Chapter 3: THE MAN WHO WORKED IN THE HOTEL

Before the Industrial Revolution there was no town – just a nameless village that comprised of a few ramshackle dwellings that were home to an equally ramshackle clutch of inhabitants. There were no roads, no inns, no churches, no schools and no focus until William Schaalert, an entrepreneur of Dutch origin, built his first cotton mill on the outskirts of the village in 1790. William had inherited his vast fortune from his father Freidrich, a printer who published pamphlets containing explicit woodcuts such as Alleen Mannen, Groot en Rondborstige and Wide Open Bevers (which featured a popular section called Lezers Echtgenotes) and who would be forever remembered as being the father of the porn industry in the Netherlands.

William, a well-educated but humourless man, turned his back on his father’s profession and instead concentrated his energies on industry and the exploitation of the working classes. Within a couple of years of his first mill going into operation over seven hundred, most of them slums, had been built to accommodate the new workforce that had downed their agricultural tools to find employment in what they saw as the future. The village quickly became a sprawling mass of oppressed humanity and Schaalert, who was by then the richest and most powerful man in the area, took it upon himself to give the new town an identity. With no input from anyone but himself, in a rather grand ceremony in the newly-built Schaalert Hall, he proudly gave the new town the rather unoriginal name of Newtown.

Throughout the nineteenth century the town prospered as new businesses opened their doors, eager to make some serious money from its industrious centre. Shops appeared almost overnight – tailors, tobacconists, sweet shops, pie shops, haberdasheries, boot-makers, horse traders and glue factories all made their mark in their own small way in the development of the town.

The horse and cart gave way to trains, trams and motor cars and by the beginning of the twentieth century Schaalert’s mills, now run by equally dour descendants, were the main exporters of fine textiles throughout the length and breadth of the British Empire. The mills of Newtown produced uniforms for British troops in both world wars and business boomed for everyone until the early fifties when the market collapsed and unemployment, some that had never been heard of in the town for almost two hundred years, took hold. Many moved south to find work and never came back and all that was good about Newtown vanished, turning the once thriving hive of industry and human misery into a relative ghost town, with only the hotel and catering industry keeping it afloat.

In 1986, when Arnold Chemicals announced that it plans to set up a plant just outside the town, the news was met with great joy. The townsfolk saw this as a sign of renewed growth and wealth, a way out of the emptiness, despair and lack of oppression they had been living in for the better part of fifty years.

Paul Langton was probably the only one who didn’t welcome the arrival of Arnold Chemicals and he vocalised his opposition in an embarrassingly loud drunken tirade about corporate globalisation during the lavish free party that was put on for the town’s inhabitants. He was quickly ejected from the premises by two large men in black suits, which was unfortunate as he was the caterer for the event.

 

***

Now in his late forties, Paul Langton was working as the head chef at the Stuart Hotel in Newtown. He was, by this time, a balding, red-faced man who only had one volume when he spoke and, despite the repeated requests of the manager, the assistant manager and assistant manager’s assistant, his booming voice could always be heard throughout the hotel even when he was holding a normal conversation.

“Just try and keep it down, will you,” pleaded the manager.

“I CAN’T FUCKING HELP IT!” blared Paul.

“But all the guests can hear you swearing,” added the assistant manager.

“I WORKED WITH HEAVY MACHINERY FOR TEN FUCKING YEARS BEFORE I DECIDED TO GO BACK INTO CATERING!” bellowed Paul.

The assistant manager’s assistant nodded.

“I’M SORRY,” roared Paul. ”THE DOCTOR SAYS IT’S AN ILLNESS AND THERE’S FUCK ALL THAT CAN BE DONE ABOUT IT!”

The manager sighed. The only reason he kept the head chef on was because he was the best cook the hotel had ever had. He looked over at the assistant manager’s assistant, who was making notes with a blue ball-point pen on a sheet of lined paper attached to the clipboard he always carried around with him. The assistant manager’s assistant hardly ever spoke because he rarely had anything interesting or pertinent to add to a conversation.

