this doesn’t have to be the end!’ ‘Well. Why not?’ The finality and lightness of this statement made it clear that Alex had said all he had to say on the matter. Feeling somewhat flat at this lack of enthusiasm, Daniel looked about the room feeling somewhat embarrassed. ‘I keep seeing signs for The Pauper’s Pit- had a look on my way back from the loo- but it said 'Staff Only.’ ‘That’s right. It’s the stage I was telling you about. Locked and bolted to the public, I’m afraid. ’ ‘Oh.’ Daniel felt momentarily begrudged that he was still counted as somebody not being able to look ‘behind the curtain.’ ‘Daniel.’ Alex fingered the beer mat. ‘How about you check in, as our guest? I mean, obviously you’d be a guest but...for free. Could help with the book.’ ‘The article’ ‘Excuse me, the article.’ Daniel considered Alex for a moment. Maybe this older man was unaware of the power of words and social media. Unaware of how far a few retweets could go. Daniel had never felt so needed. ‘You said room 14 was free?’ The Old Hall Hotel is at its heart a collection of intertwining stories about a hotel which still accepts permanent guests- a struggling writer comes to stay to report on the rumours of it closing and begins to meet each of the eccentric guests, writing their life stories in the hope of raising awareness about the hotel in the hope that it will remain open. Although the hotel is inspired by the Old Hall Hotel in Buxton, Derbyshire, the story and its characters are entirely fictional. PROLOGUE ‘This is indeed a very special place with its own special feeling’ Daniel Defoe, 1727 about The Old Hall Hotel in Buxton, Derbyshire. I realise that writers feel that they own things more than other people. I realise that they sit in cafes and theatres and absorb people. They decide people’s lives based on their outfit. Their upbringing from their speech and language. I understand that as a writer you have probably measured me up already. What you don’t understand is that as soon as the couple leave their table, or their theatre seats or leave their hat behind on the bus...the story doesn’t end. THEIR story doesn’t end. Or perhaps you haven’t been so careless? Perhaps you haven’t forgotten them or made them an interesting quirk to flesh out a character you have already written. Perhaps you stole them and created a book around them. The thing is, you may have gone off on a tangent in your head because of the ketchup sachet the couple opened but didn’t touch, or the way she flinched when he tried to take her hand but lives DO go on. Stories end. Lives...they don’t. Ever. Not ever. So write your stories. Write whatever you want. But don't expect people to believe them. NOTE: This is another chapter from my WIP novel 'The Old Hall Hotel.' A failing hotel which still accepts permanent guests. This is a rough draft, so any notes would be appreciated! Characters in this story: DANIEL: A struggling writer, tasked with writing a piece on the hotel to try and encourage public interest again. ALEX: The night watchman. Omnipresent, he knows everything about the residents. His life revolves around the hotel. LILY: An elderly, permanent guest. She is known to be eccentric and has segregated herself from everyone in the hotel, besides the kindly Alex. ‘How old is Lily?’ Daniel had limited information about his later interviewee. Alex had been helpful in providing him with the basic information about the previous clients, so that they could skip the standard first questions and get to the interesting middle section. ‘Eighties.’ Alex was frowning over some documents. ‘Late eighties, I would say.’ Daniel scribbled into his notebook. ‘And she’s happy for me to interview her?’ ‘She was yesterday.’ Alex finally looked up from his work. ‘Listen, Daniel. I should maybe pre-warn you about her character- or at least her mood- it can shift quite rapidly.’ Daniel nodded. Could be an interesting one. Daniel glanced down again at the notes. ‘You didn’t give me a surname.’ Alex opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘Ah.’ ‘What?’ ‘I think it’s perhaps best you wait and see which one she offers you.’ ‘Which one…’ ‘And ...best to just go with it. Don’t look too shocked. She’ll like you more if you take it on the chin.’ Choosing not to worry about it, Daniel nodded and scribbled ‘probable psycho’ into his notebook. * ‘Lily?’ Daniel flipped through his notes to make sure he had the right room. 102. ‘Lily?’ He tried the door and found it opened very easily. Taking this an invitation he stepped in. A Dickensian shadow was cast over the room. That or Hitchcock. Despite the sun, creeping through the shut, floor to ceiling blinds, candles were lit in the room, displaying only the edges of tables and the suggestion of the rest of the furnishings. ‘Lily?’ A hissing noise made Daniel make an involuntary gasp. Adjusting his glasses and blinking into the darkness he saw two glowing eyes meeting his from behind a cage. It gave a faint meow and then another hiss. ‘Hello.’ A woman was sitting in an armchair, bolt upright, watching him. How long for he couldn’t be sure. ‘Lil...Lily?’ ‘How presumptuous of you to let yourself in. I thought Alex had fixed the automatic lock.’ ‘I’m very sorry, I thought you were expecting me.’ She didn’t reply and Alex reddened ‘ Not that that entitled me to just come in. I was worried I was late, you see and waiting at the wrong door, I knocked and I was just checking to see if it was locked and it wasn’t, so I tried...’ ‘You’re rambling. It’s not attractive.’ The cat mewed rather pathetically. ‘I’m sorry but… you are Lily?’ ‘Lily? How confident. Indeed, I’m Lily.’ She paused. ‘Miss Hilter to you, though.’ ‘Miss...Hitler?’ ‘Correct.’ She switched an out of place desk light on and studied him, her eyes travelling from his face to his shoes. ‘Oh, now. Don’t you start judging, sonny.’ ‘I...I wasn’t.’ ‘Of course you’re judging. Over a silly name. Goodness me. You should have seen the fuss it caused in Starbucks. They won’t let me in anymore. The café downstairs is simply ghastly, too. Utter discrimination.’ ‘I was just surprised Miss…’ ‘Miss H if you really can’t stand it.’ ‘Miss H….’ ‘AICH not HEICH. Alex told me you were an educated man.’ ‘I don’t know about that.’ ‘Well, he told me that you’re a writer.’ ‘They aren’t exclusive’ ‘They should be.’ She poured some sherry from a canister into a grey-looking mug. ‘My father was a writer.’ ‘Really? What did he write?’ Lily swirled the sherry in the mug. ‘Perhaps, we could go through to my study? I think you'll find it enlightening. Or at least a satisfying backdrop to this meeting.’ ‘Wherever you are most comfortable.’ She poured more sherry into the mug and shrugged .‘Follow me.’ Daniel quickly collected up his notebooks. ’You wouldn’t find Premier Inn having a study.’ Lily chuckled. ‘You know, I think once upon a time it was a second bathroom. Put a desk and a few books in any room and it becomes a study. This way. That door ahead of you.’ Lily stood and Daniel chanced a proper look at her. She was a handsome lady. She wore a buttoned up grey jacket, leaving only room at the neck to display a chain with a ring. A beige skirt which touched the floor trailed behind her slightly as she walked, barefoot. Gesturing to a door she stood back. ‘After you.’ *** ‘Oh…’ The walls were painted black in rough strokes- apart from the central wall, which was covered by a huge swastika. Over the top were various framed photos of Hitler- ones that Daniel had never seen before. He was smiling in every one. There was one exception. A more modern photo of a young woman, maybe in her twenties. Daniel walked toward it ‘My Tabitha.’ Daniel’s voice was failing him. Every part of him wanted to leave. This woman, this room... ‘Who is she?’ he croaked. ‘My daughter.’ She brought up too long red fingernails to stroke the picture.’ Thank you for noticing her. Not many people do. I sometimes think I should perhaps move her to a different wall.’’ ‘You have a daughter?’ ‘I do. A beauty. Don’t you agree, young man?’ Daniel looked again at the photo. Her hair was severely cut, and her eyes looked too big, terrified and wide as though posing for a Victorian photo. ‘I don’t have a recent one.’ Lily turned away. ‘I wish I did.’ She placed two chairs next to a small wooden desk and set them out like a job interview. Daniel made to sit in the one facing toward the door, away from the central wall but Lily sat herself down forcing him to look at the flag and its photos. Lily watched him for a moment, apparently enjoying his discomfort. ‘So. What do you want to know?’ Daniel shook himself slightly and reached inside his satchel. ‘Are you happy to speak about your family?’ ‘My father, I presume?’ ‘If you like. We can start there. Your father…’ ‘Which one?’ Daniel tried to keep his face neutral. Don’t look shocked. ‘You have more than one?’ ‘Three, actually.’ ‘Three?’ ‘Three. Daddy. Step-father. Hitler.’ The more she spoke, the more Lily’s voice altered. Daniel noted it slipped from BBC posh, to Scouse into an odd German tilt. None of them seemed authentic, more like ones heard in a Monty Python sketch. ‘I suppose… I have to ask about Hitler.’ ‘Settle yourself, then. I won’t stop. Hold your questions. Just write.’ * ' Mummy was from Liverpool. The poor part. She had a sweetheart. Billy. He worked on the Docks and with the little money he had he would take her ice skating, or to a show if he was feeling particularly flush. That’s where Hitler met her. At the ice rink. She was by herself that day. Mummy was very pretty- if she went by herself and the right person was working at the kiosk he would let her in for free. And there he was- a man who looked so painfully out of place that Mummy couldn’t help but stare at him. And he stared right back. And then he was flat on his backside. Mummy skated over and helped him up. He spoke little English and Mummy little German. But they smiled a lot. Mummy said she never met a more polite person. They became friends and poor old Billy was given the boot. So, they used to go skating in Wavertree. Hand in hand and round and round they went. They even kept a pair of his skates behind glass when he became famous. People used to stare at them. Some people would just spit. Then without even a goodbye, he left. Went back to Germany and started causing trouble. Mummy was so upset. She collected all the press but just cut out his picture. She didn’t like to read what they were saying.' Lily stopped here. Looked at Daniel. ‘You seem distracted by the wall.’ Daniel had attempted to keep his eyes squarely on Lily. ‘Sorry.’ He thought she was about to ask him to go. Instead she sat back again, and continued. ‘In 1938, without warning he came back to Wavertree. Mummy was skating as usual and she looked up and there he was! He came back to Liverpool and stayed with her just before the war. He did, lad, I swear to you, don’t look at me like that. He came for a holiday. And they had me. He stayed with mummy and they skated, painted and spoke about astrology. And they had me. Then off he went. Off he went to cause even more trouble. ‘She never gave up hope. She would tell her girlfriends- ‘I just need to speak to him. Have a good old skate and talk. Get these mad ideas out of his head. That’s all. Then it got personal and things changed for mummy. ‘You see, she was cross because he bombed the house in Toxteth. She had been staying with a friend at the time and came back to flat land. ‘What happened?’ a neighbor yelled from across the road, ‘Did you and Adolf have a domestic? ’ Mummy felt such shame and anger. She thought he might have given her a warning. She thought they were closer than that.’ ‘She tried to defend him even then. She would talk with Bobby, her little brother. He was only a little boy. She would say to him, ‘How can people think they know someone from words spoken by others?’ Bobby would agree and hug her. He loved his sister. ‘Then Hitler did something Mummy could neither explain nor forgive. Mummy’s little brother was killed. They were living in Bootle with an aunt after the bomb destroyed their home. Bobby had gone walking when the air siren went off. Someone told Mummy they had seen Bobby before the bomb went off and that he had no chance of avoiding it. He was dead. ' ‘Please.’ Her eyes looked into his, suddenly looking every inch her age. ‘It isn’t that I approve. I wish I had known Uncle Bobby. I hate this man I know to be my father. But I frame history, both good and bad. The photos...that one, the one of Hitler with the children- I got that one newly framed. It got broken again. It is the only time Alex has turned me down. I had to order the empty frame and do the blasted thing myself. ‘ ‘But your mother… did she find Bobby?’ She paused. ‘She had rushed to find his body because nobody can ever believe someone is gone until they see a body, you see? She was told he was with the others in the Co-op building- that was where they used to store the bodies- that she should go home and see him tomorrow. She did because Mummy was scared of the dark. When she woke up there had been more bombings. They had got the co-op building. Bombed the dead. And right there is the difference between cruelty and evil, she used to tell me. To take someone but not to give a chance for closure, for goodbyes? My Mummy never forgave Hitler, not ever. She says he left her his skating t.shirt. She used to sleep with it. That night she cut it up into small pieces. ‘Why didn’t you burn it, mummy?’ I would ask her ‘We were short on tea towels.’ she told me.’ *** She stood. ‘I am tired. Are you not tired?’ Daniel remained in his seat. ‘I was curious about your other fathers..’ ‘I will see you another time, Daniel. Another time. Please be sure to say goodbye to my cat on your way out. I will not let him out when people are in my room. He will disgrace himself. But perhaps you could do him the courtesy of a smile. You want to know his name?’ Daniel ran names run through his head, all more inappropriate than the last. ‘Um..,’ ‘Socks.’ ‘Oh. How nice.’ *** ‘Hitler!...Seriously, not even a heads up?’ ‘Ahh.’ ‘Alex!’ Daniel spread his arms out. ‘What the actual…’ ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a while since she was Mrs Hitler. I was hoping that wasn’t who you would meet.’ ‘And who was I supposed to meet?’ ‘Mrs Kennedy?’ Alex pulled at his tie nervously..’ Mrs Churchill. Her Royal Highness. If you were lucky, just Lily.’ ‘She’s a schizophrenic?’ ‘She’s just… sad. When I last spoke to Lily….well, she told me more than she’d ever told me.’ ……………………. ‘She was a war child. Her dad went off to war not long after the wee Lily was born. Her mum brought her up and they moved from Liverpool to escape the bombings. The part about her uncle Bobby appears to be true- it’s the only part that never changes. So Lily and mum came to the countryside. To this hotel in fact.’ ‘Her mother met someone. A porter named Billy. They became...close. So close that Lily took to calling him Daddy. She told me how they would play. How he would take her to the park. The way he held her hand and cuddled her when she was scared. He would make up ‘Lily stories’, set in a magical land, far away where only beautiful plants grew, never weeds and yet it never rained. Then, when she was seven, the war was over. And one day, Lily got home from school to find a strange man standing in the kitchen saying he was her father. Her room was packed up and a car was waiting for them outside. He took them all back to Liverpool- a place she couldn’t remember- and her mum kept telling her that this strange man was her real father. And she would scream and cry until she was sick for Billy, her daddy- and this strange man, with eyes like hers- would watch her cry and say nothing. Not a word. I suppose her mother hoped she would forget about Billy. But she didn’t. She hated her real father- this man who had taken her from all she had ever known- and who would wake her screaming and swearing in the dead of night about things she couldn’t understand. He killed himself. Her real father. It was just her and her mum after that. Lily...she wandered. Wandered through stories and people. Sometimes she speaks of a Tabitha. I tried to find her, this girl- but I couldn’t. Sometimes Tabitha’s picture is up. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes her room has a swastika, sometimes an American flag, sometimes nothing. She usually smashes the Hitler pictures… and then asks them to be reframed.’ NOTE: This is another chapter from my WIP novel 'The Old Hall Hotel.' A failing hotel which still accepts permanent guests. This is a rough draft, so any notes would be appreciated! This is more of a 'stand alone' chapter- a visiting guest, Abby, thinks all her dreams are about to come true... She had Twitter to thank when she discovered that after every performance he could be found in a bar near the hotel and theatre called the Old Clubhouse around half-an-hour after the curtain had fallen. Not the theatre bar, that had been an unfortunate mistake made by some. It’s hidden away- I would Google map it before you go @LAPDfan02 had told her. Probably hiding from the LAdies, hehe! @LAdieforlife added. At thirty-five, Abby had watched the majority of her peers leave for university, get jobs, have relationships, babies…have, at some level, something that resembled a respectable life. Abby was aware she didn’t have one. At least not one that anybody would consider noteworthy. She swung from pride at her individuality, indifference at the none too subtle digs on social media, to finally self-loathing on a daily basis. She had unfollowed the majority of her few friends on Facebook because their grinning, conformed faces made her pity either them or herself, depending on where her mind had wandered to that day. But tonight, tonight she was going to own life. She had waited for this day for eighteen years. *** She sat, very aware that she was shaking. She wished she had befriended somebody else in the audience beforehand. That had been part of the plan, to find someone as invested, as passionate as her, to form a friendship that would last the ages. She had hoped to even maybe spot fellow fans at the hotel. She had scanned the audience but nobody had seemed approachable. That said, the turn out had been dismal. A semi-professional production of Guys and Dolls, on a staggered tour of the UK, had struggled to fill half of the 500-seat theatre. Her ticket had been booked for six months, front and centre, and she thought of the poor fools at home, who had missed this opportunity, this privilege. As the lights dimmed, she thought she was going to be sick. She took a long drink from her overpriced water and tried to stop her knees trembling. And then he was there. And nothing, absolutely nothing, else mattered. She had hoped the stage lights were too bright for him to see the sparse crowd, that he wouldn’t feel disheartened. He had thousands of followers on Twitter. Casual fans Abby thought. Where are they tonight? Pathetic. At one point, during the encore, in which she led a faltering standing ovation, he had caught her eye and winked. He probably recognised her from the fan-site… or perhaps even Twitter. She had contained an excited scream and found herself blowing him a kiss. Everything, finally, was falling into place. As the small crowd began to disperse, she became anxious to leave the theatre. She didn’t want to miss him. She tripped over a trailing piece of red carpet. “Can’t wait to leave too?” She looked behind her at a man, roughly her age, grinning at her. “What a let down, ey?” Abby stared at him. Who wore jeans to the theatre? “I thought he was fantastic.” “Who?” “Dale Sands.” The man frowned. “Which one was he? Nathan or Sky?” “Sky.” “Bloody hell, that one. What were they thinking? Seemed almost perverted putting him next to that young girl...what is he? 80?” She tried to keep the angry tremor out of her voice. “He’s 72.” “Jesus, is that all? He clearly enjoyed life a little too much.” Choosing not to get riled, Abby turned away and began to walk out. “Hey, hold on.” Abby kept walking. “Hey, I hope I didn’t upset you. He isn’t your Grandad is he?” Despite herself, she smiled. “I do a review blog, how about you change my mind? We could grab a drink, you could educate me…” Abby pretended not to hear. You fool...he seemed a decent one. *** She was proud of her outfit. She had bid for an original 1970s dress on Ebay as soon as she had purchased the tickets and booked the hotel room. It was close, besides a yellow stripe down the side, to being identical to the one Kev Henderson’s girlfriend wore in the two-part finale to season two. With it she had picked some beige leggings, she loathed showing her legs and she had read in an old Jackie annual she had also bid for on Ebay that he preferred girls who covered up and felt comfortable. Her final touch had been her LAPD necklace which she refused to take off, even for job interviews. She had toyed with wearing one of her LAPD t-shirts but decided against it. She had noticed, to her annoyance, that they had started to sell them in Primark of all places. She had tried for six months to lose some weight for him. She had avoided alcohol, chocolate, even bread. Yet the layers of fat still rolled uncomfortably over what used to be oversized jumpers and leggings. Her mother had tentatively suggested WeightWatchers which had led to both of them crying and screaming at each other for two hours. Abby had chosen today not to fixate on her looks. Besides, Dale wasn’t that shallow. For eighteen years she had lived for this moment. She had breathed for this moment. Fuck all the ordinary people living their photo-shopped lives. Everything was going to be worth it. Everything was about to make sense. She had a plan. She would offer to buy him a drink. That could start a conversation. Nothing seedy- she would be happy with a signature, a