Dead End

The hotel was just off the city centre, up a dead-end street of minor shops and offices which by evening were shuttered against the drunken revelry which passed, undigested, through it nightly. Cobbled roads and stolid granite walls gave back none of the glances they absorbed, all kebab stains and chips-and-cheese boxes washed away by the dawn chorus of the streetcleaners, of only to be respattered by seagulls. Since the city was home to a port and harbour, the hotel’s main business was in accommodating men travelling from distant homes to go offshore the next day, rather than the family and tourist market. The men – engineers, tattooed and muscled in their 20s and 30s, burly and balding in their 40s and 50s - were easier to accommodate, their needs predictable. They didn’t need fancy furniture or pictures and were alright with lino in the hallways and terrible paintings in the receptions. They wanted massive fry-ups and lots of tea and coffee, plenty copies of The Sun and Press and Journal, basic clean rooms with showers rather than baths, and not too much fuss made if there were any drunken shenanigans. Away from wives and families, they tended to go off the leash.

That Thursday, the hotel was quiet, only one company having despatched a shipment of men to be packaged and processed out. The men arrived on their own steam, sometimes meeting in the train en route, put their sea bags in their room, had an evening meal and returned to freshen up, the younger ones donning fashionable shirts and aftershave. Small groups of three or four then went out, prowling through the dockside bars nearby, while the hotel staff closed up the kitchen and went home, leaving one night porter to usher the drunken to their rooms and help to prepare the morning fry-ups.

“That’s me away, Davie” said the young receptionist, Margaret, to the night porter in the lounge. She put on her jacket and joined him in the lounge with a cup of tea.

“Oh right,” he said, turning away from the TV to look at her. She was blonde, pretty and friendly in a professional manner, even to the other staff.

“There’s no many in tonight, just eight rooms. Nobody else to check in. Should be a quiet night.”

“What company is it the night?” Davie asked.

Margaret rolled her eyes, and gave smile with half her mouth. “Aramark. Sorry”

“Shite,” Davie said. “They’re ayewiz trouble.” He sighed. “Oh well. Nae too many of them. Just hope they bloody behave.”

Margaret grinned, and sipped her tea to disguise it: Davie was always complaining, as though he was always run off his feet doing the portering. He was nearly fifty and had been recently relegated to the night porters job, having previously been the breakfast chef. The manager, Alan, was looking for excuses to sack him. “You’ll be alright though, eh?”

“Oh aye, don’t worry about me,” he said. “It’s the time they come back though. Two, three in the morning. Cannae get my heid doon for a kip. It’s a’right for you on through the day, but if I cannae get a sleep then I cannae get up the morra. That’s your day gone.”

“Well, this is the job, Davie,” Margaret said. She mildly loathed him: his hair was greasy at the best of times and he had done time for assault. And he was a lecherous thing: he was all too likely to try to get a look down your top if you bent over at all. A car horn outside beeped. Margaret glanced outside. “Oh shite, there’s ma taxi,” she said, draining her mug. “Alright, see you the morn’s night,” she said, picking up her handbag and leaving.

“Aye, see you.” He turned back to the news on TV. His duties were to clean the kitchen and lounge area, take out the bins, check in the remaining guests (if any), prepare the kitchen for breakfast, handle the reception and switchboard, and to generally look after the hotel through the night. These duties took perhaps two hours a night; he preferred to leave them until last thing. He usually checked in the stragglers, locked the front door about three, then snatched an hour of sleep on the lounge’s comfortable sofa. Until then he was content watching TV: the snooker championships were on until late, then there was Sky News, the Sun crossword, a porn magazine hidden in the laundry if he wanted a wank, and a halfbottle of vodka in his pocket, in case.

*

Peter heard the last orders bells ringing with annoyance. He had been drinking in one of the small bars near the hotel, not really knowing others in the city. He had been chatting up one of the barmaids, the youngish blonde one, but she had busied herself with cashing up and re-stocking the fridges. The old dog of a barmaid had served him his last few bottles of Bud. Then he felt the leather glove of the doorman at his elbow, ushering him out.