The manager never did see why the assistant manager required an assistant. He had read the hotel’s management policy several times and it quite clearly stated that the assistant manager was employed to assist the manager in his duties and to cover for him in times of absence. There was no mention of an assistant to the assistant manager – why should there be? His assistant was the assistant – his assistant shouldn’t need an assistant to assist him. Whenever he was questioned about the role of the assistant manager’s assistant by the manager, the assistant manager would say he was too busy and that he should talk to his assistant.

This infuriated the manager so much that he decided to take action. The action he decided to take was to take no action at all because he was spineless and the assistant manager frightened him. The assistant manager’s assistant just gave him the creeps.

DS George Jones had been working undercover in the hotel as a pan scrubber. As far as he could tell the assistant manager’s assistant did nothing of any value and in the six weeks he had been scrubbing pans he could only remember one occasion when the assistant manager’s assistant had spoken to him. He had been scrubbing pans in the large sinks in the back of the kitchen when he felt a strange presence hovering behind him. When he turned around he was startled to find the assistant manager’s assistant staring at him.

“Shit! Where did you come from?” Jones asked, clenching his fists.

The assistant manager’s assistant said nothing but continued to stare at Jones.

“Have you got a problem?” Jones asked.

The assistant manager’s assistant appeared to think for a moment. Then he said (very politely), “I washed my hair this morning. Can’t you tell?”

“Ermm, well, yes,” said Jones in puzzlement.

The assistant manager’s assistant smiled, turned sharply on his heels and headed back to the assistant manager’s gloomy office where he read through the bullet-pointed notes he had made that morning on the lined paper attached to his clipboard.

One of the notes read: Engage a member of staff in conversation. He took a red ball-point pen from his pocket and smiled again. It was a smile so brief that it was scarcely noticeable. Then he very carefully and very precisely drew a line through the note.

 

***

The assistant manager’s assistant had been under suspicion by the local constabulary for some time following a spate of burglaries in the houses of the wealthy and powerful of Newtown. The only house that hadn’t been broken into was Clifford Stine’s huge mansion just outside town. The local newspaper, The Newtown News, put this down to Stine’s elaborate security system but DCI Barnaby Smith had his doubts. These doubts were confirmed when Gary Linkman, an ambitious young reporter, had contacted him, claiming he had information that proved the assistant manager’s assistant’s connection to Stine.

This was good news to DCI Smith’s ears and the two set up a meeting for the next day. When Linkman failed to turn up Smith contacted the newspaper’s editor, who denied the existence of the young reporter, claiming that he had never heard of anyone by the name of Gary Linkman and that he, Smith, must have fallen victim to the sick mind of a devious prankster. “Clifford Stine is a pillar of the community,” the editor told Smith. “He has single-handedly lifted this town out of the doldrums of despair. Why would anyone even think he was involved in criminal activities? That’s your problem, isn’t it, Mr Smith – you and your ineffectual police force think that everyone’s guilty of something.”

The assistant manager’s assistant had appeared out of nowhere and, according to police records, he didn’t even exist. DCI Smith’s naturally inquisitive brain didn’t trust anyone who didn’t exist and that was why he had sent Jones into the hotel undercover.

 

***

The mobile phone in Barnaby Smith’s pocket began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket and answered the call. “DCI Smith,” he said.

“Hello, sir,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

“Ah, Jones. How’s it going? Anything to report?”

“Absolutely nothing, sir,” said Jones, “apart from the fact that he’s a complete fucking weirdo.”

“Well, stick at it, Jones. There has to be something. Let’s give it another week.”

“But, sir, all this washing up is make making my fingers go all wrinkly.”

“Stop moaning will you and just get on with it.”

