Marilyn Read online

  'Come on through, I'll sign you in.' The old man smiled in return. 'Would you like a hot drink, tea? Maybe a hot chocolate? It'll help you sleep.'

  'No, I'm OK, thanks. Just a room will be fine.'

  'You sure? It's no bother, honestly.'

  'I told you, no,' the man snapped abruptly.

  There was a moment of silence as the two men gazed at each other.

  'I'm sorry, it’s been a long day. I'm tired and wet and just want to get my head down for a few hours. Night driving really takes it out of you, I hope I haven't offended you!'

  'No… not at all. I'm sorry,' the old man apologised. 'It's been a little while since I've seen anyone, gets kinda lonely around here sometimes, ya know? But I know how you feel, used to drive the lorries back in my day. Driving in the dark is a killer,' he admitted. 'Are you travelling alone?'

  The man waited a second.

  'Sure.'

  The two men paced through the hallway, listening to the smooth and rough sounds of the slippers and boots scrape and tap the wooden floor. The old man lifted up the hinged, wooden side of the desk and stepped though. 'What will it be, son? Double bed?'

  'Sure, why not?'

  'Like I said, I'll have to charge you for the full night.'

  'That's no problem, how much will it be?'

  The old man thought about it, squinting his eyes.

  'One double room, one night, that'll be sixty-five dollars fifty-five for the room and ten deposit for the keys.'

  'That'll be fine, cash OK?'

  'Even better.'

  The old man pulled out his signing-in register with a smile, and dropped it on the counter, the noise shattering the silence with an ear-crunching slam. He licked his fingers out of habit and flipped through the pages. The man dug out his wallet from the back pocket of his worn out jeans, being careful not to display his driver’s licence. He licked his fingers and proceeded to count through his notes. He pulled out the sixty-five and returned his wallet back into the same pocket.

  'Twenty, forty, sixty, sixty-five. There you go.' He counted the money onto the unit and double tapped it down for good measure.

  Elwood smiled, swiping it up as naturally as he could manage. 'Would you mind signing this for me, please?'

  The old man handed him a once popular, but now neglected fountain pen missing the small chain attachment that connected it to the desk, and pushed the book across to the man. The man whirled it around, scanning his finger across the page, searching for a suitable place to autograph. O'Sullivan, David. He returned the pen and slid the book back across the smooth surface. They exchanged a long and uncomfortable silence. The old man dragged his tired body across the room to a wall-mounted cabinet. Inside there hung six sets of keys, a set for each room, at the bottom stood two flashlights and spare batteries. He unhooked set of keys Number 5 and shuffled back to the man.

  'Here you go, Number 5.' He slid the keys across the counter. 'It's the nicest double room I have here, it's two rooms down to the left as you leave here.'

  'That's very kind of you, thank you.'

  'Not a problem, it's nice to see a face to be truthful, even if it is at this ungodly hour, in this shit weather.'

  'Much obliged, didn't think I would find anywhere to stay, you're a life saver.'

  The pair smiled at each other.

  'My name's Elwood.’ He held out his hand but when the man didn’t shake it he let it drop to his side casually. ‘Care to join me?' the old man asked.

  'Join you?'

  Elwood disappeared, reaching into a side cabinet and reappeared with old faithful and two identical glasses.

  'Join me in a midnight tipple? Sharing is caring, right?' He laughed.

  He removed the lid and began pouring two drinks without waiting for conformation. He handed the man the glass.

  'What the hell, I suppose it'll help me sleep, right?' He accepted.

  They raised their glasses.

  'Cheers,' they uttered together.

  Both men shot the drinks, leaving nothing at the bottom. They snarled at the taste, swilling it around their mouths, temporarily, then swallowing. In unison, they slammed the glasses on the counter.

  'Damn, that's fine!' Elwood boasted.

  'Damn straight,' the man nodded in agreement, relaxing a little. 'Hey, you're pretty lucky you've still got power here, the storm seems to have taken most things out.'

  'Don't you believe it, son,' laughed Elwood, rubbing the stubble on his chin. 'It got taken out about an hour ago, got this place running on generators. Fuckin' things are noisy as hell.'

