The Nonesuch and Others (11 page)

So I reasoned to myself, but still it was unsettling…

The next morning following an early breakfast, with the strange events of the previous day and night quickly fading, I set out on foot to go up the hill and down into the valley, exploring the centre of the town; and I came across McCann’s jazz bar haunt less than half a mile from the Seaview. It sat out of the way in a cul-de-sac housing various indifferent enterprises—a charity shop, barbershop, hardware store, chemist’s shop, etc—and as I arrived it was being slopped out by a fat gentleman in a waistcoat, apron, and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, who went on to sweep up and bin the somewhat more solid debris of last night’s entertainment: some bottle glass and pieces of a glass ashtray, empty cigarette packs and cigarette ends, and the flimsy packaging from various fast foods.

Answering my casual enquiry, this fellow told me the place should now be considered closed for a week to ten days: it was being refurbished. Which put paid to any plan I had entertained about finding and questioning McCann here; for the time being I would have to put the mystery of Janet Anderson and room number seven aside. But then again, now that McCann’s favourite watering-hole had dried up, as it were, perhaps he would stick more closely to home and the bar at the Seaview. I could always test out this theory tonight.

And I did, but of course that was several hours later. And meanwhile…

…Shortly after dinner,
finding the bar empty, I walked downhill to the promenade and turned east along the coast road.

On rounding the point, there, hidden from sight of the Seaview beyond Jurassic cliffs of Devon’s unique red rock, I found various amusement arcades, cafes, and fish-n’-chip shops lining the road below the cliffs; and, on the opposite side toward the sea, a modern theatre and a quarter-mile of public flower gardens bordered (astonishingly) by palm trees that flourished here by virtue of Torbay’s semi-temperate climate. All very pleasant fare for holidaymakers on the so-called English Riviera, making their all too brief, annual escapes from often drab Midland and northern cities.

But for all that I myself was now a holidaymaker or tourist of sorts, and for all that I should be enjoying the adventure—these
new sights and pleasing surroundings, and the soft, salty wafts off the sea—still there was something on my mind. And as
I retraced my steps along the seafront my thoughts returned to the parasol as I had seen it last night up on the high terraces; and finally, curiously for the first time, I found myself wondering how it had accomplished its migration from the derelict hotel’s patio to its new location.

Well, of course I at once recognized at least one perfectly obvious answer to this riddle: for some reason, someone or ones had moved the thing! But as for what reason that might be…

It was summer, the nights were warm, and there were plenty of young lovers in the town: I had seen and envied lots of them strolling on the promenade. Local folks would certainly know of the deserted hotel, whose empty grounds must surely make an excellent trysting place; and as for the privacy of the neglected terraces and rampant shrubbery…perhaps the shrubbery wasn’t the only thing in rampant mode up there!

I’ll leave that last to your imagination.

But in any case, that seemed the best answer to the riddle: that some enterprising young lover had moved the parasol to its current location in order to invite his lady-love to a night or nights of passion beneath its sheltering canopy.

And now I know what you’re thinking: that I must be a complete and utter idiot, and looking back on it I can’t help thinking that perhaps you’re right…

Back at the Seaview while I found the bar open, only a handful of the less dedicated fishermen were enjoying a drink. Most of the others were out on a boat in the bay, while a few more had invested in a show at the theatre on the promenade: the “Reanimated Rat Pack Review!” And according to some of the hoardings I had seen during my short walk: “You’ll Actually Believe It’s
Them
, Direct From 1960s Las Vegas, Alive and Kicking!”

Well “reanimated” or not—dead or alive—I hoped the audience enjoyed the show. But with all the absentees, it did make for a very quiet hotel and bar. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt rather alone.

Shortly after settling myself at the same corner table that McCann and I had shared previously, however, who but that self-same Scottish gentleman should appear and proceed direct to the bar. Intent on buying a drink, McCann hadn’t as yet noticed me; but as I caught the bar girl’s eye and signalled her to put his drink on my tab, he turned and saw me. A moment later he joined me, thanked me warmly for his “wee dram,” and without any prompting picked up more or less where our initial conversation had left off:

“So then,” he began, “ye’re lodged in number seven, are ye? And can I take it all’s well with ye? No problems with that wee room? I would have asked ye when last we chanced tae speak, but the dear lady o’ the house sort o’ interrupted our conversation and I didnae wish tae disturb her by havin’ her hear mention o’ that room. Aye, and it seems we have similar sensibilities, you and me, for which I’m glad.”

“Room seven, yes,” I told him. “Which is a very nice room, really! The receptionist, Hannah, appears to think so; but she didn’t tell me much about it, didn’t go into details. So Kevin Anderson got drunk and died in a fall from my balcony, did he?” I shook my head wonderingly, and continued: “I suppose there’s no accounting for the way a tragedy like that—the loss of a loved one—will affect someone. And ever since his accident, Kevin’s widow has shunned that room, eh?”

