I’M SITTING IN the foyer of the Earlbrook Hotel with no memory of how I got there. Lifting my bag up from the floor, I see the old photograph is still in the diary. I search for the key. It’s there too. You’re here now – do something.
When I stand up, I expect others to stare at me, to acknowledge my existence, but instead they pass me by, as if I don’t exist, and when I take a step forward, it’s as if someone other than me is moving. I press the lift button. It arrives quickly. I step in and my only company is a man and a woman. They get out on the first floor, as do I. I walk in the opposite direction, even though I know the room I’m looking for is the other way. When the corridor empties, I turn back, until I’m standing outside Room 122.
Knocking on the door, I dread someone answering. When I get no response, I knock again, harder this time – still nothing. The key feels cold in my hand as I turn it in the lock, but it won’t work. Someone has changed the locks. I’ve no idea what to do next. I need to think clearly. If the room is empty, the key could be at Reception.
I don’t want to go back downstairs, but I have no choice. Downstairs, I walk past the desk enough times to see that the key is in the wooden slot behind. I still have some cash. I could get lucky. Maybe no one has booked that room. In the Ladies, I tidy myself up, then Google the hotel number and dial it. It doesn’t take long for Reception to answer. ‘Yes,’ the girl says, ‘we do have availability,’ and I hear myself reply, ‘I’m right outside. I’ll be there in two minutes.’
The receptionist gives me a strange look when I say I want to pay for the room in cash and, yes, I tell her, I can supply a home address and phone number. When she goes to take down a room key, I ask about Room 122. She gives me another odd look. ‘Is it vacant?’ I ask. ‘Only I’ve stayed here before, and I know it’s a lovely room.’ She hesitates, but I sense she wants to get rid of me. I don’t care. I have the key. That’s all that counts.
Upstairs, I turn the key in the lock, push the door open and step inside. There is a chair at the dressing table. As I had done in the bedroom in Greystones, I wedge it between the door handle and the floor.
I know from what the detective has told me that I’m standing where Rick Shevlin was murdered. Without planning to, I open the bathroom door, seeing my reflection in the mirror. For a split second I see another face, someone with features not unlike mine. She is smiling, but it isn’t a nice smile. It’s mocking. I think about the man with the two dogs, how he thought he recognised me. All of my thoughts are jumbling as I remember what Karen and Edgar said about the house in Greystones, and me being unwell.
I turn, and the large bed becomes the focus of my attention. Another split image, this time of a naked man partly tied to the bed. His eyes are open, but I know he’s dead. There is blood all over him. My vision blurs again, and the red blood turns black. The bed is now in a darkened room, lit by car-park lights from outside. I take a step closer to the bed, and feel his eyes following me. ‘Look at me,’ his eyes are saying, but instead I start to shake. I turn back to the bathroom mirror, and there’s that face again, mocking. It’s then I hear someone calling my name. At first I think it’s her, but realise Edgar is frantically turning the door knob. I take a step back. What if everything Edgar said was true? What if I’ve got it all wrong? I turn back to the bed, but the body is gone, as is the face in the mirror. There is something about the way Edgar is pleading for me to open the door that makes me walk over to it. I remove the chair and unlock it, uncertain what will happen next.
‘What’s going on, Edgar? You know, don’t you? You know everything?’
‘I knew you’d come here.’
‘How did you know? Rick Shevlin was killed in the room, but the key …’ I hold it up. ‘I found one at that house in Greystones, and the piece of paper with the room number on it.’ I remember reading the address. ‘It was in your handwriting. You wrote down the address of the hotel. Why did you do that?’
He puts his hands to his face, and I watch his body slowly crumple. He moves closer to me, looking like a man who is about to confess something awful.
‘Edgar,’ I murmur, ‘what’s so terrible that you had to hide it from me?’
‘I wanted to protect you.’
‘Protect me from what? From whom?’
‘From yourself.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I’m shaking my head again, violently now.
‘You killed him, Sandra.’
I look at him as if he’s mad. Then I laugh hysterically. ‘You must be crazy.’ I back away from him. I’ve stopped laughing. ‘It’s not true,’ I say. ‘It’s a lie. Tell me it’s a lie.’