“Yes, sir. How’d you know?”
“I’m a bloody psychic. No, I was being facetious,” he said into the phone. “Look, get your affairs in order and . . .” He rolled his eyes and pointed to the paper register. “Sign here. No, I don’t need your signature,” he said down the phone. “Are you a complete monkey’s ass?”
Hollis scribbled his name in the book, but the young man swept it away before Hollis could read any of the other names. There were at least four others here, though, if none had been recorded on the previous page. Perhaps one of them belonged to the disabled SUV.
Hollis pointed to a wooden nameplate on the desk. “Are you Mr. MacLeod? Back on the road there’s a—”
“Do I look like a fucking Dugal MacLeod? Yeah, I am referring to you,” he said into the phone. “Your fans are asking after you, so you better get your ass up here by the last ferry or I’ll say more about you besides.” He chucked the phone onto the desk. “Let me find your key. It’s around here somewhere . . . fucking paperwork. There is a filing cabinet right bloody—” He swept some paper onto the floor.
“Do you need to see some ID?”
“You say you’re Hollis Drummond?”
“I am.”
“Good enough for me. Everyone else for this weekend is already here.”
“Did one of them have car trouble? There’s a disabled vehicle—”
“They’re all in the dining room if you want to ask, waiting on the dinner that I have to prepare like some fucking housewife because the fucking hired help—” He held up his hands, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, which only made him look more like a toddler having a tantrum. “Apologies. Sir. Bit of a staffing problem. Here’s your key. Room six, top floor.”
“Room six.” A little chill ran through Hollis.
The sound of glass breaking echoed from the dining room, and the indistinguishable voices rose.
“I suppose I have to see to that now, too.” The young man hurried to the dining room, giving Hollis enough time to glimpse a blonde woman with her head in her hands before the door shut. He didn’t see her face, but something about her posture, the crystal-blue color of her blouse, triggered a memory. Sticky green carpet and the smell of fried chicken. He stared at the key in his hand, then at the door. But he was being paranoid. There were other guests here, clearly, but no one he would know. He started up the stairs.
His back, stiff from the long drive, ached as he walked up to his third-floor room. Plush red carpet continued to line the hallway on his left, where dark maroon walls surrounded closed doors stained a deep brown. To the right, a sagging, frayed rope blocked off a darkened hall, the floor bare and lined with sheet-covered furniture. A misspelled handwritten sign pinned to the rope read: CLOSED FOR RENAVATION. Hollis followed the carpet.
All that distinguished his door from the others was the brass 6 gleaming in the yellow light of the wall sconce. Before unlocking it, he imagined feeling a rush of cold air escaping from within, bringing with it black dust and a smell of must. But the door opened soundlessly to a clean scent Hollis traced to a Glade PlugIn by the bed.
The interior matched what he’d seen in the website’s photos. The walls suffered the same maroon color as the hall and the paisley-patterned bedspread spoke of years of use. A desk, high-backed office chair, and bedside table completed the furniture but nothing matched, as if the pieces had been scavenged from throughout the house. Stepping between the bedroom and bath, however, was like traveling through time. The small bathroom had been renovated with a modern waterfall shower, white ceramic sink, and water-efficient toilet. Black tile lined the walls and gray slate the floor.
Back in the bedroom, he wanted to text Linda and tell her he’d arrived safely, but his phone, which had died again, didn’t have enough power yet. He unplugged the air freshener, plugged in his phone, then searched through his bag for some paracetamol, finding the Dalmore first.
“Don’t drink it all in one weekend, mind.” Linda had laughed as she handed him the bottle.
With his pocketknife, Hollis sliced the gold ribbon from the neck of the bottle and flattened the gift tag out on his knee. Her cheery scrawl—Congrats, Dad!—smiled up at him. Linda was so proud of him it hurt, especially when he didn’t think he deserved such admiration.
He tossed the bottle back and forth in his hands and considered pouring a drink, but stopped himself. If he started drinking now, he might not stop. He would try it later, when he had a full stomach and a clearer head. He’d send Linda a picture of himself with a glass of it. Maybe use one of those silly filters she’d installed on his phone. He tucked her note into the breast pocket of his shirt.
The wind battered the building as Hollis made his way down the cold hall, which held a damp whiff of wet dog. He straightened his shirt cuffs, eager for the warm fire downstairs, when a thump sounded from behind him. Nothing but closed doors, and the weight of a presence.
“Oi!” he shouted, hoping to startle anyone who might be there. Nothing save the wind responded.
He waited a few seconds more, then shook off his paranoia. Maybe he should’ve had that drink first, he thought.
Reception was empty, so he warmed his hands by the fire and breathed in the smell of burning peat, enjoying the quiet he never got to have in Manchester.
Until the heated voices from earlier erupted into a full-fledged argument. Hollis dropped his hands. Just what he needed. Some domestic spat where he’d have to play peacemaker. He slipped into his policeman’s persona as he paused at the door.
“Trouble follows me, Linda,” he once told her.
“Dad, you only say that because you’re a copper. What you think is trouble is normal to everyone else.”
But when he opened the dining room door, he knew they’d both been wrong. This wasn’t normal. And it was worse than mere trouble.
The shouting ceased once he stepped inside, the four other guests looking far less surprised than he. He logged each of their faces, their names popping into his head as if he’d last spoken to them yesterday, not twenty years gone.
Maeve Okafor, wet frizzy hair enveloping her head like a bird’s nest, jeans a size too small and a jumper two sizes too big, her ballet flats caked in mud.
Eleanor Hunt, body thin and sharp as a knife, her long blonde hair chopped off to a line so straight it could cut.
Oliver Holcombe, his black leather jacket with sweatshirt hood meant for a man a decade or two his junior, a beer gut and an almost—but not yet—comb-over.
Lorna Torrington, sensible skirt and a turtleneck that concealed her large chest, the same black bob framing her face.
Lorna flipped her fringe out of her eyes, and suddenly he was back—back in that room in that house with these people and the black niggle in his stomach that told him to run.
Run now, as fast and as far as he could.
Pp. 6–15
to tell you something. It’s from memory, this story. Mine and theirs. So I may not have everything right. It’s possible I may have got some things confused. But I’ve done my best. I swear.
This story begins with a house. Or rather a roundabout. One particular roundabout on one particular day in early September 1994.
Read carefully.