GROSVENOR HOTEL, MANHATTAN
I
Miss Angelique Dupont had met numerous strange visitors during her decade of working at the Grosvenor Hotel but she had never seen anyone quite like the guest who had, for the past three weeks, become resident in room 52. For one thing, the lady had not left her quarters in all of that time, living entirely off room service and building up a bill of the kind that was generally referred to (though always, Angelique had noted, from people who could afford most things easily enough) as “eye-watering”. For another, there was evidently something very wrong with the woman, both physically and mentally, something which, as she had refused all help since her arrival, was surely getting steadily worse.
Angelique had been on duty behind reception on the day when the woman had walked into the lobby. She had seemed a little unsteady on her feet and as though she had suffered some recent ordeal. She was also well-dressed; the long white fur coat alone was worth at least a month of Angelique’s wages. The stranger possessed an air of confidence (even, Angelique thought, of some indefinable quality of danger) and she paid for everything upfront and in cash. In such circumstances, Angelique had long since learned the importance of looking the other way, of pretending not to see what was right in front of her.
“I need a room,” the woman had said, in a voice that sounded husky and tired. “A room in the name of human charity.”
Angelique had thought then that this was a curious phrase to deploy in what was, after all, one of New York’s dearest and most exclusive hotels, though she had complied immediately with the woman’s request and told her that 52 was available. The visitor had agreed, handed over the tariff and signed her name in the register with a shaky kind of flourish as “Miss J. G. Galligan”.
“Do you have any luggage?” Angelique had asked and the woman had waved away the question with a bitter laugh, as though the very notion was wildly improbable. “Well then,” said Angelique with a brightness that she did not altogether feel, “in which case, would you like me to show you to your room?”
The woman had dismissed this too. “I’ll find it,” she said. “I shall find the way.” She had walked off with purpose, without exchanging further pleasantries of any kind or asking questions, clutching the room key close to her as though it were a talisman or holy relic.
Since then, Miss Galligan had refused all efforts to clean her room, placing her used crockery and cutlery outside. After a week, she had placed more cash there too, sufficient for a further seven days, and she had done so once again after this instalment had run out. She had received some visitors but (at least so far as Angelique was aware, and there was little which went on in this hotel of which she did not have full knowledge) they seemed only ever to be tradespeople: folk who brought her clothes and other essentials.
The world of Miss Galligan seemed to have shrunk to the four walls of number 52. Maids and bellboys had reported sounds suggestive of illness from inside, though, when asked, Miss Galligan insisted firmly that everything was just fine. If matters were ever pushed any further, the lady found an excuse to offer a more than generous tip in exchange for the asker of questions to desist.
Angelique herself had spoken to their solitary guest three times upon the telephone during this period and each conversation had been an exercise in chilly, business-like brevity. She had knocked upon the door of the lady twice, when going up there to collect her money, only to be told upon all occasions that if she wished to speak to her then she should surely use the phone.
If Angelique was more than usually curious about all of this she did not allow it to show to any of the staff who worked beneath her, though she did find herself wondering with increasing frequency about the stranger, and of what her true story might be. She was also waiting, she realised later, in the days after the disaster had struck, for the other shoe to drop, for an element to change in the woman’s weird routine, for something, in other words, to break.
One night, after a rare day off, she found herself telling her flatmate, Miss Betty Morales, the whole strange story.
“Huh,” Betty had said. “That’s very strange. You think she’s running away from something?”
“Aren’t we all?” said Angelique, thinking of a certain boy back in St Louis and of a certain girl who was now his wife.
“No, but I mean on the run from something bad.”
“Like what?”
“Like criminals. Or worse, the government.”
“I don’t know,” Angelique admitted. “And I don’t suppose it’s really any of my business. But all the same… it bothers me. It really does. It’s giving me bad dreams.”
II
Angelique was working at the front desk on the morning in question, at the start of Galligan’s fourth week of residence, when a handsome woman in her middle fifties presented herself there with a big charming smile and asked for help.
“Of course, ma’am,” said Angelique, her voice, as ever, smooth but not ingratiating. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m here to visit a resident of yours,” said the woman, who had long dark hair (no trace of grey) and who was dressed expensively. Angelique, who read multiple papers every night (recovered from the rooms of the guests) thought that she might recognise her from somewhere, from some story, gossip piece or scandal, though she could not have said precisely what the context might have been.
