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The door scrapes on grit and something that has been dropped and smashed, and it sounds so much like an angry growl close to my ear that I jump and glance behind me, out across the desolate dust-covered gardens where my footprints to this place are already fading away. It’s the gentle breeze that does that, the fine dust. The breath of the world wipes out any trace that I have ever been there. The scraping is the loudest sound I have heard in days, perhaps even weeks, and I freeze in place. I imagine the sound echoing away through this vast old mountain hotel and wonder what it might wake, but that is only fanciful make-believe. In reality I know there’s nothing and no one there, or anywhere. Only dust.
Inside, I turn and stare at the large front doors for so long that the hazy sun has moved across the light brown sky by the time I come to my senses. The light has changed and shifted, but it’s difficult to tell how much time has passed. I decide to leave the door as it is. I can’t bear that noise again, and I can now see that the door ground across the shattered remains of something that might once have been fine china, or bone. It doesn’t really matter that it will remain open.
Quick escape, I think, but that’s an idea from many months ago, not now. Back then there had been things I needed to consider escaping from quickly.
I turn and head into the large lobby area. It’s illuminated by six huge hanging chandeliers, each holding two dozen clear glowing bulbs. It’s curious that the power is still on, but I don’t dwell on it for too long, because this is a whole new world of mysteries. Three weeks ago I saw a car sitting on flat tyres with its engine still running. There’s a spread of tan leather sofas to my left and a long reception desk to the right, with large columns holding up the three-storey roof, mirrors, and paintings reflecting what the gorgeous landscape beyond the windows and doors had once looked like. It’s nice to see these paintings, but sad too. It’s like looking into my dreams, framed by the limits of recollection. On some of the low tables between the leather sofas, large vases hold the brittle remains of flowers. Petals are fine dried sculptures on the tabletops, waiting for a breath to reduce them to dust. A stack of luggage is piled close to the reception desk, with a laptop bag left carelessly open on top. A trolley stands nearby, empty but for a folded pushchair. On a single lonely chair placed against one of the columns, a book is open face-down. I see the title and it’s one I always thought I should read, but I don’t pick it up just yet.
There’s a fine sheen of dust across everything, just enough to dull the whole scene. I don’t mind. Most of what I see now is like this, and that’s fine, because there’s a place where it isn’t so. I’ve been travelling for some time, so I decide to go and find this place before thinking about anything else—the food I might discover here, the water, the booze, the clothing and blankets and tools and anything else that might help me to continue in this strange new world. Before all of that, I go to rediscover the past.
Room 104
Alice tripped as she came to sit back down and she giggled as she went sprawling, left hand sinking into the sand, knees thumping onto the blanket, and despite everything she retained hold of the wine glass in her left hand.
“Didn’t spill a drop!” she said, and her giggle turned into a guffaw that ended in a loud snort. From along the beach another couple who’d come to watch the sunset applauded and the woman let out a supportive whoop, and Alice raised her glass to them and said, “I thank you.”
I helped her sit, hugging her in close.
“Water’s freezing,” she said, even though she’d only gone in up to her shins. I’d remained seated on the blanket, nursing a beer in one hand and content to watch her paddling. I’d managed to take a few sly photos with my phone, even though she didn’t like having her picture taken. I never really figured that out or understood. I told her she was beautiful, to which she only shrugged.
“Sun’s going down,” I said, stating the obvious. It seemed to settle the moment and Alice leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder. I hugged her close, and brought the second blanket up over our legs. The waves shushed up against the shore. A dog barked in the distance, so far along the beach that I could hardly see it against the sand. A few seagulls still whirled overhead, readying to roost.
“Do they just float?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“The seagulls. Do they float around on the sea at night? Roost on the cliffs, or rooftops? Where do they go?”
“Seagull hotel,” she said, sipping some more wine. “Turn your brain off. Look.”
She was right. Nothing needed to be said, and we sat close to each other and watched as the sun burned its way into the sea, setting the water aflame and bleeding its last across the cloudy skies. The colours started bright and then turned deep, like an oil painting being sketched, layered, and then given depth by an invisible and patient artist. Darkness fell quickly, and soon we’d finished our drinks. The other couple walked past us hand in hand towards the paths leading through the dunes and back into town. We stayed, though, and neither of us needed to say why. Some moments that should last forever just seem to play out that way.
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I wake after several hours’ sleep. The bed is the most comfortable I’ve slept in, perhaps ever. I am alone, even though for a while I feel sand between my toes and smell Alice’s hair, that brand of shampoo that simply says Alice however autumnal-woodland or springflowers it claims to be.
