Time for a story sacrifice. I'm giving this one up though I like it. It's a twist on the dangerous theme of writing about writing, see picture. It also features a dangerously common character, the soulful, aimless millennial. I have another story with the same title that may one day see daylight, but it's more of a novelette. At absolute best I may have four stories published in the next two months and this blog may actually serve its intended purpose. In the meantime have a gander at this. The picture comes from here.
Two things you need to know about
Dane:
He was twenty-nine years old and
it was slowly dawning on him that his life-options were running out.
He worked in an hotel in Central
London as a concierge. His job had a lot of leeway however he, like
all other staff at the hotel, were strictly forbidden to do one
thing.
"Do
not
look into Room 34." His manager, Jens, told him during his
induction, a twenty-minute chat, sat in his office, down in the
basement, between the kitchen and the storeroom, before the shift
began. "Do not go there, do not look inside, if you hear
anything going on do not respond, ignore it, continue with your
business." Jens made sure every new member of staff understood
this, and they did, except this one time, not long ago as it
happened. He repeated this injunction often and to all the staff, but
on first hearing this Dane almost asked 'why?' Instead though he
wondered:
"What
happens if we get a call
from Room 34?"
This turned out to be a good
question. Jens thought about it for a moment before saying "there
has not been a call from Room 34, not for a long time... but if there
is... put it through to me, right away."
"What if I can't find you?"
Dane asked. He cringed inside, why was he doing this? Just say 'yes
boss.' But Jens was not phased:
"Just find me" he said,
and smiled.
Dane had been a concierge for
five years. He got the job shortly after finishing university,
completing an MA but running out of funding to go on. The job was
intended to tide him over until he could begin a doctorate. He still
hoped he could take up where he left off but, of course, that hope
was fading.
He enjoyed his job, though he
enjoyed it more when he was younger. Any shift he worked he would be
either behind the main desk or patrolling the lobby. The work was
physical, mental and social. At any point he could be making
restaurant reservations, arranging for spa services,
recommending night life hot spots, booking transportation,
coordinating porter service, procuring tickets to special events, and
assisting with various travel arrangements and tours of local
attractions, sending and receiving parcels, and they were just the
regular tasks. In his time he also:
Helped catch a baby crocodile
that had escaped from a room, frightening the third floor guests.
Concluded an agreement on behalf
of the hotel with the local sex-workers union
Taste tested a wedding cake for a
Ukrainian businessman with a morbid fear of poisoning.
But the last point also
illustrated what he felt was wrong with the job. In a moment of
curiosity Dane looked up the etymology of 'concierge' and found it
came from the Latin for "fellow slave." He served people
who were generally richer than him, much richer. Many were pleasant,
often they were nice but even the nice ones usually couldn't help
patronise and demean, and there were nasty guests as well. His work
was low. It wasn't egalitarian. He did menial things for people who
couldn't be bothered, and that bothered him, more and more.
The money was more or less the
same; a little rise here, a little Christmas bonus there, but Dane
was still earning more or less the same. The same when you're 24 is
different when you're 29. When Dane was younger he flat-shared with
friends. Now he flat-shared with strangers. He kept in touch but his
social circle was scattered wide. Dane lived in a far-corner of
Brent, getting down to the West End, let alone to places like
Greenwich, Battersea or even Archway, for a chat and a pint was a
struggle. Time went on, Dane worked back-to-back shifts more often,
both to make ends meet and to cover for gaps at work. Occasionally
he'd sleep in a spare room or nap on the sofa in the staff room. More
and more his life was about the hotel.
The staff as well as the guests
tended to be a revolving cast. Jens was a fixture however, he was the
Day Shift Manager. He was a busy, anxious man, who fretted a lot but
was ultimately shrewd and efficient. Short, balding, he was camp,
with a crisp, transatlantic accent. Dane assumed Jens was gay (and
assumed that everybody else did also).
They got on well, Dane and Jens,
not friends but friendly, until a small incident, so brief probably
nobody else remembered. Shortly after a staff meeting, the room was
busy Jens stepped toward Dane, a little closer than usual. Dane
flinched almost reflexively. For a moment Jens looked at him,
puzzled, then got about his business. He didn't think he was
homophobic, Dane, but was worried he might be. Jens could be a little
stern with other staff but now he seemed a little off with Dane as
well. This went on for months.