“And who is that, ma’am?”
Somehow the answer, when it came, did not surprise her in the slightest.
“The lady in 52.”
“Of course,” Angelique replied, before adding, more slyly: “And her name is?”
The dark-haired woman blinked once. “Galligan,” she said after what was a fractional (though noticeable) hesitation.
“Very good, ma’am,” Angelique said. “I’ll ring her now. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Just say it’s Coral,” the woman said. “No surname. She’ll know who I am.”
Angelique made the call. With the receiver pressed a little nervously to her left ear, she watched the woman glance with some suspicion around the lobby.
After five rings, the phone in room 52 was picked up and the voice of Miss Galligan said: “Yes?”
Even from that single syllable, Angelique could tell that whatever was wrong with the resident had got worse. She sounded not merely hoarse but actively in pain.
“What is it?”
“This is the front desk, Miss Galligan. We have a visitor here for you. She has given her name as Coral.”
There was a pause on the line and what sounded like ragged breathing. “Is she middle-aged? Dark haired? British?”
“Yes to all three, ma’am.”
As she said these words, Angelique noticed that Coral was gazing fixedly at her. Angelique smiled though this was not returned by the lady upon the other side of her desk.
Down the telephone line could be heard a sound like scuttling, as though the resident was moving in some quick but awkward manner across the floor.
“Miss Galligan?”
A pause, then: “I’m here.”
“What shall I say to your guest?”
Then came the last sound which Angelique had expected: a high, frantic whinny of laughter. “Show her up. Tell her I’m ready for her. But Miss Dupont?”
Angelique felt a not altogether welcome frisson of surprise at the fact that Galligan had learned her name. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Bring Coral to me in person. I want you to be my witness. It’s high time you saw what they’ve done to me.”
III
The woman who had given her name as Coral did not make any conversation as they rode the elevator together to the fifth floor or as they walked along the corridor to number 52. Only as they approached the room (where there was once again a dirty plate and cutlery left outside; at the sight of which Angelique made a mental note to chastise the head of domestics), did Coral say anything at all.
“She’s not been any trouble to you?” the woman asked, the concern in her voice seemingly quite genuine.
“Not compared to some,” said Angelique.
“Good. That’s very good. I mean, we’ve been keeping an eye on her. We wanted her to be safe. But exactly where she went to ground we left up to her.”
Angelique gestured towards the door of the room. “Here we are. So sorry about the mess on the floor.”
The Englishwoman hesitated. “Are you happy, dear?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, have you known happiness? Have you been contented in your life?”
“That’s… kind of a strange question.”
“Humour me?”
Angelique answered as honestly as she was able. “For some of it, yes. Not so much as a kid. But now, sure, I’ve been happy enough.”
Coral nodded. “My own childhood was a little… complicated. And truncated also. But I’m glad. Yes, I’m very glad you’ve known some happiness.”
“Ma’am, forgive me…” Angelique stopped herself, about to break a cardinal rule of her profession.
Coral smiled. “Yes, dear?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Please.” The smile was firmer than before and still more insistent. “Say whatever it was you were going to say.”
“Don’t I recognise you from somewhere? From the news?”
“Oh. Well, yes, you might. I’ve long been associated with a particular place. What they call the City. You know? In England.”
“Yes.” Angelique remembered. Some outrage, some improbable, faraway disaster which nonetheless now seemed very close to home. “Of course. How is it? The City? After everything which happened… That poor creature…”
“That’s a long story. One for another day.”
“My apologies, ma’am.”
“No need. But for now, please, if you don’t mind – could you please be so kind as to knock?”
Angelique blushed, embarrassed at having forgot herself. She knocked on the door. “Miss Galligan? Your visitor is here.”
A voice from within, deep and cracked: “It’s open. Come in.”
Angelique pushed the handle and nudged the door.
Coral made a gesture as if to say: after you.
It was gloomy inside. Only one light was on and that was very dim. The place was not in disarray as Angelique had, however illogically, anticipated. It was neat and in good order. There was, however, an odd scent in the air, something thick and heavy, something redolent of the farmyard or the stable.
“Miss Galligan?”