  'Well, that explains it,' the man expressed with an easy smile. 'I better be hitting the sack. It's been a long night. Thanks for the drink.'

  'My pleasure, that stuff will put hairs on your chest, that's for sure,' Elwood remarked, hitting his chest twice with his clenched fist. 'Right, do you need a hand moving anything from the car?' he asked, politely.

  'No, no, I'm fine. I travel light. Just have a few things on the back seat, nothing I can't manage,' he said, wearing his awkward smile upon his face.

  Elwood returned the facial expression. 'That's good to hear. I'll walk you to the door.’ He lifted the counter top and gestured at the hallway. The man, relieved, spun on his heels and made his way out of the office, a small spring in his step.

  'Now, don't go expecting the Ritz.' Elwood chuckled, amused by his own joke. 'It's all clean and there's a shower, there's also a T.V., but you're not going to be able to pick up any channels in this weather. There's a phone, too, but the lines are down, the storm took those out a few hours ago, but it's warm and dry. I hope that's OK?'

  'Yeah, that's fine. Just looking to get my head down for a couple of hours,' the man answered, honestly.

  The two men zigzagged through the hallway, reaching the front door. The man pulled it open before retreating in shock as the storm sprayed its fury through the gap, soaking them both. He thanked Elwood and sent a salute his way. Elwood nodded in return. 'Breakfast will be served by nine, nine-thirty, you want me to wake you, son?'

  'Oh, I'll be gone by then.' He raised his hand, pointing at the sky. 'Like I said, just want to get my head down for a few hours and let this pass.'

  Elwood once again nodded in agreement. 'You can post the keys through the letter box when you're finished. If you hang about a second, I'll go and grab your key deposit. I'll just be a…' he said, turning.

  'There's no need to bother, you can keep it, call it a tip for the drink.'

  They both laughed. The man raised his hand and waved a thankful goodbye, once again lifting his jacket above his head as he braved the apocalyptic setting of the outdoors. He ran to his room, not looking back. Elwood stood and watched for a second and then closed the door.

  The man cursed Elwood under his breath, the door to Number 5 would not budge. 'The stupid loon has given me the wrong keys,' he shouted, to the gods. He got down into an attack position and shoulder-barged the jammed door but it resisted his feeble attempt. Infuriated and dripping wet, he kicked the door in an outburst of temper that surprised him. He paused and charged once more with his shoulder, feeling his bones crush under the pressure. The door, finally giving way to his strength, burst open with a yelp. It slammed against the inside wall and came flying back just as quick. The man stopped it with the palms of his hands, feeling the cold, hard wooden slap through his wrists.

  Clinical blandness greeted him, white everywhere, surrounded by bare whitewashed walls, un-creased white cotton bed sheets and a pasty looking carpet free of any stains. He walked in, stamping his feet again, on the blank, bristle mat. Finding the light switch with gratifying ease, he examined his temporary accommodation, the expressionless room comforting him with warm open arms. A fairly decent double bed stood directly ahead of him, empty bedside tables either side.

  'How nice,' he exclaimed out loud with genuine gratitude.

  A useless television from the dark ages proudly inhabited the corner of the room, placed without care o
n an ancient, unappreciated stand. The man inspected the plug and moved his eyes across the wall to the socket, the cable wasn't long enough to reach; he shook his head in confused disbelief. There were no windows. For the best, he thought. To his left was a rather spongey-looking sofa, particles of foam protruded from the cushions. He cared not for the condition, it was perfect. In the far right corner of the room was a second door, he guessed it was the shower, but he didn't feel like washing right now.

  The man slipped his jacket back on, turned, and walked back out into the storm to his car. He carefully pulled the boy towards the open car door by his feet. When he had enough space, he tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift position and carried him inside. He lay the boy down on the sofa, trying his best not to disturb him.

  The man took his jacket off and threw it over the arm of the boy's makeshift bed and circled the room with an irritable stride until he sat on the bed, pressing his hands to his face, and running his fingers across the healed scar under his left eye. Remembering the bathroom aggravated his bladder and realising how long it had been, it was best he relieve himself.