DS Jones placed the kitchen phone back on the receiver. He finished off the washing up that had been piled up on the sink in pan room before hanging up his apron. He was about to step into the lobby of the hotel when he saw the assistant manager’s assistant checking in a man with a strange accent who, curiously, didn’t pronounce his vowels.

“You’re in Room 32, sir,” he told the man. Just take the lift up to the third floor and turn left. Would you like any assistance with your luggage, sir?”

“N,” said the man.

The assistance manager’s assistant watched the man step into the lift and waited for the doors to close before his picked the phone on the desk. Jones watched in silence as the assistant manager’s assistance said two words before replacing the receiver. “He’s here,” he said.

Jones stepped into the lobby and was about to leave, but his natural curiosity got the better of him. He approached the desk and spoke to the assistant manager’s assistant.

“Who was that you were speaking to?” he asked.

“Oh, just one of the guests,” the assistant manager’s assistant replied.

“No, on the phone. Who were you speaking to?”

“No one.”

“You know you’re not allowed to use the phones in the hotel for private calls.”

“It wasn’t a private call.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Oh, before I forget – the manager’s asked me to give something to you that will assist you in your pan scrubbing duties.”

“Oh right.”

“It’s downstairs in the cellar – if you’ll follow me.”

Jones followed the assistant manager’s assistant down into the cellar. It was a dreary space full of barrels of beer and piles of soiled linen awaiting the arrival of the weekly laundry run. Jones looked around and saw nothing of any interest. “Where is it then?” he asked.

“Here,” said the assistant manager’s assistant, turning around and jabbing Jones in the neck with a needle.

Jones looked down in panic at the hypodermic that had just entered his flesh, but he was too late to stop the assistant manager’s assistant from pressing in the plunger and sending whatever it contained into his body. His head began to swim with dizziness and where the needle had been he felt a searing pain that began to travel throughout his body. Just before the assistant manager’s assistant kicked him he saw that underneath his skin a pink glow was beginning to form.

It was the last thing he remembered before his body began to disintegrate.

 

***

The assistant manager’s assistant pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and scooped Jones’s discarded clothes into a black bag, which he tied up tightly before throwing it into the skip outside the back of the hotel. He made his way back inside and into the assistant manager’s gloomy office where he read through the bullet-pointed notes he had made that morning on the lined paper attached to his clipboard.

One of the notes read: Kill the undercover policeman. He took a red ball-point pen from his pocket and smiled. It was a smile so brief that it was scarcely noticeable. Then he very carefully and very precisely drew a line through the note.

 

 

The cover of The Possum Book of Hotel Management Stories, from which book this chapter was taken.

Chapter 2: THE MAN WHO FLEW TO HEATHROW

“There’ll be a forty dollar charge for that, sir.”

“Forty dollars? What for?”

The girl on the desk at Auckland International Airport smiled at Jim and explained, “You’re one kilogram over the accepted weight limit and I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you forty dollars for that.”

“You’re joking,” said Jim incredulously. “Come on – it’s only one kilo. Surely you can let that go.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m only following the rules.”

Jim looked over at the desk next to him and saw the fattest man he had ever seen in his entire life checking in. He was a sight to behold and Jim couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Rolls of fat cascaded down the length of the man’s body and sweat was pouring down his blubbery face. Jim did a mental calculation and came to the conclusion that his trousers had more material in them than the marquee that had been erected on his wedding day. In fact, he decided that the man’s trousers alone probably weighed more than his own entire baggage allowance – plus the one kilogram extra. He looked more like a blob than a man.

“Are you going to charge him for being overweight?” he said, motioning to the fat man.

“Excuse me, sir?” said the girl.

“Him,” Jim said, “he must weigh more than four passengers and all their luggage combined. Are you going to charge him?”

“Well – err – no, of course not. We only charge if your luggage is over the limit – like yours is.”

“But do you think it’s fair that I get charged for being one kilo overweight, when that fat bastard’s shoes probably weigh more than my bags.”