selfie and perhaps a hug if she was lucky. She had read on Tumblr that he gave lovely hugs. She had ignored the disgusted expressions of so-called friends who claimed she was obsessed with a man in his seventies. This wasn’t sexual. Of course she had wished she had been around when LAPD had aired. When Dale Sands was at his height, when nobody could deny his beauty. He had aged, of course, and had been the subject of cruel headline jibes about his bald spot and beer belly. Yet it was still him and she needed to show her appreciation- her love and thanks for saving her from such a sorry existence. Where would she be without him? He had to know how she felt. How loved he was. She looked around the bar and tried to see why Dale had picked it. It had, she supposed, a certain amount of charm- but it was so quiet. There was an older man sat on a bar stool flicking through his phone and a woman singing to herself in the corner. Maybe Dale liked the solitude. She had felt embarrassed by the theatre. She had felt excited initially when she had heard the news. When she was young her Grandmother used to bring her to see the panto at Christmas. The huge auditorium had reminded her of the ballroom from Beauty and the Beast. It had been full, ushers in uniform and smiles had welcomed them at every door. She couldn’t tell if the sorry state of the theatre was a victim of time or her poor memory. She had had two vodka and cokes when he arrived, hoping they would steady her nerves. There were now three other people in the bar and yet they didn’t even glance at him as he walked in. A plaid, faded shirt, his hair freshly washed. Slightly wet, eyeliner still under his eyes. He placed himself on a bar stool. Up close she could see more distinctly how bald he had become, a far cry from the golden locks of the LAPD years but still... it was him. Detective Kev Henderson. Feeling light-headed and very aware of her body, she walked up to the stool, clutching the show programme. She noticed across the bar signed pictures from actors she vaguely recognised from Eastenders. She felt embarrassed that Dale had to see them. She cleared her throat. Perhaps he would find the fact that she was so nervous endearing? "Urm...Dale? Mr Sands?" He looked at her- right at her. “Yes?” "I'mahugefancouldIbuyyouadrink?" Daniel frowned, "Say again?" His voice was croaky, making his Texan accent seem even more exaggerated, sexier. "A drink? Can I..can I buy you a drink?" "Oh." Daniels eyes glanced over her, a slight crease in his forehead. "I have a tab, sweetheart but... yeah, thanks anyway." "Oh, okay." She stood, staring, aware of her face flushing, her palms sweating. Her plan had failed at the first hurdle. "Did you want me to sign that?" "Huh?" "Your programme" he pointed to the thin booklet in her hands. "I was in the show." "Oh...I know, I know...urm...yes please." She reached in her bag for a pen but the barman had already passed a marker over. "What's your name?" "Urm, Abby." "Abby, IE, or with a Y?" "Ur, Y....yeah…Y" "Y'sure?" he smirked slightly. He flipped open the pages, found his photo, signed it swiftly and gave it back to her with a quick smile. "Okay, well. Nice to meetcha..." he had already picked up his pint and was inching his way from the bar. That couldn't be it. It had to mean more surely? Couldn’t he see? See that she was different, see how much it meant that she was stood next to him? She fingered her necklace, hoping he would notice it, realise. “Dale?” A slow turn, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” "Do you... urm, do you plan on seeing Matt, whilst you're in England?" The sentence came out in the space of a few seconds. "Matthew? No.... probably not. At least I have no plans to." "He lives here now." “Yes. So I hear.” She licked her lips. His face was still in a frown. “He...he wished you luck on Twitter." "Did he now." "Yes. He said that he would try to..." "...Come watch me? Heh. Yeah, my agent told me about that. Maybe if it's a slow day for him, kid." She was slightly discouraged by this response. Hadn't the 'buddy cops' remained the closest of friends? Godparents to each other’s children? Her Mum had cut out a joint interview the two gave a few years ago to The Times. It was one of her favourite pictures too. Arms around each other. ‘Brothers in all but Blood’. Yet here was Dale, close to being repulsed at the mention of his former colleague’s name. Perhaps he was teasing her? "I also wanted to thank you for the replies on Twitter...I’m SandsGirl12…" He gave a small laugh into his drink. "Come on, kid. I barely know how to use my cell. You think that's me on there?" "Oh…it’s somebody else?” "Of course it is." "Oh” she felt, to her shame, her eyes becoming hot “...sorry, I thought..." "Why're you sorry?" "For.. y'know...urm..." "Drives me crazy over here... 'Sorry'. "Sorry Mr Sands that you bumped into me.’ ‘Sorry but you need to be side stage...’ ‘Sorry, somebody is on the phone...awfully sorry but that’s my wife you’re screwing...Jesus” "Urm..." "Just... don't be sorry, kid. I should be thanking you. They tell me they only reply or whatever they do to people who have nice things to say" Watching her drag a hand across her eyes, he gave a small smile. "Say, how old are you anyway? Ya Mom a fan or something?" "No. Well, yes she was but... I'm the fan." "How old are you?" "Thirty-five." "Jesus, really?" "Yes.” At last. “I love LAPD." "Sure. Sure." "A lot." "Well...that's... that's nice." She couldn't work out if he was being sarcastic... or perhaps he was angry? When she had met Matt at London Comic Con he had seemed so happy, so grateful, to have a young fan. “Hey, I still got it!” he had high-fived her and even tweeted the selfie they took. "You know my name isn't really Sands?" She was pulled away from the worry and looked at him. Was this a test? A test of her loyalty? "Yeah. It's Sandham. Dale Sandham" "Oh, yeah?" Dale looked mildly impressed "Who let that out of the bag?" "Wikipedia. But I read it in my Mum's LAPD 1975 annual years ago." "Yeah. Sure y'did." "I have it with me." "Seriously?" he looked at her, amused and put a hand up to the bartender for another drink. "Yeah. It’s in my bag. Do you want to..." "No. Hell no" He took a long drink and gave a small laugh. "Actually, yeah. Yeah. Remind me of when I had hair." She reached into her bag and pulled out the annual. He reached for it and flicked nonchalantly through the pages. He paused at the double spread poster of the cop partnership. Without asking, he reached once more for the pen and scrawled his name over it. He spelled her name with an IE at the end. The barman placed two drinks next to them. Dale indicated that one was for her. She stuttered her thanks but his eyes didn’t move from the poster. "Y'know I always liked Sands more than Sandman. Reminded me of Las Vegas. My Dad used to work there, you know? Sinatra. Sammy. You know my Dad once served Jack and Bobby Kennedy? Said they were diamonds. Their dad was a pig, though. Those were the days, kid." "I know" "Na... y'don't. The hell you do. Auto-tuned shit is what you know. Miming to deadeyes. Y’know I can sing myself? Better than my old man could. He hated that.Not that you’d notice with this show. Doesn’t suit my voice.” “You sounded wonderful” “Don’t bullshit me. Why do you all