“Ah c’mon, wait a minute!” he said, hoping the blonde bird would reappear.

“C’mon now,” the doorman said. “Drink up and make your way out now, please.” Peter looked at him angrily, but the doorman would not engage, looking steadfastly towards the door.

Peter muttered, “Fuck sake, eh!”, shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. He walked a little unsteadily to the doorway and looked out onto the street. A few people were going here and there, girls calling to friends, men on cellphones, a few cars passing up and down the street, seagulls scavenging for abandoned junkfood. He felt like drinking more, but wanted a girl more. He contemplated the casino – they had a drink licence until 4am – but looking up and down the street, saw a light on at the kebab shop and felt a rumbling in his stomach.

“Fuck it,” he said, deciding to settle on a takeaway.

The kebab shop had a warming oven between staff and customers, with implausible pictures of hamburgers and pizzas above the menu on the back wall. An elephant’s leg of kebab meat spun slowly, dripping fat. Near-Eastern staff went to and fro, Radio 1 on in the background.

“Next please!”

Peter scanned the menu. “Eh… a, eh, a large donner, mate.”

“Hot sauce?”

Peter nodded. “Aye, sound.”

“OK, next please!”

He filled on the few minutes wait on the fruit machine. Nudges, Hi/Lo, Gamble, flashing lights. He dug in his pockets for more pound coins and plugged them in, the machine flashing insistently like a hungry toddler.

“Large donner!”

He span out his last few tries, barely registering the money he had thrown away, and paid for his kebab.

He walked back down the road to the hotel, eating the kebab with a plastic fork. The streets were dark and quiet. He saw a woman standing idly, up ahead, and looked at her optimistically as he approached. She returned his hungry gaze.

“Looking for business?” she said.

Peter hesitated, wheels in his mind turning slowly. “Aye, okay,” he said.

“Fifty the works or thirty for oral.”

“Go for the works, eh,” he said.

“Alright, over here,” she said, leading him to a side-street. It was the backing of the bars and fastfood joints, with rubbish skips and shadowy doorways. He could see one – no, two – doorways already occupied.

“Hold on,” he said. He was still sober enough to feel uncomfortable in the presence of others.

“I’m in the hotel doon there, mibbe I can get you in.”

*

Davie’s evening passed unremarkably. A few groups of half- and three-quarters-drunk men staggered in, carrying takeaway boxes. They flashed their roomkeys and he let them pass. None hung around the lounge, to his relief.

“You on the night portering noo?” a barrel-shaped middle-aged man asked, clutching a chip wrapper, passing by.

“Aye Billy,” Davie said. The hotel had a very regular clientele and it was easy to become acquainted. “They’ve a new boy on the breakfasts. This’ll be alright for jist noo.”

“Well, that’s something,” Billy said. “Easy money, eh.”

Davie shrugged. “It’s a’right. You still on the stand-bys?”

“Still, aye,” Billy grimaced. “Trying tae get a job on a rig but… sure I’m nae the only ane sayin that.”

“No. Decent money there, eh,” Davie said. “You’ll maybe git there sometime. I see loads a boys gan tae the rigs from here, they’re cannae be any better than you. Just need the chance.”

“Aye. Aright well,” Billy said, picking up his takeaway, “see you at breakfast.”

“Aye, nae bother.”

Davie returned to the lounge, reading The Sun. He thought about cleaning the lounge and kitchen, but rationalised that he could do all the jobs after a nap; if he got energetic now, it’d be difficult to sleep. After attempting the crossword, he tossed the newspaper on the floor and let his eyelids slowly shutter down. Glad that sleep was taking him, he muted the TV and slid his shoes off, sloping back on the sofa, and slipped into oblivion.