“You may not think it’s fair, sir, and in all probability it isn’t, but I don’t make the rules – I just enforce by them. Now pay up or I’ll have to call security over.”

“What’s your name?” Jim asked.

“My name is Sheila, sir. Like it says on my badge.”

“And whereabouts in New Zealand are you from? I don’t recognise your accent.”

“I’m not from New Zealand, sir – I’m Australian.”

As Jim handed Sheila the forty dollars he made a mental note to inform Sir Crispen about this incident and to have her deported as an undesirable alien at the earliest opportunity.

An hour later he was sat in his designated seat on the aircraft. There were two empty seats beside him and he hoped they wouldn’t be filled so he could stretch out on the long flight that lay ahead of him.

He was looking forward to a comfortable and relaxing flight – at least until he saw the fat man huffing and puffing down the aisle, looking first at the boarding card and then at the seat numbers overhead. His heart sank as the man stopped where Jim was sitting.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I think those two seats beside you are mine.”

Jim thought long and hard about the many words that could have summed up the situation that had just developed, but as he trawled through the vast vocabulary in the lexicon of his well-read mind there was only word that could properly describe how he felt at that precise moment in time – and that word was: “Fuck!”

He stood up and allowed the fat man to squeeze past him. As he did so he was reminded of the wildlife programme he had seen on TV a couple of weeks earlier that showed a large octopus pushing its way through a small hole in order to reach some food.

The man lifted up the arm connecting the two seats and plonked himself down. He turned to Jim and smiled. “There’s never enough space on these aircraft, is there,” he said.

He had in his hand a long strap, which he attached to one end of the seat belt, and then stretched it over to the connector on the other seat. “Always come prepared, that’s what I always say,” he said, extending his hand towards Jim. “Hi, my name’s Howard. Pleased to meet you.”

Jim took his hand, shook it and withdrew it almost immediately. “Jim,” he replied.  Howard’s hand was damp to the point of soaking and there was a faint smell of old cheese about him.

Jim and Howard sat in silence during take-off. He had watched with amusement, as he always did, at the flight attendants display as they pointed out the emergency exits and demonstrated how to use the life preservers and oxygen masks. Howard broke the uncomfortable silence about half-an-hour into the flight.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“What?”

“I said I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, OK,” said Jim.

“Don’t you want to know what you’re thinking?”

“Err – well . . .”

“You’re thinking – Why me? Why does it have to me sat next to this fat bastard?”

Jim thought, that’s right. Why did it have to be me? “No, that’s not true,” he said.

“Don’t lie. Everybody thinks that when I lumber up to them. I can always see that look of disgust and horror on people’s faces when they realise that their going to have to spend hours sat next to me. I could see it on your face even when I was checking in. I saw you looking over at me.”

“Well . . .”

“It doesn’t matter – I’m used to it by now. The problem with people is that they only ever see what’s on the outside. They never take the time to look what’s within. Take John Merrick, for example.”

“The Elephant Man . . . his real name was Joseph.”

“That’s right. You see people only saw his ugliness at first. It was only when Frederick Treves took him in and came to understand what was trapped inside him that other people began to take notice and discover the beautiful and intelligent man that he was.”

Jim let out a long sigh and the guilt and shame of not looking beneath the surface overcame him. “You’re right,” he said.

“I know. John Merrick was an extraordinary man.”

“No – not that. What you said before – it was exactly what I was thinking.”

Howard smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Does that make you feel better now that you’ve got it off your chest?”

“You know, Howard, strangely, it does.”

“Good. I’m glad. You know, I feel like Rick at the end of Casablanca.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Jim, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Jim smiled. “Shall we start again,” he said, extending his hand. “Hello, I’m Jim. Pleased to meet you Howard.”

“Likewise,” said Howard, taking hold of Jim’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

Despite this exchange, Jim did surreptitiously wipe his hand on the seat after Howard had let go.