Soon those sense memories bleed away like a sunset, and I sit up against the headboard. It’s night outside now but the lights are still on, and I see myself reflected in the dark window. I need a shower, and I’ve already established that the hotel still has running water. As far as I can tell it has everything that makes it a hotel, apart from the staff and guests. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper wash. To begin with I was keeping count of the days, and then the weeks, but once I lost track it was difficult to grab hold of them again, and more time dashed past with every blink.
I stare into my own exhausted eyes and lean back down into the pillow, but sleep does not come.
Later, I hear faint voices in the distance, like poor radio reception or a stilted conversation. Perhaps they belong to people back on that faraway beach and they’re just an echo from my dream. Or maybe they’re ghosts. Either way I don’t go to investigate, because I’m sure they are best left alone.
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When morning comes I have that shower. It’s delightful. The gel smells of pine forests not covered in dust, and I stand beneath the powerful spray until the water swirling down the plughole turns from brown to clear. It feels strange being so clean, and when I look at the filthy clothes scattered on the bathroom floor I can’t face pulling them back on. There’s a fluffy, heavy robe hanging behind the door, and I slip it on while I’m still wet and go looking for something to eat.
I’ve been lost in hotels before, especially at night after a few drinks. Once in New York I found myself in a shadow hotel, corridors slightly more run down than I was used to seeing, doors speckled with damp, and when I found my room number the key would not fit. I tried for a long time, but the door was not opening. I checked the room number and tried again, and again. Eventually I found my way back down to reception and the receptionist smiled and said I’d found my way into the other hotel, the one not taking guests anymore, and she directed me to my own room. I woke up next day doubting the memory, and I doubt it even more now.
I wander the huge building, with no receptionist to ask the way. It’s half an hour or more before I find my way to a large dining room, imbued with the memory of old breakfasts. I walk through to the kitchens and the larders, and there I find shelves and shelves of tinned goods, and in a large walk-in fridge there is bacon and sausages and more food than I could ever eat. I cook on gas rather than over an open fire for the first time in forever, and the food tastes glorious. I eat it at a table at the edge of the dining room, and several times I raise my hand and chuckle as I imagine a waiter or waitress walking over to top up my coffee. I finish the mug, feeling as though I’ve drunk two or three, and leave the plates to clean up later.
It already feels like it’s been a long day. I’m tired again, probably from my long search for the dining room, cooking, and eating such good, rich food. Still in my robe I stroll out of the large dining hall and pass by a staircase. I turn and look up at no one coming down. I venture up the stairs. The corridor on the first floor is identical to the one below, with the same patterned carpet, chequered colour scheme, and subtle light fittings. Between blinks it is pristine, and dust-coated. It reminds me of that long-ago hotel with its shadow self.
Every door is closed but they all have old-fashioned keys in their locks, with heavy wooden fobs engraved with room numbers. I wonder why any hotel would have been left with keys in open doors. Maybe it’s simply been waiting for me.
I choose a door at random and inside I immediately feel at home. The room is familiar, as if I’ve only just left it, even though it is bland and sterile and clean and contains nothing of mine.
The bed is huge. The covers are turned down, and there’s a small wrapped chocolate on one of the pillows. It’s in the shape of a small bird. I peel it and starting chewing, and the taste accompanies me down.
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Room 134
Another beach and a different time, this one was in a small fishing village in Cornwall. We’d had a meal and shared a bottle of wine, and we went for a walk before going to bed to help our food go down. We were both relaxed but far from drunk, and we were the only people on the small sandy beach, as far as I could tell. It was dark and breezy, and waves washed against nearby rocks, throwing up ghostly spray in the moonlight. There was nothing really special about the moment, no more than a thousand others we had spent together and would spend together in the future. Alice hugged me from behind and we watched the sea together.
“Food baby,” she said, tightening her arms a little around my stomach. I groaned.
“Shouldn’t have had that apple pie and custard.”
“ Eyes bigger than your belly.”
I opened my eyes as wide as I could, and even though she couldn’t see I knew that she knew what I was doing.
“I’m looking forward to growing old with you,” I said.
“Idiot.” She sighed heavily into my neck, and we watched the sea ebb and flow, up onto the beach and back down, a gentle heartbeat indifferent to our own and yet so bound with that moment.
When I wake it’s morning again. I stretch in the bed, sit up, and look at the once-glorious views. The curtains are open, and I can’t recall whether or not I closed them the night before. Beyond, the landscape is wide and huge and desolate, with mountains in the distance, valleys closer by, the flat sheen of several lakes interrupting the rugged terrain. It is all grey. Dust has made this place its own. I cough as though it’s still in my throat, even though this room is sealed and clear. I walk to the windows and run my hands around the edges, testing the seals. I tug at a handle and one casement pops open, and I shove gently until it reaches its limit.
The familiar smell of my past few weeks or months is carried in on the constant, equally familiar breeze.