There would be three concierges
on duty for each shift. For a long time there was Emma, Canadian,
another accent. She worked a lot of shifts with Dane. They got on
well. She was a friendly, articulate, demonstrative tumble of curly
hair and gooey soft brown eyes, and touchy-feely and, for a long time
she confused Dane. He was mature enough to not take her behaviour for
attraction, just about, but Dane couldn't help carrying a small torch
for her, even as they dated other people. Emma went back home about a
year ago. Dane dithered too long about whether to contact her online.
It was too late now. Emma was gone. That tended to be the way of
relationships for Dane. He was beginning to see a pattern, lines
fluffed, cues missed. It was if something was holding him back.
Dane had one serious relationship
in his twenties. Her name was Rachel. She was pale with dark bobbed
hair, sharp-minded and funny, brilliant really. He now realised he
loved her, really loved her.
They had never quite managed to
move in together. To begin with it was kind of fun, travelling across
town to see your lover, waiting for you. More claims kept falling on
their time. Rachel's chief claim was she had made it back to
university. She was an intellectual, like him, only she had managed
to start a doctorate, comparative linguistics at the LSE. She also
found work as a teaching assistant. They saw less of each other after
that and, when they did, often it was in company. Rachel's
undergraduates were whip-smart and arch, just like her, bulldozing
his ideas with ease, Dane just couldn't keep up.
Eventually Rachel just had to
have to have The Talk. They had grown apart, she said, she could not
give him what he wanted anymore, she said, she hoped they could still
be friends, other people's lines maybe, but she was saying them to
him. Dane still loved Rachel but she was gone now too.
These days he made do moving
among lesser characters and smaller scenes. Such as:
The Sou Chef who ran a discrete
dope dealing ring. He usually met his customers in the alley out the
back by the bins. His stash was somewhere in the hotel, it had to
be.
Room 23, where a combination of knocking pipes and a strange
persistent draft combined to produce a haunting. It also helped that
sixty years prior a rich, elderly couple died in the room, both in
their sleep, seemingly of old age.
Room 13, where the aforementioned Ukrainian businessman lived. The
son of former nomenklatura, he had 'significant interests' in
Donbass mining, now under Russian occupation. He directed his front
of the civil war from Room 13, ordering a lot of odd food and only
occasionally coming down to the bar to get drunk with fellow
veterans.
So Dane's life was slowly reducing, down and down, until one day
that was actually night he got a call from Room 34. Dane was alone at
the reception desk. He had been working off and on for nearly 36
hours and was feeling speedy and alert but wavering anxious. Dane
wasn't sure what time it was. A light flashed. He picked up the
phone.
“Hello, reception...”
"Yeah..." the voice at
the other end was hesitant, "this is, uh..." and male.
"This is Room 34..." The third time this week. Dane's mind
scrambled. Where was Jens?
"Excuse me, Sir, can you
please hold for a moment..." Dane muted the line. He asked
around. "Where's Jens?" He asked a passing footman, a
cleaner, even a fellow concierge, Antonio, a new guy Dane really
wasn't sure about. “Has anyone seen Jens?” He was on shift but no
one had seen him for hours. Perhaps he was in his office, down in the
basement, between the kitchen and the storeroom. Dane tried
forwarding the call but got no response. No one knew... and the clock
was ticking. Dane saw the clock across the lobby, it was... almost
midnight in fact. It was staff policy not to leave a call on hold for
more than two minutes. “Sorry to keep you on hold, Sir... I'm
afraid the Shift Manager is not currently available. Perhaps...”
“Oh, never mind him” the
Voice interrupted. “Jens is an uptight fusspot at the best of
times. You should see his back story, really, it's a good job he's
manager because he could start an argument in an empty room...” The
Voice softly pattered.
Dane was dumbstruck. If he
thought about it for a second he could have concluded that a
long-term guest might know the Shift Manager's name, especially as
Jens always went on about the bloody room, Room 34... though there
was the matter of the back story, but, but... “But... what's going
on...?”
“You're an intelligent man”
said the Voice, still quiet but audibly confident now.”Perhaps you
can help...?”
“I... I'm not sure I can...”
Dane thought about it for a second. He felt a strange pull. “What
kind of help do you need?” he said slowly.
“I
can only really explain if I show you” said the Voice.
“Why don't you come down to the
reception?” Dane hadn't lost all sense.
“I'm
afraid not” said the Voice. “It's in my room, you see, Room 34.