From that moment, though, they found themselves chatting like old friends and when they changed flights for the last long leg from Singapore to the UK, Jim was pleased to discover that he was once again they were sat next to Howard.

“So, have you always been this large?” asked Jim, after take-off.

“Oh no, I was once a skinny thing. I don’t really know what happened. The doctors said it was something to do with my glands. The funny thing is I’ve been on a diet for the past six months and I seem to have gotten bigger.”

“You’re not on one of those crazy F-Plan diets or anything stupid like that, are you?”

“Well – it’s not exactly F-Plan – more C-Plan, really.”

“C-Plan? I’ve never heard of that one.”

“The C stands for cheese. It’s a new diet developed by a company in England where you eat nothing but a special type of cheese. You’re supposed to lose weight really fast with it, but it doesn’t appear to work with me. I’ve been invited by them to carry out some tests. They paid for this flight and everything – no expense spared – although they could at least have flown me there business class.”

“But if they’d done that we would never had met.”

“That’s true.”

“So what’s the name of this company?”

“As far as I know it’s a division of Arnold Chemicals in Buckinghamshire, wherever that is. They said a driver would be waiting to take me to a hotel where I’d be met by someone who’ll take me to see the General Manager to see what he can do for me.”

Jim was surprised. “Wow. That’s weird. I’m going to Buckinghamshire to see an old friend.”

“Maybe we could get together,” said Howard cheerfully. “Go out for a slimline drink or something like that.”

“Yeah, maybe we could,” answered Jim. “You know, I’d like that Howard.”

* * *

Once they were through Customs and in the arrival area Jim and Howard shook hands and said their goodbyes to each other.

“I hope everything goes alright for you, Howard. If you have any problems just give me a call.” The two men had swapped the addresses of the hotels they were staying before the plane had landed.

“The same goes for you, Jim.”

As they parted company Jim recognised the familiar face of his friend Barnaby Smith. They shook hands and then Barnaby relieved Jim of one of his bags. “Good flight?” he asked.

“You know what,” replied Jim, “it was.”

“Good. Jones is waiting in the car outside. He’s is a bit hung-over from last night so it might well be an interesting journey to your hotel.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Jim.

* * *

In the airport Howard made his way to the Gents toilets. Once inside, he removed the mobile phone that had been sent to him from Arnold Chemicals and called the number that had been pre-set on it.

“Hello, it’s Howard,” he said. “I’m at the airport.”

“What did you find out?” asked the voice at the other end of the line.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Didn’t he tell you anything about why he was coming here?”

“No.”

“You were supposed to find out as much as possible.”

“Yes – I know that, but the . . . err . . . opportunity to ask never really arose.”

The voice at the other end began to show signs of irritation. “You idiot. Why do you think I paid for your very expensive flight?”

“I thought it was to carry out tests on me.”

“You thought? You thought? Well, you know what thought did, don’t you?”

“Err – not really.”

“He followed a dust cart because he thought it was a wedding.”

Howard looked at the phone in confusion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand that.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“I have got the name of the hotel where he’s staying, if that’s any help.”

“Yes, that would help. So, what’s the name of this hotel?”

“The Stuart Hotel.”

“Excellent. I know exactly where that is. Good work, Howard.”

“Thank you. When will the tests start? Will you be able to make me lose weight?”

“Howard, you will start losing weight almost immediately.”

The line went dead with a click and almost immediately afterwards Howard felt a surge of electricity course up his arm and into his brain. His body shuddered as his heart burst and he crumped heavily to the floor.

From inside one of the cubicles a cistern flushed and when the occupant stepped outside to wash his hands he witnessed, to his horror, a pulsating pink mass on the tiled floor, inside which was a mobile phone and the largest suit of clothes he had ever seen in his life.

 

The cover of The Possum Book of Long Haul-Flight Stories selected by Mandy Flugplatz, from where this chapter is taken.