  The bathroom was full of colour and radiance, passionately decorated with the loving touch of a female. He hated it, it made him feel sick inside. Red and blue walls with yellow tiles along the side of the bath and sink. The colours clashed, it was an abomination. He picked up the toilet seat and did what he needed to do, shivering with satisfaction.

  Walking across to the sink, he turned the tap on and let it run, letting the pipes spit and clear before bending over and rudely gulping the unsatisfactory water in disgusting slurps. Hydrated, he turned it off and walked out and over to his jacket. Delving into his pocket, he returned with a plastic, orange tube. He stared at the pills for a long moment, grinning, reading the label over and over, touching the lid with his thumb, and then put them away. The man traipsed to the bed, pulled the covers back, and climbed in, relaxing under the soft touch of the puffy duvet.

  He left the boy uncovered, the room was stuffy, his clothes would suffice. Before flicking off the light, he set his watch alarm—8:00am.

  FIVE

  Marilyn took the corners at a breakneck speed that would make even a rally driver's stomach churn, but she took them well, courageously. The car drifted from side to side, swerving around scattered debris and skidding through the puddles that hid most of the road under their reflective veil. She was beginning to lose control, and she knew in these conditions it was downright suicidal. She was forced to slow down. Her insides were in tense knots, like fingers around a lump of meat, refusing to separate, squeezing as much anguish and hurt into her stomach as possible. She felt physically sick, and it was only her concentration that kept her from throwing up.

  Marilyn took deep and desperate breaths as she struggled to put the pieces together. What had happened? They had stopped for food, that was the last thing she could remember.

  The gas gauge was below the red line, showing the tank was just under full. She had been driving for hours now, and that hadn't crossed her mind. Had she stopped for gas? SHE HAD. She remembered. It all came together, an extensive mosaic of recollection bombarded her. She rearranged the pieces with the face of a perplexed student fighting for a last minute answer to scrawl on an exam paper, crow’s feet walking around the edges of her eyes.

  'COME ON, DAMN IT. REMEMBER, JUST FUCKING REMEMBER,' she screamed, her shrill, agonising plea ricocheting off the black, dreary silence, piercing her ears.

  Control of the car shifted from Marilyn to the road, she pressed hard against her seat, straightening up with rickety elbows, fighting the ache that had set in, using all of her strength to keep the steering wheel stable.

  'I have a full tank, so we stopped for gas, we stopped for food, there are napkins in the glove box. Jack had chicken nuggets. What did I have?' She interrogated her memory out loud. 'FUCK, Marilyn, what did you have? She slammed both fists against the wheel, her smallest knuckle crunching under the force. 'What do you normally have? Tea, I had tea. Come on, girl. What did you eat?' She rubbed her teeth with her tongue and breathed in her hand, forgetting the pain. 'Tea... tea... and... ' She yelled in excitement. 'Tea and two vegetarian wraps, they were cold, we sat at the back.' Her emotions got the better of her, she broke down but with unexpected happiness. Letting it all go, she even smiled, carrying it with her into the twilight.

  SIX

  It must have been the longest, uninterrupted sleep he had had in months. Usually, he would wake drenched in sweat, his matted hair glued to whatever he was using as a pillow, smelling of his own lurid fears. Today was different. Today he was almost an entirely different person. He wept.

  'What the f..? What the hell is that?'

  The man flew out of the bed in a startled panic, clipping his toes on the bedside table. 'Fuck.' There it was once again, a splitting sound brought in from the belly of the beast. He darted for the door at the other end of the darkness with giant bounds. Opening it, he acquainted himself with the sporadic, pebble-size hailstones being thrown from the sky, a few of which fell and melted around his feet.

  'Shit, we better get going, before it wakes that old fool up.'

  Looking up at the all-grey sky, the man rubbed at his temple, and ran his index finger across his crumpled forehead, relieving some of the pressure that had formed with his abrupt wakeup.

  'mom? Where are we? mom?'

