After that there was nothing.
Nothing at all.
Then it was a second, a minute, an hour later. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he was still in the washroom, lying by the basins, feeling dizzy. He checked his ornate gold wristwatch, but had trouble focusing. He had a terrible headache. His neck hurt. The washroom was empty. The cubicles stood with their doors wide, the silence broken only by a dripping tap. He needed to take a short nap. Unable to comprehend what had happened, Maximillian Jacob pulled himself up, picked up his newspaper and weaved his way back to the lobby of the Savoy Hotel. He located a deep armchair in a quiet corner, where he could rest without being disturbed.
¦
Jerry Gates checked her watch again and frowned. Five to six. Another five minutes until the evening receptionist was due to take over. Through the foyer doors she watched the turning taxis’ beams fragmenting through needles of rain. The street outside the Savoy was the only one in London where they drove on the other side of the road; everything about the hotel was quirky in some way.
It still hurt to think about last night, but she was determined not to let the pain surface. It had been past midnight when she had finally reached home. She had never seen her parents so angry. Thankfully, Nicholas had ignored her for most of today, except for an acid comment about her tired appearance.
The hotel was unusually quiet for a Monday afternoon, but the lull would not last long. Many of the three hundred rooms above their heads were being readied for Common Market delegates. They were arriving to attend a conference scheduled to start in Downing Street a week from today, on 13 December. Speakers had been invited from throughout the Commonwealth, too. The staff had been briefed on correct modes of address.
For the moment, though, the lobby was a haven of peace. A disoriented Italian family stood with maps folded under their arms like weapons, waiting for the rain to stop before venturing out in new Burberry raincoats. Someone was dozing beneath a newspaper in one of the armchairs near the entrance to the American Bar. Nicholas was dealing with a pair of regular patrons, two querulous Spanish women who had been visiting the hotel together for the past thirty years. For many guests the Savoy was a second home rather than a hotel, idiosyncratic and personalized in its handling of their requests, famed for its attention to detail.
Although she had joined the hotel just a few weeks ago, Jerry had been made to feel like a member of an exclusive, if rather remote, family. Her mother had been upset when she announced her intention of taking the job. Gwen and Jack Gates had long expected her to apply for a position in the family business. For their only daughter to have chosen her own employment – and as a
“You’re in a rush,” observed Nicholas. “Got a hot date?” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, but she knew better than to trust him now.
“Chance would be a fine thing.” She threw a book into her backpack and zipped it up. “I’ve got a figure- drawing class.”
“Of course, it’s none of my business.” Nicholas checked his blond hair in the mottled lobby mirrors. “If you’re really interested in studying art, why are you working here?”
“You’re right,” Jerry agreed. “It’s none of your business.” She noticed now that Nicholas had thin hairy wrists, a bony throat, and sprouting nostrils. He was a dim snob who used his public-school accent to ward off undesirables like a vampire hunter with a crucifix. How could she not have seen this before? His habit of joking whenever women were mentioned should have tipped her off to some kind of sexual inadequacy.
“Wait a minute.” Nicholas pointed at the revolving door. The porter was carrying through several pieces of ancient, scuffed luggage. “Someone’s checking in. You may as well make it your last job tonight.”
“Thanks a lot.” She dropped her bag on to a chair and returned to the counter. The man walking across the carpet towards her was tall, broad, and black. His skin seemed an extension of his bronzed leather jacket. Dreadlocks fell in tightly woven strands between his shoulderblades, knotted in complex patterns, like the mane of a lion. She had seen Afros, but nothing like this. Standing amid a jumble of well-traveled bags, he looked like a particularly confrontational piece of modern sculpture.
“Hullo, I’m checking in – Joseph Herrick.” The voice was softly seasoned with an American accent. As she confirmed the new guest’s reservation and assigned him one of the larger suites she averted her eyes, performing the prime Savoy hospitality function of never appearing surprised. She was, though.
The elderly Spanish women stared at the newcomer’s heavy motorcycle boots in distaste, lowering their gaze to the ground and up again as if expecting someone to come and remove him.
Jerry felt like coming to Mr Herrick’s defence. After accepting his registration form she found herself speaking with rather more volume than necessary. “Here is your suite key, Sir. If I can do anything to make your stay more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“The personal touch, I like that,” he replied with a broad grin. “Good evening, ladies.” He smiled politely at the disapproving couple and clattered across the lobby in time to pull the first of his cases back from the porter.
“I hate to take your job, man, but you’d better let me have those.” He was loud and friendly as he began hefting the bag straps on to his arms. “There’s stuff in here I don’t trust to anyone else, no disrespect to you, Sir.”
His cheerful attitude made her smile. The English crept into smart hotels as if entering cathedrals. They queried their bills in whispers, slinking to their rooms like criminals. Handsome young black men didn’t stay at the Savoy. It was a time when England was still running
“You’d better check the validity of his reservation,” Nicholas told her. “I mean, this is the Savoy. The other guests don’t want to see…” he searched for the right phrase “…
“I don’t see how you can judge someone so quickly.”
“He’s probably in that awful rock musical,” Nicholas sniffed. “Swaggering about in bright clothes just shows a lack of breeding.”
“Funny, I always thought that about the gold-covered white women one sees in Knightsbridge,” she replied. Before the weekend, Nicholas had kept his prejudices hidden. “I’m running late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She was returning from the staff room in her Afghan coat when she noticed the sleeping man again. He’d been sprawled in a corner of the lobby with a
“You’re nearer. You do it.”
“I already told you, I’m late.”
Sighing, she crossed to the chair and gently removed the newspaper from their guest. The unveiled face was florid and middle-aged. A flap of grey hair leaned back from the man’s head like a raised gull’s wing. She recognized the sleeper as a guest who had checked into the hotel on Friday. She tapped him gently on the shoulder. Overhead, the lights in the central chandelier flickered, momentarily dimming the room.
“Mr Jacob, time to wake up…”
Jacob’s lips rattled out a furious blast of air and he sat sharply upright.
“What the devil – ?” His eyes bulged, his throat distending as he lurched forward in his seat. For a moment Jerry thought she had startled the guest in the middle of a dream. Now she saw that he was choking. Before she could take any action, he jack-knifed forward, spluttering and spraying a fine crimson mist from between his teeth.
She saw Nicholas reaching for a telephone as she tried to hold the agitated guest down in his seat.
“Nicholas, come and give me a hand, he’s having some kind of seizure!”
The body beneath her was bucking in the grip of violent convulsions. Jacob’s left foot shot out and cracked her painfully on the shin. Together they fell to the floor, landing hard on their knees just as Nicholas arrived at their side.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, gingerly attempting to grab an arm.
