The Royal Hotel
Chapter One
one
Brian could sleep through anything. Family holidays as a child had consisted of his Dad driving across Scotland pointing out Things of Interest at him. 'Stunning scenery, isn't it? Look, Stac Polly! Did you know that was a volcano, once? Beautiful. Is he asleep again? Are you asleep? Wake up and look at the mountains! It's beautiful and you're missing it!'
Growing up next to the sea had done it. The rumble of an Easterly gale hurling waves against the shore - no matter how violent the storm, its long dull rhythm sent him to sleep. Often. He'd slept in cars, buses, trains, ferries. Upside down on the couch. Even once on the conveyor belt in a Greek airport terminal. He'd been about to disappear behind the big black rubber flap when he was woken up.
Sleeping through something like this, though, was a new one.
In the street below, a trickle of foam drained into the gutter. A sluggish trail led across the road. Two firemen were winding up the last hose. They packed it away and turned to survey the damage.
The Royal Hotel overlooked the corner, where the pale limestone flags of the High Street gave way to the functional concrete of Kingsferry Road. All along the High Street side, shrouding the Eastern windows from the morning sun, a graceful row of European Limes were set into the pavement. The middle one of the five, the one outside the close that led through to the hotel's entrance, had been almost entirely consumed by fire.
Sharp green foliage had begun to clothe its neighbours. It was blackened, and lessened somehow; a spent match.
Brian gazed down. Something very far out of the ordinary had happened. Something had crossed into daylight that belonged in dreams. He shivered. The hairs on his arm stood on end.
One of the firemen aimed a boot at the charred tree. It trembled, but didn't fall. He touched the axe that hung from his belt, then shook his head. The blackened trunk remained defiant. It must have been a real blaze. And Brian had slept through it.
Lights still flashing, pale blue in the light of dawn, the fire engine pulled away. Brian went next door to make some coffee.
Sharon was in the kitchen, buzzing with unasked questions. Her dirty-blonde hair was starting to show through at the roots. 'Did you see it? Did you? Did you see it?'
'What, the fire?'
'Aye!'
Brian shook his head. 'Nope. Slept through it.'
'Jeez-us. You'd sleep through anyhin.'
Brian nodded. 'Kettle on?'
'Just boiled.'
'Mind if I pinch some of your coffee?'
'Aye, go ahead.'
'Cheers.' He helped himself to a spoon and a half, clanking the teaspoon about the bottom of the cup to dissolve the granules. Sharon was almost hopping, desperate to compare notes. 'So,' he said, savouring the pause, 'what happened?'
'When I woke up, it was already on fire, it was the smoke woke me up, I thought the fuse box was on fire again. Did you no smell it?'
Brian shook his head. How could Sharon could smell anything? How come he'd agreed to share a flat with a smoker?
'Right, so, it was burning, okay, and it was roaring, must have been really hot. Then the firemen came and put it out, but it was really funny, right, cos one of them slipped, it was hilarious, I nearly coughed my hole…'
'Nice.'
Sharon giggled. 'You should have seen it…'
Brian smiled. Sometimes, for a wannabe Goth, she could be surprisingly chipper. This was better than the suicide-rock and black candle moods she was often in. Those days, it was better to try and hide. It was that or be drawn into one of her what's it all about and why is it all so depressing conversations. A big sip of coffee, the smell of it, the bitterness. 'Who started it?'
She shook her head. 'It was already on fire when I saw it.'
'You know? I get the strangest feeling. Like I knew this was about to happen.'
'Yeah, déjà-vu. I get that all the time.'
'No… I mean…' Brian tailed off.
'Extra Sensory Perception?'
'I don't mean that, either. It's hard to explain. It's… as if…' He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. 'This isn't going to make sense, but, it's as if I should understand what's going on, only I've forgotten how?'
Sharon looked at him with one raised eyebrow. 'Okay…'
'Told you it wouldn't make sense.' Brian floundered. It was hard to make the words fit. 'You know when you're dreaming?'
'Aye?'
'And you can dream about anything. Anything. Anything can happen, and make sense, or even if it doesn't make sense, you still accept it? That's what I mean. When you dream, you understand the dream because it has rules, whatever happens.' He took a sip of coffee. 'That's what I mean. This is like seeing something in a dream, but not understanding because I've forgotten the rules.'
'You're crazy, you know that?'
'Aye, probably.'
Sharon looked out of the window. 'Storm coming.'