I realise that I’m naked, and the robe I’d been wearing is on the floor. I go to the wardrobe and there are some clothes in there, trousers and socks and underwear and several shirts. They’re tatty but clean, and they’re just about my size.
I decide that I have to take some control of my situation. I know there’s plenty of food here, and that the power is still on, but if I’m going to remain here for some time—and there’s no doubt in my mind, and when I look out at the colour-bleached landscape it’s as if I have always been here—I have to check out this huge hotel properly, see what else is here, and make sure . . .
Make sure I’m alone.
It’s a strange thought, because I haven’t seen another person in so long that I cannot remember what their face looked like, nor the sound of their voice. All I can remember is Alice from my dreams, and how her hair felt against my cheek and the smell of her on my skin. And that’s fine. If I’m to remember just one person, it is always going to be Alice.
As I wash and use the bathroom, I hear the distant thump and rumble of water moving through pipes. I turn it off and step from the bathroom, and there’s still a sound coming from somewhere. I think it’s water hammer, or perhaps a leak, but then it comes closer and is easier to identify.
Footsteps on soft carpet.
I stare at the closed door and the narrow band of light below it, cast there by the corridor lights outside. No shadow interrupts the light, and the footsteps—if that’s really what the sound is—soon drift away. Perhaps whatever cast them is too nebulous to affect light, or maybe it was merely sigh of fading waves.
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I spend some time walking the corridors of this strange, empty hotel. There’s no sign that I am anything other than alone. I peer into several other rooms and one of the larger suites, all empty and perfectly prepared for future guests. I check the ice machines close to the staircases—two machines to each floor, one in each of the two vast wings—and they’re humming with chilled delight. The paper cup holders on each machine are full and untouched. I travel up and down in the elevators, examining myself in the mirrors that cast a thousand images of me back and forth, as if seeking enough of me to fill all the rooms. I’m looking older than I remember, more drawn, my eyes not as bright as before as if coated in dust. It’s hardly a surprise. I’ve been out there in the ruined world for longer than I can recall, and I must have seen terrible things.
I find the gym with sauna and jacuzzi, and there’s even a small pool, nowhere near large enough to swim in but still warm, rippling from two small vents on the pool floor. There are eight loungers around the poolside, each with folded towels and robes and one of those wrapped bird-shaped chocolates that I found on my pillow the previous evening.
The restaurant is as I left it, one table strewn with yesterday’s meal. The bar is large and relaxed with subdued lighting, and soft music is piped in from somewhere through speakers I cannot find. The tunes are innocuous, written for background, and I don’t recognise them. I find a computer room for guests, the computers all on but with no internet access. There’s a small shop selling essentials and books and a counter of souvenirs from the area. Hidden down a corridor just past the shop is a laundry room. There’s no sign of anyone else being here, and no indication that anyone came here since the hotel staff and management left.
It’s as if the hotel has been left ready for me.
I take a dip in the pool, bobbing around for an hour or so before sitting in the sauna for a while. The jacuzzi is too violent after such gentleness, so I sit on one of the loungers instead, towel draped over my nakedness even though there’s no one here to see. I drift off, then back again. I’m relaxed.
Later I make another meal, this time steak and chips and mushrooms, and as I follow up with apple pie and custard I smile and think of Alice by the sea, and I hear the hush of waves washing onto a distant beach. It sets my eyes drooping. I had intended going to the bar for a nightcap, but I can do that tomorrow, or the day after. I can do that whenever I want.
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Room 232
Alice was driving because I’d had a pint with lunch, in a small country pub on the way to the hotel where we were going to spend a long weekend walking, eating, drinking, just being with each other. The roads were less busy now that we’d left the dual carriageway, and the route winding up into the hills revealed more and more of the glorious views all around. I felt bad because I could take them in, while Alice had to concentrate on the twisting road, the stone walls protecting us from sheer drops, and the potholed surface. A bike race came from the opposite direction, and soon they were sweeping past us heading downhill while our little car continued to climb. Their focus and effort impressed me. Sometimes it was single riders, while others rode in small groups. All of them showed the sweat and pain of the climb they’d just made up to the high pass where our hotel sat, and I wondered how many had glanced at that hotel and thought about stopping for a drink.
“Maybe we can go for a ride,” Alice said.
“On our balcony?” I asked, wriggling my eyebrows even though she was concentrating on the road.
“You.” She changed gear and we turned a corner, and the moment became special. Alice driving. Me relaxed in the passenger seat. Her hands on the wheel, the way the light played across her skin as the car shifted direction, as if she was guiding the sun and conducting its rays.
“Love you,” I said, and she waited a while before saying it back. In that while, everything between us was calm and perfect. I knew she felt it as well. Calm, and perfect.