The resident was sitting on the only chair in the room. She had turned its back against the far wall. Her face was in shadow and she seemed almost to loll in her seat, in some ungainly sprawl.
Angelique heard Coral walk in behind her. “Leave us now,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s time.”
The figure in the chair nodded at this. “Yes. We’ll both call you.”
At first, Angelique thought that she still wore the coat which she had worn when she arrived. Closer examination suggested that this was not the case. It was more tightly fitted and it seemed to have no edge.
“Of course, ladies,” said Angelique, wrenching her gaze away. “I’ll be right outside.”
She retreated, then, back into the corridor and pulled the door softly shut behind her. She knew that she ought to set about clearing up the mess yet she found herself unable to resist a little light eavesdropping.
The doors at the Grosvenor were thick and the voices beyond were low but, over the next few minutes, Angelique Dupont was able nonetheless to pick out some snatches of the discourse, fragments of what was said.
She heard Coral apologise for something. “I always felt it was rather a low trick,” she said. “But someone had to be patient zero.”
This, Angelique thought, confirmed the theory that Miss Galligan was ill.
The resident said something then too low to hear, then: “You didn’t need to do it, you didn’t need to do it.” This had something of the quality of a mantra.
Then the firm, calm voice of Coral came again. “I’m afraid we really think we do. Albert and me… And our friend in the water…”
“Him!” The voice of the resident was louder now, through anger. “How long has he been behind this? Scheming and dreaming? And how has he changed you?”
The older woman declared herself to be not without her failings but nonetheless at heart a philanthropist.
Miss Galligan evidently disagreed with the assessment as a flood of abuse ensued, words and language which did not shock Angelique but which did surprise her even with the ferocity and ease of their delivery.
The voice of Coral seemed to come closer to the door. “I came to say I’m sorry,” she said (there was something in this which Angelique did not believe), “and also to confirm that the transformation is complete. We had to know whether or not it’s actually worked.”
“It’s worked,” Miss Galligan said. “It’s worked all right. But not how you hoped. It won’t take us forward. You must know that. The science has gone wrong somehow. It won’t go as you hoped. It’ll plunge us all back into the stone age.”
Exactly what happened next inside the room, Angelique could not be sure. There was a sound like a scuffle, something like tearing, then something like a muffled scream. This was cut off almost at once, followed by a heavy thud as of something like a bookcase being hurled onto the floor. Silence afterwards.
Then Angelique heard the voice of the resident. “Miss Dupont? You may come in now.”
For an instant, something primal in her urged Angelique to run, screaming at her to get as far away from that room and from the place – as far away from New York even – as she could possibly manage. Yet the hesitation was but a momentary thing. She knew her duty. “Coming, ma’am,” she said and opened the door.
The scene that awaited her was plain enough. The body of Coral was prone upon the floor, her throat torn out. There was blood upon the carpets and arterial spray upon the walls.
Then there was Miss Galligan standing over her. The face of the resident was in the light now and it was the most extraordinary thing: not the face of a woman at all (or, at least, not purely) but the face of a furred and savage creature, something like a tiger or a lion, with a hint also of slyness suggestive of the hyena or the wolf. The creature bared its blood-flecked teeth in a grimace. When it spoke it did so in a growling parody of how Miss Galligan had first sounded when she had arrived at the hotel.
“This is not how I was meant to be. This has been done to me.”
“Why?” Angelique asked, her voice impressively level under the circumstances. “How?”
“Because of the City,” the Galligan-creature said. “Because of what they believe.” Then, turning towards Angelique: “Let me pass. Don’t stand in my way.”
Angelique saw that the woman had hands no longer but rather claws, sharp and deadly. Very sensibly, she stood back. Her pay at the Grosvenor was not especially generous; certainly nowhere near enough to encourage her to attempt to stop the departure of so homicidal and monstrous a guest.
The creature snarled again. Angelique stepped further back, touching the wall now.
“Cash,” said what had once been a woman. “Take it all.”
Without waiting for more, the being loped past her and stepped into the corridor. Then, dropping down onto all fours, it ran on, gathering speed to an incredible pace before, ignoring the elevator, hurling itself down the stairs.
Angelique stood very still, breathed deeply and thanked the sweet Lord Jesus that she was still alive. A moment later, from somewhere else in the hotel, she heard the sound of screaming.
It was to be the first scream of many.