It looked that way. He checked his watch. 'Better go get ready.'
'You on breakfast shift?'
'Aye.'
'Bummer.'
'Aye.'
Back at his window Brian looked from tree, to hotel, to cloud-bruised sky. Something was wrong somewhere, had been for a long time.
The flat was a really bad idea, for a start. Not only did the roof leak, everything in it - the couch, his clothes, the hall carpet - had a faint smell of Golden Virginia from Sharon's rollies. It pervaded everywhere, even through determinedly closed doors. The kitchen had a blocked off shower tray in one corner. At the top of the stairs leading up from the front door was a cupboard that housed the washing machine. The cupboard smelt faintly of the previous owner's incontinent tabby.
And it was far too close to work. Couldn't look out of the window without the hotel looking back; watching him. There was a hint of menace in those net curtains. Something shifty, watching out of the corner of its eyes.
The window rattled in the breeze. Brian shivered. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, grimaced, put the cup down on the floor. Almost time.
A white van swung into view, slowed to take the corner, tyres squeaking in the vanishing foam. Two herring gulls, disturbed from a breakfast of cold chips, screamed their displeasure, flapped to one side. The van ran over the chips, crushing them to soapy paste. The gulls, still keening, disappeared from view behind the jutting hulk of the Old Town Hall, halfway down High Street.
He looked at his coffee. The milk was on the turn; cream-coloured floaters. No point making fresh. He could make tea when he got to work.
The Kirk rang the hour as Brian opened the front door. He was late, but a short diversion wouldn't hold him up too much more. Instead of crossing the broad junction towards the Royal, he turned left up Kingsferry Road, towards the newsagents.
He passed the sandwich shop, downstairs from the flat. The one that made the toilet smell of roasting meat. That did the best hangover sandwiches in the world. That made him wake up thinking of bacon on his days off. Somebody was about in the back of the shop, but they weren't open yet or the whole close would be full of the smell of frying.
It was an independent newsagents - the kind that seemed to survive on a mix of necessities, tourist tat and porn. Bags of tatties. Shortbread and tourist maps. A ten foot top shelf full of the greatest variety of filth money could buy.
Asian Nudes. BBW. Cute Babes. Dazzle. Ebony Shavers. Fresh Faces. GangBang. Hustler. Innocent Dreamz. Jugggs. Keen & Kinky. Latex Lovers. MILF Monthly. Nasty Girls. Old n Goldies. Preggo Babes. Queer. Rauchen. Swingers. Tights Weekly. Überleather. Virginz. Whipping Boys. XXXtasy. Young n Horny. Z-Cups.
Inside the door was a huge stack of egg trays. A white card with boxy lettering stuck in the middle. FRESH LOCAL EGGS, £1 per 18. It was hard not to stare at the pornucopia; the sealed magazines with photos of big-boobed women in revealing poses. In a place the size of Rosshill, how much of a market could there be for a magazine called Old n Goldies? It had a grinning, leather-clad 'Old n Goldy' on the cover, pointing to a toilet. It was the kind of thing that stuck in the mind.
The shopkeeper slurped a mug of instant and leaned over a copy of The Mirror. He probably didn't register the porn. Seeing it day in, day out, until it became invisible. Brian couldn't stop looking.
'Morning, John.'
'Morning,' he replied, without looking up. 'What can I do you for?'
'Have you still got the papers for the Royal?'
'Er… give…me…a…second…' he said, peering over his shoulder, 'I'll need to look. One of the lads might be away with them already.'
'No bother.' John went rustling through the four foot stack of bundled papers, whistling under his breath. 'Did you see the fire?'
John looked around. 'Fire?'
'Aye. Somebody set fire to one of the trees on the high street.'
'Really? Fuck's sake.' The surprise sounded forced.
'Aye, they've only just put it out.'
'Christ. Lucky it was just a tree, eh?' John had already turned back to the papers. 'Was it kids?' he asked, over his shoulder. 'Bet it was kids. Wee bastards. Royal Hotel, you said?'
'Aye.'
'Royal, royal, royal. Here we go.' He slopped the papers onto the counter. Boxy letters in biro spelt out 'Royal Hotel, High Street' in one corner. He lifted his coffee without looking up, went back to The Mirror. Back to the real news.
'Grand,' Brian said, lifting the papers. 'Cheers.'
'Aye, Cheerio…' Muffled behind the rim of a mug.