have to suck up so much?” "I’m not… I…sorry." "What did I say about being sorry?" She resisted the urge to apologise again. He tilted his head, his expression was one of confused curiosity. "What did you come here for? Really?" "To see you." "Or a signature. How much would it have gone for on Ebay if I hadn't had personalised it?" "I wanted you to personalise it. I never want to sell it." "Come on. You see what an asshole I was? Covering up Matt's photo? If you ever run into him there won't be space for him to sign it." "I've already met, Matt.... so, it's okay. I don’t mind" "Oh, yeah? Was he nicer than me? Smile for the camera?" She stared at him helplessly. This wasn't going the way she wanted at all. Dale continued to stare at the poster. "I hate this in between. Y'know I was offered an All Stars tour? We were going to ride around in the freaking Partridge Family bus, with two members of The Monkees. Unless you plan on being The Beatles, never get famous, kid. I'm from the generation that had their moment and then faded. No Sinatra moment for me.There's always a fall and after that the grovelling- you become a sound bite for 'Best Cop Shows', a cameo in some fuck-awful soap or third on the bill to the car you used to drive into dustbins. Ain't a job. I never even tell my wife when I'm filming these days." "Urm, but..." “I wish I hadn’t even had that moment. Because I was so big, sweetheart. I was too big for my own fucking good. Then the phones stop ringing and you stop getting screamed at in the street. And nobody asks how much that fucking hurts.” “I…” "But at least Matthew's doing well these days, eh? The new Star Wars I hear? At least I never get 'which one are you'... kind of him, though, to remember. You know I was always the one who was going to live forever?” “But he…” “And tweeted about me, bless him?" "Yeah... and he retweeted you... or, y'know, retweeted your account." "He has my number. It's been the same for ten freaking years." She took a step back. "I was always the star after all. After the fucking car. Y'know, it broke down at least twice a day when we were filming? It was shit. Yet it's the one on the t-shirts. It even got fan mail, sad fuckers. Who writes to a car?" "I wouldn't write to a car..." Daniel burst into a throaty laugh. He put on a fake British accent. "I wouldn't write to a car, squire!' Oh, someone get that on a t.shirt...' He took a long drink. "Was there something else you wanted?" She put the book back into her bag "Urm... could I... would you mind if I had a photo with you?" "A photo?” Dale sighed deeply but ran a hand through the few hairs on his head. “Well…God bless ya, kid. God bless ya for still wanting a photo." She handed the phone to the barman. Dale put an arm around her shoulder which tensed slightly as the flash went. "Thanks..." "Sure." He picked his pint up and walked away, offering a slight dismissive wave of the hand. * The hotel seemed colder as she wrapped the sheets around herself later that night. The two single beds looked suddenly pathetic, her single suitcase made her feel sick. She jumped when she heard pounding on the wall from the room next door. Had she made more noise than she intended when she came back? Was it that late? She stared at her phone, open by default on Twitter. Her hand shaking slightly she started to type Had the misfortune of meeting @RealDaleSands tonight. He is, by his own admission, an absolute asshole. What a disappointment. And btw- he doesn’t even read his tweets let alone reply! #dontshootthemessenger #Mattwasthebestanyway Her hand hovered over the ‘tweet’ button. She had ignored the various messages she had had from the fan site asking if she had met him, what he had said… She deleted the words and paused before re-typing. Check out my pic with @RealDaleSands. What a sweetheart. SUCH a lovely guy! #luckygirl #dreamcometrue She poured a glass of wine, logged out of Twitter and checked her e-mail for job updates. An email from two weeks ago which she hadn’t even opened was addressed from her old college friend, Claire, asking how she was, what she was up to, did she want to meet up for coffee? Smiling slightly, she unceremoniously removed her necklace, replied yes to Claire with a smiley face, apologised for the delay and that she looked forward to catching up. * This is a short chapter from my novel, 'The Old Hall Hotel.' Still very much a WIP but wanted to share to see what people thought... In the hotel, there is a small library [just because I think everywhere should have one!] It's main customer is Bradley- a homeless man who welcomes the warmth and a place to embrace his passion for words. With him is his constant companion, his dog and best friend, Finty. CHAPTER 6 BRADLEY The Bradley chapter is a departure as Daniel does not feature. This is also the same with a chapter with a character called Abby. In between this and Chapter 2, Bradley has met Daisy, a middle aged lady, an old eccentric lady called Lily and learned more about the history of the hotel through the kindly Alex. Bradley had noted that Finty had made a point of walking more slowly when they approached the hotel recently. As he did every day, he picked her up from Billy outside the co-op promising to return her before last orders at the Old Clubhouse. Usually her tail would wag on spotting Bradley. Recently though she had resisted his gentle reassuring and looked back pathetically at Billy, silently begging him not to make her go. Finty wasn’t the most sociable of dogs, enjoying small bursts of attention often but briefly. Today, she had begrudgingly followed him into the hotel and into the library in which she found her usual spot by the fire, which was never lit, and curled up, sighing human-like, as she did. The hotel had opened the library in the early seventies after the council shut down the small, barely functioning one in the town centre to open a new post office. After a modest but passionate protest, the hotel which had just reopened after renovation, put an idea forward that the few hundred books be moved to the now surplus extra dining room. It was fairly successful initially, even attracting attention from the national press who enjoyed the quirky story with its quirky characters. Of late, in the hotel's struggling years it was somewhat forgotten about. Books were occasionally taken out by temporary guests and never returned, the modest librarian/waitress job dying with the last employer. Miranda had no interest in the library and had left it to semi- disarray. New books were now donated during local house moves, or from paperbacks left in hotel rooms. Bradley, the only loyal customer, had offered to clean the library many times. It annoyed him that the books weren’t in any obvious order, that the windows were dirty and that a white plastic Christmas tree still stood pathetically in the corner at the beginning of February. Last week he had started to move it out when Alex stopped him. ‘Don’t let Miranda see you being helpful, she’ll be furious.’ He knew Alex was only half joking and he hastily returned the piece of tack to its corner on the speckled yellow and blue floor. He had suggested to Miranda when she was in a rare placid mood, that they should look at restoring the old floor. Bradley had spotted under the wooden bookshelves evidence of white and blue marble. It reminded him of the old spa his grandmother used to take him to at weekends. Miranda had immediately lost her venture into kindness and snapped at him. She pointed around the room, her voice rising that the refurbishment had cost the earth and kept the heat in better. That this room was pointless and a cluttered mess in her already cluttered and messy life. That he was the only person who used it and how was a tramp ever going to help her financially? She had apologised later in the disguise of telling a joke she had read on a café blackboard. He could never be too resentful toward Miranda. The world had forced her to be angry and resentful, same as him. He just had more practice at disguising it. He never took for granted the fact that she allowed Finty to come inside with him, or that she still allowed him to come in at all. He suspected it had a lot to do with Alexander, who not only refused not to see the good in the most hard-hearted of person, but had the ability to work it out of them, if only slightly. He also liked how Alex spoke to Finty as though she could understand him like Bradley did, and how he called her ‘old girl.’ It made Bradley feel important somehow, needed. The library gave Bradley a purpose. It had, he would tell people who asked, ‘such potential’, and it was by far his favourite room in the town. Not that he frequented many rooms in the towns these days. There was a deep window seat which looked over the square. He could, although he would avoid looking whilst reading, just see the spot under the tree where he usually slept a night if the police hadn’t moved him on. Where he was supposed to move on to they never told him. The officer wouldn’t even bore him with the ‘talk’ anymore. ‘Moooove on.’ You would hear her before you saw her. ‘Mooooove on.’ Bradley called her ‘Officer Move On’ in his head and would chuckle that it was simply the officer announcing herself. His laughter had never helped in these circumstances. He would pause in between chapters to look at this spot. His ‘home.’ He felt safe overlooking it with the luxury of warmth. He would particularly feel a surge of uncontrolled joy when he saw Officer Move-on surveying it. Sometimes she would catch his eye from the window and he would wave. Bradley wasn’t hard to miss because he wore a multi-covered jumper that had once belonged to his grandfather. He loved it because it helped him feel close to his grandfather, but it hardly suited his plan to fade into the furnishings and not be noticed. That being said, Bradley knew that even if he became a millionaire overnight he wouldn’t take it off. He at least felt he brought some colour to the library. It was lacking somewhat in the furnishings. A Persian grey rug partly covered the unslighly floor. Huge windows, conservatory-like, made the room naturally light, although it rarely caught the sun and it also meant he would get anxious the darker it got. The reminder that the warmth would leave his bloodstream, the lamps would blink on outside, the distraction of the chapter would leave his sight and he would have to hand Finty’s lead back to Billy. He browsed the shelf in search of something new. He was determined to make his way through every book he could, regardless of its intended audience, before his body gave up the ghost. He made mental notes of the books he had abandoned or not given his full attention to that he would eventually return to. Perhaps Great Expectations which he hadn’t been in the right frame of mind for. He had recently restarted Brideshead Revisited and couldn’t decide if he loved or hated it. He wondered if he could have a talk with the author it could sway him one way or the other. He heard footsteps approaching and knew, with relief, by the lightness yet surprising quickness of the steps that it was Alex. Finty’s tail wagged for the first time since they arrived. ‘Hi there, Bradley.’ Alex’s voice instantly put him at ease, gentle and reassuring. ‘Alex, my man.’ Alex put down a flask of hot chocolate and a ham and cheese baguette and Bradley nodded his thanks. Finty wandered over and sat beside Alex, waiting for the inevitable dog treat. ‘Is there a kick to that hot chocolate, Al?’ There was a too long pause before Alex answered. ‘None going, sorry Bradley.’ ‘It’s that kind of day…’ Bradley watched him carefully. ‘Yeah, it is. Don’t shoot the messenger but Miranda says she’s shutting up early today. Meeting. You have another couple of hours though, I’d say.’ ‘Righto.’ Bradley tried to not let the despair show in his face. Alex didn’t deserve that. The guilt. It wasn’t his to feel and yet he seemed to absorb everybody’s. It wasn’t healthy. ‘You’re welcome to stay in my office for a bit though?’ Alex’s eyes, as usual, looked tired and worried. ‘No. No thanks, Alex. If Miranda doesn’t mind me taking another book or so to see me through the night…’ ‘As many as you like, mate.’ Alex perched on the end of the window seat but did not settle himself. ‘God knows it’s nice to see them put to good use. Reminds me of the good old days. I’ll bring some more batteries for your torch, don’t want it cutting out on you again.’ ‘You’re a saint.’ ‘That I’m not.’ Alex jumped down from the seat. ‘Stay a while?’ Bradley cringed at how desperate his voice sounded. ‘Wish I could.’ He scratched Finty behind the ear. ‘I’ve got the day off Thursday though for your doctor's appointment. I’ll buy you a curry at the Clubhouse afterward.’ Bradley loathed the doctors. He loathed trying to make an appointment with no home address, hence it not being a ‘real doctor.’ Alex would always go to the drop-in, and wait with him. Bradley hated the waiting, the muzak always in a rebellious fight with the calm mantra he tried to practise. He hated that the surgery had the same plastic-looking floor as the library. He hated the examination. He hated the patronising. If you were homeless, you would drink too much too. But a day with Alex was welcome. It almost made him feel human again. *** He was deep into Charles’ first meeting with Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited when he noticed that Finty had gone from her usual spot on the rug. He turned to see a young girl in a bright red jumper, stroking her whilst Finty sniffed, her tail wagging slowly. ‘Finty! Fin! Stop bothering the lass!’ ‘It’s okay!’ She looked about five but he had never been good at guessing ages. ‘She’s funny!’ ‘Aye, that’s one word for the dafty.’ He gave a sharp whistle and Finty lolloped over. He gave her a full-handed stroke on the head and she sat, tongue lolling, still looking curiously at the girl. ‘Can I stroke him again?’ ‘Her. Yes. She might get bored but she won’t bite’ The girl walked over and ran her hand over the dog’s back, who, as Bradley predicted, had already laid down with an obvious show of indifference after the initial minute or so of excitement. ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ ‘No.’ The little girl continued to stroke Finty, who had her head in her paws, barely noticing. ‘Me and mummy are meeting Daniel.’ ‘Is he the one staying here?’ ‘No, it’s Daniel.’ The girl gave him a look. ‘You know Daniel, he lives next door to me.’ ‘Oh. That Daniel.’ He chuckled. He wished his universe fitted into the simple small geography of the little girl. ‘Does he work here?’ ‘Noooooo. Don’t be silly. He just writes here.’ ‘Oh.’ Finally bored of Finty she stood up and looked around the room. ‘Books.’ She stated. ‘Yes. Do you like to read?’ ‘No.’ ‘That’s a shame.’ She considered this and then said, ‘I can’t like books because I like dancing.’ ‘You could like both.’ She laughed. ‘Silly.’ ‘You could. You could do two pirouettes and then read two chapters. The dancing reader.’ She gave him a questioning look and turned her attention back to Finty. ‘I wish I had a dog.’ Bradley gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, she isn’t mine. Well, she used to be but a friend looks after her now when I moved… well, moved out of my house.’ Her eyes widened. ‘That’s sad!’ ‘Yes. But I get to see her every day. She comes with me here don’t you Finty, lass?’ ‘She’s big.’ ‘She should be bigger. She was the runt. Airedales are usually much bigger.’ She sat crossed legged and played with the dogs ears. ‘You live outside. I’ve seen you.’ Bradley played with the frays of his scarf. ‘I guess that’s true.’ ‘Why? It’s cold. Sometimes I live outside in my tent but only for one or two nights. But only when the sun has been shining.’ ‘I don’t mind the cold.’ The lie he told most often. ‘But it’s COLD.’ ‘BUT I’m used to it.’ ‘What’s her name?’ He was thankful at how quickly and willingly she moved away from subjects. ‘Finty.’ ‘Funny.’ ‘I suppose it is. But any name sounds funny if you think about it long enough.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Rosie. Rosie. Rooooosiiiieeeeee.’ ‘See?’ ‘That’s my name.’ ‘I’d never have guessed.’ ‘Rosiiieeee.’ She grinned and looked at him. ‘Say yours.’ ‘Mine?’ ‘So it sounds funny.’ ‘Bradley. Braderbradleeeeey.’ She giggled. It was high and infectious. He laughed back. ‘Now say it properly.’ ‘Bradley.’ ‘Still funny!’ ‘Cheeky.’ She giggled and then stopped when the scepter-like figure of Lily walked in. Today Lily wore a huge sun hat and sunglasses with a heavy winter coat. She looked at the girl with obvious distaste but hesitated before giving a very small smile to Bradley. Bradley smiled back but didn’t speak. Yesterday he had and she had snarled. She picked a book up off the first shelf without looking at it and sharply walked away, pausing only to take the door off the latch so that it slammed shut behind her, the bang echoing around the room. Both Rosie and Finty jumped. Rosie looked at Bradley, her eyes wide. ‘She was horrible!’ Bradley shook his head. ‘She’s nice really. She’s just having a bad day. We all have them. Doesn’t make us horrible.’ She patted Finty’s head. ‘Scaring poor Vlinty. Nasty lady. Don’t be sad, Vlinty.’ She took Finty’s lead and took her to the window. ‘Ooh, look Vlinty! That’s my mummy out there!’ ‘Finty.’ Bradley glanced through the window to see an adult version of Rosie, her eyes growing wide at both Bradley and Finty. She started to run, indicating that Rosie should meet her at the front of the hotel. ‘Bye’ she hopped down from the window sill leaving Bradley suddenly and without warning, lonely. This is an excerpt from my novel, 'The Old Hall Hotel.' I say 'novel'... it has been a 'work in progress novel' for a fair few years now [you know the drill, fellow writers..] The Old Hall Hotel is a collection of stories based around the residents of the Old Hall Hotel- a hotel seemingly trapped in time. This is a draft from a chapter entitled, 'Guilt of the Watchman.' Alex, the night watchman, is an omnipresent character- kind, hardworking and now living on borrowed time. He looks after Daisy, a troubled thirty-something who is struggling with life. Alex once dated her father, secretly a gay man, which ultimately broke up her family, and tragedy occurring. Stanley is Alex's oldest friend and now his partner. I hope you enjoy! .................................... ‘A lie can be a precious gift… but it takes a precious person to give it- and equally one to receive it.’ His father had told him that. It had surprised Alexander that his deeply religious father could even fathom a lie let alone justify one. * * * Stanley wished, for once, that they could meet somewhere else. Neutral ground. He wondered if Alexander was capable of leaving the village. He had once joked that Alex was like the titular character in The Truman Show, where everything outside a certain area was fake and green screen and any attempt to go beyond would be stopped by some inexplicable emergency. There were patches of the old tiles still visible underneath the new wooden floor. It made Stanley aware of his age. The old floor he remembered and it suddenly felt very important. This unnerved him as he checked his watch again. The Clubhouse had, at least, avoided the temptation of becoming a café or a Wetherspoons- but how long it could continue the façade of a pub Stanley daren’t imagine. It angered him the people who had failed the place. The people who had once spent hours in a lock-in. Playing cards, singing every song on the jukebox and persuading Allie, the bartender, to open the bottles from the not-so secret supply. Daisy would be working behind the bar, sipping nothing stronger than the occasional half pint of cider, her father giving her a playful raised eyebrow warning as she giggled and danced to the music. Not a care then. From any of them. Where had those people gone? Under the floorboards, not even emerging at Christmas to toast the good old times. The door opened and Alex tumbled in, battling the wind as he shut the door. Alexander was a stickler for people being on time and he wasn’t late for anybody. Stanley supposed he should feel special. That Alex knew him enough to be comfortable in letting him down. “Hello, darling. Many apologies, regrets, etc, etc.” Alex kissed him lightly on the lips and began to remove his oversized grey jacket. His lanyard caught on the chair in his rush to sit down. “It won’t happen again.” “Daisy?” Stanley asked simply. “Actually, no. Although I shall say you enquired. Tolkien, as a matter of fact.” “That flirt. He always knows how to steal you away from me. You need to get yourself a new book.” “I have many new books. This is my comfort read.” “And why do you need comforting?” Alex helped himself to the pot of tea. “It’s January. You know I always feel edgy in January.” Stanley sipped at the now tepid tea and waited for the inevitable. He could always tell. An untroubled Alex would discuss what film they would be watching that night, what takeaway they would order. “Speaking of Daisy…” “My favourite start to a conversation.” Alex looked at him over his mug. “Would it help your mood if I buy you a glass of wine before I finish this sentence?” “If it ends in 'Daisy' or 'I can’t come over tonight', I’ll need the bottle.” *** Today Alex didn’t want to see anyone. This selfishness would manifest every now and again and he would battle it, as was his nature. Oh, these people. These poor people. They broke his heart over and over and there wasn’t enough time in the world for him to fix it, or them. Yet he never had time to miss them. He never had time to sit with his coffee and wish that people were there to join him. Perhaps if he missed them, he would appreciate them more. Even his darling Stanley failed to understand his need for solitude. People usually looked towards the quietness of the night. The stillness and freedom of their own thoughts. He never got that. And now everything had been put on fast forward. He hated himself for the wasted months, weeks, days, minutes… the times he looked out of the window and didn’t venture. Time was always of the essence. He had never noticed before. He had got a single word text from Miranda. ‘Daisy.’ He closed his eyes. No other name made him feel so tired. He began to ask why and decided it would be quicker to go straight to the source. Allowing himself ten seconds with his eyes closed, he got up from his chair. Miranda met him outside her office, looking close to tears. Angry tears. ‘I can’t handle her anymore, Alex.’ ‘I know, I know…’ ‘No you DON’T. She is stopping guests from returning. I’ve had people in tears because of her noise and tantrums all night. People aren’t sleeping.’ ‘I’ll talk to her…’ ‘All you DO is talk to her. Cut her off. This hotel is her drug along with whatever else she takes.’ ‘She doesn’t do drugs.’ ‘Oh wake up, Alexander!’ ‘She doesn’t. She hardly needs to, does she?’ This wasn’t strictly true. He often suspected that Daisy had returned to the habit and prayed after his encounters with her that he was over thinking. She drank too much, that was known- but yet, didn’t they all? He could hardly blame the poor lass for that. A few drinks to take away the cruel tinge of the day? Understandable. A scream and a cry? They’d all probably be healthier if they did the same. Yet he was running out of ways to defend her to other people. He wished they really knew her. She was such a beautiful soul. She really was. Taking a breath and reminding himself of this fact, he walked up the staircase to the second floor. Daisy’s room was at the end of a long, curving corridor but he could hear her wailing from the end. He quickened his pace as he heard the all telling high pitched wine at the end of her last sentence. ‘Daisy!’ Daisy was outside her room, sitting with her legs pulled up to her chest. ‘Alex!’ she leapt up and was in his arms in a matter of seconds. He held her. She reached just below his chin, which he always put on top of her head. It always calmed her. ‘Shh poppet. I told you. It’s just one night. You’ll be back in your room tomorrow.’ ‘No, no, no. It’s a trick, Al. You just don’t see- they want us out Alex, they want us out!’ ‘Shhhh- come on, let’s go to my office, hey? Talk it all out.’ She stayed buried in his jacket. He felt her shoulders stop heaving and he gently unpeeled her from him. ‘Talk and sort?’ She nodded. ‘Talk and sort.’ *** “Be right back.” “Alex!” Alex paused and gave him that woeful look. “I’m sorry.” “I know you are. It doesn’t change anything.” “Let me get that bottle.” “It’s not necessary.” “Please. I won’t be a second.” He watched Alex, his face downcast, break into a smile as soon as he approached the bar. He kissed Laurie on the cheek as she took his money. He brought such a natural happiness and calm that there was no wonder there was a queue. He knew Alex loved him. He never failed to let him know. The way he held his face in his hands whenever they had been apart for longer than a day... But Alex loved everyone. He wanted to make sure everyone in his life was as happy, content and nearing to perfection that they could be, before he focused on himself. Stanley loved and resented it of him. When he was feeling particularly fed up of his constant ‘niceness’ he was sometimes tempted to tell exaggerated stories of Alex’s moodiness or laziness but he knew nobody would believe them. He had thought, at least, he had him for the night. The whole night and not in the hotel. Stanley had stopped staying there after too many interruptions throughout the night. ‘Never off duty’, Alex would say with a wry smile. He loathed Alex checking his watch, tapping his hand, his face growing more lined by the minute, his phone buzzing constantly were he even five minutes over his allotted time. Guilt was fierce, he decided. He wasn’t sure how Alex’s never-ending guilt ended and his unconditional, father-like love for Daisy began. **** There was a man who sometimes preached in the street... He spoke only of Hell and Sin. He had an old fashioned megaphone and would stand on one of the stone blocks in the city centre. He sounded, she decided, terrified. Perhaps he worked on commission? The broken, ugly souls adding up, securing his place in Heaven. Maybe every soul he saved took away one of his sins? Sometimes, Daisy would sit on the stone pillars and listen for a while, allowing herself to be scared. Other times she would listen and laugh so hard that tears would fall down her cheeks, mixed with her sadness until she couldn’t decide what she felt anymore. You have to be a good person to feel guilt, she decided.. Or at least have a little bit of good in you. Otherwise you wouldn’t care. **** Stanley sat back in the chair. “Daisy is not your responsibility.” “I know that.” “I don’t believe you do, Alex. I love her too. You know I do. But when is the time ever going to be okay with her? When are you going to accept that whatever happens to her is not your fault? Nobody tells Daisy what to do… least of all, you.” Alex began to pick at the edges of the beer mat. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Stan.’ “Is it purely guilt?” “Who ever said it was guilt?” “You did.” “I never did.” Stan laughed harshly. “You didn’t have to say it… haven’t you served your time on this one?” “Taking a man from his family is wrong. Taking him from his little girl is wrong. It’s soul destroying.” “She wasn’t little…fourteen? ” “She was thirteen. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had been five, fourteen, goddamn sixty. I broke her. I broke her belief system. The one consistent we are supposed to have. It didn’t matter to her that it was me. It could have been anyone. It mattered that it was him.” “He didn’t stop loving her.” “She barely saw him. She couldn’t even look at him. Then just when they started to bond, just when things started to be okay, God had to...” Alex’s voice caught at the end. Stanley reached across the table and took his hand. “You were the only one who could make her laugh during that time.” Stan’s voice had softened. “Laurel and Hardy made her laugh. Sometimes Morecambe and Wise. Not me.. She wanted to go and see these people live. ‘Why can’t Eric and Ernie come here, Al?” I didn't want to tell her they all long dead... it made her forget for a while. Me too.” Stan removed his hand from Alex’s. ‘I needed to hear that for the tenth time this month.’ Alex wiped a hand over his face. ‘God, I’m sorry. ‘ ‘Look...sometimes I just wonder...Do you have any guilt left over for me?” Alex winced. “That’s not fair.” “You loved him. You loved her. You still do. I know you do. But when the poor flower finally wilts- and she will, my darling- it won’t be your doing.” His hand trembling, he stood up, the glass of wine still full. “Stanley. I know.. I do know… I never put myself first. Not ever.” “I never had that pleasure either.” “Don’t.” Stanley shook his head. “Sometimes I wish you had hurt me, Alex. Really hurt me. Cheated on me. Hit me. said something unforgivable. Felt guilty enough to treat me right. Because my God, does guilt make you a good person.” |
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