“Hmmm!” McCann pondered, frowning by way of reply. “Shunned it, aye. Well, that’s true as far as it goes. Mahsel’, I rather fancy she’s affeard o’ it! It’s possible she dwells too much on what happened tae Kevin in that room: the part it played in his…well, while I’m sorry tae be sayin’ this, in his frequently drunken deliriums…”

I stared hard at McCann’s dour face with its grey, serious eyes. “You were party to the way the room seemed to affect him? As if it had some sort of bad or even evil influence on him?”

“But did I no just say so?” McCann replied sharply, raising an eyebrow. And he sipped thoughtfully at his drink before continuing. “Aye, I was privy tae all such. Oh, I worked for them, it’s true, but at the same time I’d become a verra close friend tae both o’ them. And I’m still close tae Janet…”

At which point he paused—possibly to consider his loyalty to the Andersons—and I sensed his sudden reticence. I waited, but after several long moments, while I didn’t want to seem too eager for knowledge, still I felt obliged to press him; even to bribe him:

“Gavin, let me get you another drink—” I signalled the bar girl, indicating our requirements, “—to wet your whistle while you tell me the rest of it.”

“The rest o’ it?” he replied. “Well yes, there is a rest o’ it—for what it’s worth and for all that it’s strange—but I must have ye’re word on it that it’s strictly between the two o’ us! We must have respect…not only for the dead but also for the livin’, meanin’ Janet. Kevin Anderson wasnae a madman, just an addict, a slave tae Demon Drink…” With which he tossed his own drink back, and without so much as a grimace.

Kevin Anderson: a madman? Well it was the first I had heard of that possibility. But:

I nodded and repeated McCann, saying, “As you wish, between the two of us; you have my word on it.” But at that very moment our drinks arrived—and both of them were the real thing: two small glasses, full to the brim with amber whisky!

As the girl turned to leave I caught her elbow, explaining, “I didn’t want whisky. Whisky for the chef, yes, but I’m drinking Coke—with a slice of lemon!”

“Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. “I make mistake! I thinking you want same for both! No problem, I take it back.” But:

“No need for that!” said the canny Scot, reaching for both glasses. Much to my shame, however, I beat him to it! And:

“What?” he said, seeing me take up one of the glasses. “But ye cannae be serious! Not with ye’re problem as ye told it tae me. I’ll no be party tae it. Man, with what happened tae Kevin, with what goes on with any alcoholic, I’d have tae hold mahsel’ at least partly tae blame!”

“One drink,” I told him as the girl moved off. “One and one only. And anyway, surely you can recall my mentioning how I was never a full-blown alcoholic in the first place?”

He nodded. “So ye did, aye. Ah well then, cheers!” And once again he threw back his drink in a single gulp, licked his lips and settled back in his chair. “But no more interruptions, now. Let me get done with it while I’m still in the mood.” And after a moment’s reflection:

“After we moved in here Kevin’s drinkin’ really took off. I think maybe he felt even more insecure. That first year, business was only middlin’; they took in enough tae keep their heads above water, but that’s all. He was hittin’ the stock; she told him tae stop; he began drinkin’ in the town. He’d run a message for the hotel—frequently for me, stuff for mah kitchen—and come back two hours later under the influence. It was verra bad o’ him, or perhaps not. I mean, it was the booze! He was like a man possessed, and what could he do about it? Oh, it had
such
a grip on him! And yet if ye didnae know him, ye wouldnae ken the state he was in. He kept it hid, drank vodka which is difficult tae smell on a man’s breath, managed tae control his speech and balance both; that is, while yet he retained at least a
measure
o’ control…

“Aye, but then he took tae sneakin’ in, goin’ tae room number seven—which at the time was a stock room—and sleepin’ it off in there. Janet asked me tae keep an eye on him, tae try and wean him off the drink.
Hah
! Poor woman: she neither understood the insidious power o’ the booze, nor the strength o’ her husband’s addiction.

“Well, I tried: I’d have a drink with him in town, try tae get him out o’ there when I thought he’d had enough, then shake mah head and leave him tae get on with it when he’d shrug me off and order, ‘just one last drink, Gavin my friend.’ For that was the problem: it never was the last one. And that’s how it went for three years and more, until a time two summer seasons ago.

“That was when Kevin began tae ramble: his ‘hallucinations’ and what have ye—which probably had their origin not only in the booze but also in the problems at the old hotel up there on the hill. Aye, that’s when the worst o’ it began, with all the trouble up there: the weird deaths and what all.

“And it all came taegether as spring turned tae summer…

“First off, a young fellow—fit, full o’ life—was found dead in bed in his balcony room, one o’ them rooms lookin’ down on your room number seven. An autopsy said he’d been smothered, but how when the door was locked from the inside? Accidentally? That didn’t seem right at all! His balcony doors were open, but those balconies up there are too far apart for someone tae jump across from one tae the next. So in the end they had tae settle for a respiratory disorder or some such—maybe a heart attack? Asthma? Hay bleddy fever? None o’ which quite fitted the bill—and they left it at that. The only other thing: he’d had quite a few drinks, and maybe too many, on the night he died. Accordin’ tae the autopsy, however, that hadnae contributed tae what was considered ‘death from natural causes.’