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one
Brian could sleep through anything. Family holidays as a child had consisted of his Dad driving across Scotland pointing out Things of Interest at him. 'Stunning scenery, isn't it? Look, Stac Polly! Did you know that was a volcano, once? Beautiful. Is he asleep again? Are you asleep? Wake up and look at the mountains! It's beautiful and you're missing it!'
Growing up next to the sea had done it. The rumble of an Easterly gale hurling waves against the shore - no matter how violent the storm, its long dull rhythm sent him to sleep. Often. He'd slept in cars, buses, trains, ferries. Upside down on the couch. Even once on the conveyor belt in a Greek airport terminal. He'd been about to disappear behind the big black rubber flap when he was woken up.
Sleeping through something like this, though, was a new one.
In the street below, a trickle of foam drained into the gutter. A sluggish trail led across the road. Two firemen were winding up the last hose. They packed it away and turned to survey the damage.
The Royal Hotel overlooked the corner, where the pale limestone flags of the High Street gave way to the functional concrete of Kingsferry Road. All along the High Street side, shrouding the Eastern windows from the morning sun, a graceful row of European Limes were set into the pavement. The middle one of the five, the one outside the close that led through to the hotel's entrance, had been almost entirely consumed by fire.
Sharp green foliage had begun to clothe its neighbours. It was blackened, and lessened somehow; a spent match.
Brian gazed down. Something very far out of the ordinary had happened. Something had crossed into daylight that belonged in dreams. He shivered. The hairs on his arm stood on end.
One of the firemen aimed a boot at the charred tree. It trembled, but didn't fall. He touched the axe that hung from his belt, then shook his head. The blackened trunk remained defiant. It must have been a real blaze. And Brian had slept through it.
Lights still flashing, pale blue in the light of dawn, the fire engine pulled away. Brian went next door to make some coffee.
Sharon was in the kitchen, buzzing with unasked questions. Her dirty-blonde hair was starting to show through at the roots. 'Did you see it? Did you? Did you see it?'
'What, the fire?'
'Aye!'
Brian shook his head. 'Nope. Slept through it.'
'Jeez-us. You'd sleep through anyhin.'
Brian nodded. 'Kettle on?'
'Just boiled.'
'Mind if I pinch some of your coffee?'
'Aye, go ahead.'
'Cheers.' He helped himself to a spoon and a half, clanking the teaspoon about the bottom of the cup to dissolve the granules. Sharon was almost hopping, desperate to compare notes. 'So,' he said, savouring the pause, 'what happened?'
'When I woke up, it was already on fire, it was the smoke woke me up, I thought the fuse box was on fire again. Did you no smell it?'
Brian shook his head. How could Sharon could smell anything? How come he'd agreed to share a flat with a smoker?
'Right, so, it was burning, okay, and it was roaring, must have been really hot. Then the firemen came and put it out, but it was really funny, right, cos one of them slipped, it was hilarious, I nearly coughed my hole…'
'Nice.'
Sharon giggled. 'You should have seen it…'
Brian smiled. Sometimes, for a wannabe Goth, she could be surprisingly chipper. This was better than the suicide-rock and black candle moods she was often in. Those days, it was better to try and hide. It was that or be drawn into one of her what's it all about and why is it all so depressing conversations. A big sip of coffee, the smell of it, the bitterness. 'Who started it?'
She shook her head. 'It was already on fire when I saw it.'
'You know? I get the strangest feeling. Like I knew this was about to happen.'
'Yeah, déjà-vu. I get that all the time.'
'No… I mean…' Brian tailed off.
'Extra Sensory Perception?'
'I don't mean that, either. It's hard to explain. It's… as if…' He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. 'This isn't going to make sense, but, it's as if I should understand what's going on, only I've forgotten how?'
Sharon looked at him with one raised eyebrow. 'Okay…'
'Told you it wouldn't make sense.' Brian floundered. It was hard to make the words fit. 'You know when you're dreaming?'
'Aye?'
'And you can dream about anything. Anything. Anything can happen, and make sense, or even if it doesn't make sense, you still accept it? That's what I mean. When you dream, you understand the dream because it has rules, whatever happens.' He took a sip of coffee. 'That's what I mean. This is like seeing something in a dream, but not understanding because I've forgotten the rules.'
'You're crazy, you know that?'
'Aye, probably.'
Sharon looked out of the window. 'Storm coming.'