Sounds awoke him. Muffled voices. Where? Bleary, resentful, he stood up and looked at the clock. 3 am. Fuck sake.

He went into the lobby, seeing a tall man and an ill-dressed woman standing by the doorway, their manner uncertain, hesitant. The man was swaying, clearly drunk, the woman trying to talk to him, persuade him or something. Davie had been warned by the manager Alan not to let residents take in guests, under any circumstances. He felt a kind of male solidarity with the drunken schmuck – it would be hard on the boy to deny him a shag. But he was aware that he was on probation as a night porter, and had been doing it for less than a fortnight. If he fucked up that job he’d be well fucked, he thought.

The two made their way along the lobby towards Davie.

“Alright, mate?” the guy said in a teuchter accent. “You alright, pal?”

“Nae bad,” Davie said. “What room are you?”

His words took a short while to process. “Eh… Peter Armstrong, Room 22.”

“Oh right. Sorry, though,” Davie added. “You’re nae allowed to being back guests. Hotel rules, like.”

“Oh eh, yeah, no bother…” Peter turned to the woman. “Eh, no can do, likes…”

“Gie um a sub, he’ll lit us in,” she said in an urgent, low tone, nodding to Davie. He saw she was about forty and had several teeth missing; he realised that Peter hadn’t just pulled her in some tacky nightclub.

Peter turned to Davie. “Ah, c’mon mate, ah’ll slip ye a tenner…”

Davie hesitated.

“Alright, fuckin twenty?”

Davie shook his head, sighing. “A’right, on yis go. Be quick, though.”

“Cheers,” the woman said. “I’ll gie it ye fan I leave, eh,” nudging the man upstairs.

“Okay,” Davie said. “You got your room key?” Peter slapped his pockets like a spastic Marcel Marceau; he fished the key out of an inside pocket in his denim jacket, and stumbled up the stairs, following the woman.

Davie returned to the lounge. £20! Not bad. His wages were barely more than £200 a week, so it wasn’t to be sniffed at. Ideas for using the money began to formulate in his mind.

Soon enough he heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. She passed by the lounge on the way out. Davie stood up. She looked at him, measuring him. “You looking for business?” she said.

“Aye,” he said. He hadn’t had sex in fucking ages.

“Oral’s twenty, or forty the full works.”

“Oral’ll be alright,” he said. “C’mon in here,” he said, gesturing into the reception. There was a small staff toilet at the opposite end which he led her into. It was a mere cubicle, but he knew from there he could hear anyone coming in. He sat on the toilet seat and unzipped his flies, easing out the top button.

“You take your top off?” he asked.

“Nah,” she shook her head, standing there. “I can pull it up, though. You got that £20?”

“No,” Davie said. “You do.”

“Oh, the boy said he’d bring it doon to ye,” she said.

“Well, go and get it then!”

She snorted. “Boy’s sleeping noo! Ye kin get it fae um in the mornin.”

“Fuck sake!” Davie shook his head. He didn’t have £20 on him, and he realised he’d never see the money from her or from Peter. He fastened his jeans and strode towards her. “On ye go,” he snarled. “Get the fuck oot.”

She turned smartly, walking swiftly towards the door.

“I see ye in here again I’ll break yir fuckin jaw!” Davie said to her back as she left the hotel.

“Aye, we’ll see,” she said.

Disgusted with himself, through sexual frustration more than anything else, Davie went through to the kitchen to make a cup of strong tea.

Just as he was sitting down in the lounge again, flicking through the channels trying to find something to watch, he heard footsteps on the stairs again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grumbled. “Fuck is it this time?”

He got up to look. There was Peter, in his boxer shorts, tattoos over his arms and a beerbelly.

“Aye, mate?” Davie asked.

“Far’d that fucking hoor go?” Peter asked. “Stolen my fucking wallet!”

Davie shook his head. “She’s long gone, mate.”

“Fucking dead if I see her again, I’m telling you, man! Fucking dead!”