  The man, taken off guard, jumped, digging the nails of his rubbing fingers into the skin. He whirled, closing the door, holding it shut with a flat outstretched hand and faced the prone boy.

  'Who… who are you? mom! Where are you?'

  The boy tried to lift himself, his hands squeezing and pulling at the loose foam, but his weight was unmovable, he was weak and shaky. He began to cry. His chest shook and his quivering throat choked up as he tried to take control of his breathing, all he managed was one tearful gargle. The man reached for a pillow that he had thrown away in the height of his pleasurable nap and tore off the case, rushing over to the boy, he pressed it over his mouth.

  'I don't want to hurt you, but I can't have you screaming. Do you understand?'

  The boy kicked and punched, flinging sofa foam with each attempt, hitting nothing but air.

  'Listen.' The man pressed harder. 'Stop fighting. Stop fighting and I'll take the rag off your mouth, but you have to promise to stop and not scream. OK?'

  The boy put up one last ditch effort, but it proved hopeless. He nodded his head.

  'OK, remember what I said, not a word, got it?'

  The boy nodded.

  'Thank you, I don't want to hurt you, just do as I say and you'll be fine, you understand?'

  The boy nodded once more.

  'Now, not a word.'

  The man clutched the boy by the wrist, clasping hard enough to earn a groan and dragged him off his makeshift bed, his small body collapsing from the sudden loss of equilibrium. The man lifted the limp boy into his arms, closed the broken door and headed into the hail towards the car. He stopped on his way to post the keys back through the motel letterbox.

  SEVEN

  Trees lay strewn in broken fields, branches tangled and stripped bare, ravished. The pundits had spread no lies, the situation was indeed severe. Marilyn cared not for the weather reports on the radio, she left it off. The last thing she needed was the whiny voice of an overzealous news reporter telling her what she could already see.

  After the twists and turns of the road were just a dot in the blurry reflection of her mirror, Marilyn picked up the pace, erratically to say the least, storm or no storm, hail or no hail, Jack was the only thing she cared about. Where could the line be drawn? She knew that if she broke down, crashed or plummeted into a ditch, Jack would be forever lost. She considered this and slowed the vehicle down, feeling the weight of defeat in her foot as she eased it down on the brake pedal, the car becoming easier to manage now that it was abiding the laws of the road.

  A brilliant blaze of purple stabbed
at her through the muted sheet of hail ahead. How had she not seen it? She was fifty feet away, it was readable. Marilyn read it out aloud, her throat clearing and her voice strengthening as she spoke.

  'Baileys Motel.'

  She had expected a beaten-down whimper drenched in a teary mucus, but she was startled at how firm and controlled her voice was.

  Marilyn led the car down the path, staying in the lines of previous tyre treads. The potted lights were scattered amongst the gravel, but still lit a visible track that she could follow. Marilyn couldn't get out of the car fast enough, she didn't even bother to turn the engine off, or even close the door. Sprinting under the protection of the porch, she came across the first stumbling block. A door, locked, with darkness behind it. Marilyn hammered it with both fists and forearms.

  'HELLO, HELLO, SOMEBODY, HELP ME, PLEASE, HELP.’

  ***

  Elwood gripped at his chest as his eyes shot open, the beating at his door had returned. He took a breath and held it, his fuzziness subsiding, leaving him with just the pounding in his chest, again. It hurt like hell. 'What the hell does he want?' he asked himself.

  'He can't be wanting breakfast, it's too god-damn early.'

  Screams reverberated through the dulling pain in his rib cage, immobilising him.

  'SOMEBODY, HELP ME.'

  'Shit.'

  Old or not, Elwood was still speedy on his feet, especially when adrenaline got the better of him. He pursued the cries like a cheetah chasing its prey, turning every corner, avoiding every bump and crack along the way. He unbolted the door and opened it without hesitation. What he saw was something incomprehensible. The beauty the likes of which he had never seen, but it was eroding, fast. Her make-up ran all down her face, her eyes were red and sore, but ever more captivating. The white blouse she wore entertained the notion of going see-through. Who was this desperate, entrancing stranger?