It looked that way. He checked his watch. 'Better go get ready.'
'You on breakfast shift?'
'Aye.'
'Bummer.'
'Aye.'
Back at his window Brian looked from tree, to hotel, to cloud-bruised sky. Something was wrong somewhere, had been for a long time.
The flat was a really bad idea, for a start. Not only did the roof leak, everything in it - the couch, his clothes, the hall carpet - had a faint smell of Golden Virginia from Sharon's rollies. It pervaded everywhere, even through determinedly closed doors. The kitchen had a blocked off shower tray in one corner. At the top of the stairs leading up from the front door was a cupboard that housed the washing machine. The cupboard smelt faintly of the previous owner's incontinent tabby.
And it was far too close to work. Couldn't look out of the window without the hotel looking back; watching him. There was a hint of menace in those net curtains. Something shifty, watching out of the corner of its eyes.
The window rattled in the breeze. Brian shivered. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, grimaced, put the cup down on the floor. Almost time.
A white van swung into view, slowed to take the corner, tyres squeaking in the vanishing foam. Two herring gulls, disturbed from a breakfast of cold chips, screamed their displeasure, flapped to one side. The van ran over the chips, crushing them to soapy paste. The gulls, still keening, disappeared from view behind the jutting hulk of the Old Town Hall, halfway down High Street.
He looked at his coffee. The milk was on the turn; cream-coloured floaters. No point making fresh. He could make tea when he got to work.
The Kirk rang the hour as Brian opened the front door. He was late, but a short diversion wouldn't hold him up too much more. Instead of crossing the broad junction towards the Royal, he turned left up Kingsferry Road, towards the newsagents.
He passed the sandwich shop, downstairs from the flat. The one that made the toilet smell of roasting meat. That did the best hangover sandwiches in the world. That made him wake up thinking of bacon on his days off. Somebody was about in the back of the shop, but they weren't open yet or the whole close would be full of the smell of frying.
It was an independent newsagents - the kind that seemed to survive on a mix of necessities, tourist tat and porn. Bags of tatties. Shortbread and tourist maps. A ten foot top shelf full of the greatest variety of filth money could buy.
Asian Nudes. BBW. Cute Babes. Dazzle. Ebony Shavers. Fresh Faces. GangBang. Hustler. Innocent Dreamz. Jugggs. Keen & Kinky. Latex Lovers. MILF Monthly. Nasty Girls. Old n Goldies. Preggo Babes. Queer. Rauchen. Swingers. Tights Weekly. Überleather. Virginz. Whipping Boys. XXXtasy. Young n Horny. Z-Cups.
Inside the door was a huge stack of egg trays. A white card with boxy lettering stuck in the middle. FRESH LOCAL EGGS, £1 per 18. It was hard not to stare at the pornucopia; the sealed magazines with photos of big-boobed women in revealing poses. In a place the size of Rosshill, how much of a market could there be for a magazine called Old n Goldies? It had a grinning, leather-clad 'Old n Goldy' on the cover, pointing to a toilet. It was the kind of thing that stuck in the mind.
The shopkeeper slurped a mug of instant and leaned over a copy of The Mirror. He probably didn't register the porn. Seeing it day in, day out, until it became invisible. Brian couldn't stop looking.
'Morning, John.'
'Morning,' he replied, without looking up. 'What can I do you for?'
'Have you still got the papers for the Royal?'
'Er… give…me…a…second…' he said, peering over his shoulder, 'I'll need to look. One of the lads might be away with them already.'
'No bother.' John went rustling through the four foot stack of bundled papers, whistling under his breath. 'Did you see the fire?'
John looked around. 'Fire?'
'Aye. Somebody set fire to one of the trees on the high street.'
'Really? Fuck's sake.' The surprise sounded forced.
'Aye, they've only just put it out.'
'Christ. Lucky it was just a tree, eh?' John had already turned back to the papers. 'Was it kids?' he asked, over his shoulder. 'Bet it was kids. Wee bastards. Royal Hotel, you said?'
'Aye.'
'Royal, royal, royal. Here we go.' He slopped the papers onto the counter. Boxy letters in biro spelt out 'Royal Hotel, High Street' in one corner. He lifted his coffee without looking up, went back to The Mirror. Back to the real news.
'Grand,' Brian said, lifting the papers. 'Cheers.'
'Aye, Cheerio…' Muffled behind the rim of a mug.
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