It's... it's not like that, Dane, if you were thinking it was... Yes,
I know your name, Dane. I know a lot
of things. I know that you tend to freak out in these situations but,
given a moment's clear thought you'll realise what I'm saying is...
serious... I need some help, Dane... I promise you, if you think
about it... I will show you what's... going on...” He said the last
two words deliberately. “It's up to you...” and with that he hung
up.
A few minutes later Dane was on
the third floor, outside Room 34. No one was around. It was quiet,
late, dark. Dane was now under some kind of spell he felt, compelled
he was, but he still rationalised what he was doing every step of the
way. What a damn silly rule this was, do not go in Room 34. Jens was
probably asleep by now, or off site. Staff shouldn't be dictated to
like that, like the cleaner who, three weeks ago, blundered into the
room. She was only agency, poor girl. Jens gave her such a dressing
down, in his office, in the basement between the kitchen and the
storeroom. His voice could be heard though the walls, over the
clatter and the din. A prurient little audience gathered, not even
Dane could resist. He overheard Jens saying something like:
“It's a good job you can't read
because...!” mumble, mumble, mumble...
The more he thought about it the
less he liked Jens and the more he wanted to look inside Room 34. He
felt justified as well as compelled. Dane knocked on the door. He
felt nervous. Dane waited. The door crept open. He drew breath. There
was a man:
“Come in” he said, softly,
smiling. The Man was older than him, though not by much. Dane looked
at him for a second. He looked familiar, the Man, but Dane couldn't
put his finger on how or why. He was dressed comfortably, not
smartly. “Please” he said, standing aside. Dane could see the
room, it looked... normal. Dane stepped forward. He went into Room
34, still looking around; bed, table, lamp, phone, wardrobe, desk and
mirror, kettle, everything was still normal, just about, normal like
a TV set or a stage.
“So...” said Dane, “who are
you?”
The Man did not answer, merely
half-shrugging, standing still for a moment. “Dane...” he began
to speak but Dane interrupted.
“How
long have you been
here?”
“I've been busy” said the Man. He gestured toward the desk and
mirror. There was a laptop lying there open. Dane had not noticed
until now, or had it...? No...
“You're a writer” said Dane.
“I suppose so” said the Man.
“Anything I might have read?” asked Dane, slightly askance.
“Well...” the Man cupped his hands then rocked on his heels,
thinking. “Yes” he said, “in a sense... Dane...”
“Yes...?”
“What was your degree in?” the Man asked. Dane realised. He
didn't know. The Man continued: “where in Central London is this
hotel?” Again Dane did not know. “What is your surname? Who is
your family? Why have you never asked yourself these questions?”
Dane did not know. “You're part of a story, Dane. I'm writing all
of this, or I have been. Dane...” The Man stepped forward
and placed a hand on Dane's shoulder. Dane did not resist this time.
He looked into Dane's eyes. “I've been doing this for a long time.
Jens knows all about it. The chambermaid figured some of it out, I'm
sure. But the point... the point is I've been very unfair to you, to
all of you...” The Man paused for a second, let go and looked down
as if ashamed.
“Are you...?” Dane croaked. “Are you God?”
“No Dane,” The Man laughed wryly and shook his head. He looked
up. “I'm not a god, I'm a writer. I wrote you. I wrote this bit
here in fact. As we talk I'm elsewhere but I know for a fact
you're agnostic, in practice an atheist.” He smiled. “Don't go
changing the script now... Or...”
“What?” asked Dane.
“Well” said the Man again. “I have a little proposition for
you.” A pause. “It's really very simple. I would like to get out
of here for a bit. While I am out I would like you,” he gestured to
the laptop, open on the desk, under the mirror, “I would like you
to write a better future and a happier, more rounded past. He looked
at Dane and smiled once more.
“I don't know what to say” said Dane, mouth dry, still reeling
with shock.
“Wait a minute” said the Man, and he leant forward, over the
laptop. He typed something.
“OK” said Dane, straightening himself up. “I'll do it” he
said, summoning a dignity and sense of purpose completely new to him.
Dane pulled up a chair. He scanned the script while the Man backed
away carefully, watching Dane intently. “But...” said Dane
suddenly. He turned round to the Man. “When will you be getting
back?”
“Soon” said the Man. “I'll see you soon.”
“OK” said Dane, second thoughts now completely banished. He
began writing and the Man quietly slipped through the door of Room
34, closing it behind him.
