Undead #2

I came to this hotel because it was the closest place on the list to the train station. Little more than a shopfront on the corner, it was dilapidated, verandah-less, a hole to crawl into. Instead of a sign, there was a blackboard: ROOMS TO RENT, LONG OR SHORT STAY, REASONABLE RATES, TV ROOM, and squashed in the lower margin as an afterthought: FRIENDLY ATMOSPHERE. The ground floor windows were boarded up. I pushed the front door open, nudging my suitcase in ahead of me. The front desk and its keeper were suitably retro; a sliding glass window and landing strip tie. A filing cabinet, a fan and a Thank You For Not Smoking sign that had gone yellow around the edges.

Because the refuge I’d come from didn’t charge any rent, I had enough saved to put down straightaway and obviate any serious inquiry into my age, history or lifestyle. But because I was dressed in head to toe black during the fiery end of February, and even had my coat on - since it didn’t fit in my suitcase - the landlord or his lackey picked me for the particular kind of refugee that I suppose I was. “We don’t want any trouble, you hear? No disturbances, no making a nuisance of yourself, nothing broken. Understood?” “Yes, of course.” I said, staring blandly at the clock behind him. He let himself out of his glass cage and I followed him up the stairs, being careful to maintain a tranquillised tempo. My room smelled of cigarette smoke and shell shock; the fallout of a thousand divorces. George, the man with the keys, grunted over the stuck window like a ravaging soldier and I was careful to remain between him and the open door. After he’d gone, I pushed the chest of drawers in front of the door and lay on the bed, a thing that thinks, making a sweaty angel in the stale bedclothes. I waited for a while, as long as I could stand, then stripped down to my underwear and got the whiskey out of the suitcase.

The booze gets you to sleep to start with, but it’s a sleep like deep end of a swimming pool; sink to the bottom and you’ll rise up again soon enough. Even when your head’s above water you can’t breathe; the air is thick with the air molecules discarded by those who have discarded you, making breathing as intimate as kissing. I turn my head, hold my nose and clench my teeth shut, resisting. The edges of my vision become charred, a bubble rises in my head and I black out momentarily before letting go and sucking it all up: words in blood and a blue fountain pen; tennis balls aimed at puddles, a lost tennis match that I have to thank for all this; threats, tethers and tiredness; that morning on the roof, dancing and dodging the helicopter; a declaration and a long gone flight to Sydney. Waves of despair, nostalgia, betrayal, humiliation and plain old disbelief wash over me; I grab the bottle before the tsunami of shame and heartbreak can kick in.