The drive went on for another half an hour, but it was that moment that stuck with me, pinned to the memory-scape of our life together. Sometimes it happens like that. Most memories hang from bigger moments, but it’s the smaller ones that hold no real import at the time that sometimes persist. Her voice when she returned, “Love you too.” Her hands on the wheel, steering the sun. Those forgotten moments that turn out to mean so much.
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I wake to the sound of people walking past my room. They’re talking in low voices as if to not disturb me, and there’s a whoosh...whoosh that might be heavy feet dragging along the carpet, or perhaps the memory of bike wheels whisking past. I lie motionless in bed until they’ve passed me by, though it’s difficult to tell when silence falls again.
I sit up in bed and look around the room. My room, I think, but that idea doesn’t sit quite right. I stayed in different rooms the previous two nights, and though they were both quite similar to this one—though not identical, because this is an upmarket place with different colour schemes and furnishings in each room, even though the corridors all appear to be the same—I know that they were elsewhere. I’m not even sure I can remember their numbers, but I’m equally certain that does not matter.
I go to the door, looking through the fisheye and seeing nobody outside, touching my ear to the wood and hearing nothing. I probably imagined the noises as I rose from sleep.
Washed and dressed, I leave the room and head outside, closing the door behind me. I know I probably won’t see inside that room again. There’s something quite exciting about choosing a different room each night. It feels a little like exploring.
I head along the corridor, searching for a staircase that will take me down to the ground floor and the dining room. I have a raging hunger every morning which I don’t recall from my time outside, beyond the comforts and safety of this huge, empty hotel. I pass by a painting on the wall and pause, backtrack, and stare. It’s a beautiful image of a bird, small with a red flash across its head and speckled brown wings that could never be called dull. I’ve seen this bird before. Elsewhere in the hotel, probably, but somewhere else as well. I frown. It looks...out of place. It’s the first time I’ve thought that since I’ve been here. The painting style might be called old-fashioned, the sort of image that would have looked more at home in a quaint old pub in the countryside, whereas the rest of the hotel is decidedly modern. Some of the artwork I’ve seen is of the I could have done that sort. Alice and I had always argued about that, in a good-natured way. Then why didn’t you? she’d ask.
I could most definitely not have painted this bird. I step back and it’s almost lifelike, so much so that I half-expect it to turn its head towards me, then alight from the wall and flit off along the corridor.
The bird remains motionless, and I head off in search of breakfast.
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That afternoon I sit at the bar and drink good whiskey and cry a little, because I don’t know where Alice is, I don’t know where anyone is, and the front door I left open three days before has let in a haze of dust that has covered the entire reception area, dulling the paintings that hang there, all of which now seem to be of that redcrested bird. The whiskey goes down well, though, and after a few more tears I’m happier. The bar remains empty but I no longer feel alone. I wonder at all the people who have drunk here, breathed this air, and sat where I am sitting. After another couple of whiskeys it’s almost as if they are here with me. I hear chatter and laughter, and shadows start to move in my peripheral vision. Perhaps it’s the dust-laden breeze drifting through from the reception area, but I like to think not. I raise a glass to them all and take another sip, and somehow, later, I find my way to bed.
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Room 352
Alice and I sat on our hotel room balcony. The view was beautiful. We were consumed by the glow of recent lovemaking, a relaxed heat, and we were both nursing a glass of red. We sat close together, arms touching. The sun was sinking towards the mountains and already spreading its colours across snow-speckled peaks, and we were silent as we waited for it to dip beneath the horizon. We had no doubt that it would set the clouds afire in a staggering display all for us.
Even before the bird came I knew this was one of those special moments. Then the bird fluttered up from the garden and landed on the balcony’s handrail, and Alice’s slight gasp stuck in my memory, and I saw her tense from the corner of my eye as the bird sat there, head jerking left, right, left again as it checked us out. It had a red stripe across its head and speckled brown wings, a light chest with darker markings.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Never seen it before,” she said.
I tried to hold onto that moment but it flew away with the bird. It was the last day I saw Alice alive.
We spent the rest of that beautiful day together, and it was the longest, most profound great moment I ever experienced. You know what I mean. These moments punctuate life, and often there’s no real reason or cause why they stick in your mind. They’re imbued with the sense that all is well and always will be, your heart is pure happiness, and they are perfect moments in a life that is otherwise by necessity imperfect. You breathe them in and give thanks, and then they’re gone and often it’s difficult to remember the exact feeling, only that the feeling was there.
That was it. That was my last time. That night during our sleep we left each other, and I wake in another impersonal hotel room with a painting of that bird on the wall above the dressing table, and I cry because I know Alice has gone forever. Even though I have these perfect moments, she has gone.
I find peace, however, when I spend the rest of that day walking the hotel. It’s difficult to see how many floors there are, and how many rooms there are on each, but I aim to visit every single one, until the dust from the open front doors sweeps in and dulls this place from my mind forever.