Grimm (10 page)

“I thought I told you to make sure it was fully charged,” snipped Bonnie, as Rory took the phone again.

“I did. You’ve sapped it of all its energy,” said Rory.

“I know the feeling,” said Grimson with a grin.

“I heard that,” said Bonnie.

“Good,” said Rory. “Now go and get some beauty sleep.”

“Don’t need it,” said Bonnie.

Rory switched his phone off before she could say any more.

“Right I’ll get the cable car back home,” said Grimson
straightening up from filling his backpack.

“It was good to meet you,” Rory replied, trying not to react to the fact that Grimson was about to travel by a mode of transport that no Aberfintry resident would think of risking their life in.

“When are you next up at the hotel? You should come and see me,” said Grimson.

“The day after tomorrow. Can you put in a good word for me?” asked Rory.

“I tend not to see my Dad that much,” said Grimson closing the last of the clips on his backpack and swinging it onto his shoulder. “I sort of do my own thing.”

“I know the feeling,” said Rory. “What are you going to do about this?” he said gesturing at the mural.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to do much more,” said Grimson. “I wanted to make sure the place was there but not too obviously. I think you and Bonnie have proved that I’ve just about reached that point.”

Rory nodded in agreement.

“Right, I’m off home. See you up there soon,” Grimson said looking back over his shoulder as he strode away and disappeared into the darkness.

Home?
thought Rory.
Hotel Grimm?
If only rebranding were that simple.

The second trip up Scrab Hill and into Hotel Grimm seemed more straightforward to Rory. From the start he knew that he’d survived one encounter so he felt that he had every chance of making it through another. Secondly, he was armed with his very own solution to the challenge of rebranding Hotel Grimm, a smart folder containing five crisp sheets of typed paper outlining his ideas. Not only that, but another journey there meant that he had the chance once more to enjoy the view of Aberfintry, while in Grandad and Bonnie he had people who knew where he was going, even if they didn’t agree with what he was going to say when he got there.

It was also less alarming on a second occasion to have the door opened by a butler who was as disconcerting as Grog was.

“So there you have it,” concluded Rory after presenting his suggestions to Granville Grimm, who was seated once again at the far end of the table.

Rory rustled his papers together, feeling happy that he had presented his suggestions enthusiastically and clearly. He had pointed out that the hotel had unwittingly carved out a niche for itself. Recent trends in guests not making it back down the hill, whilst unfortunate, had meant that the hotel could be viewed as a place of excitement and intrigue. The family’s reclusive nature and their slightly unusual staff, meant that there was curiosity value for visitors intrigued by the Grimms.

“Think of yourselves as a kind of royal family or a family in a soap opera,” he said. “People want to know about you’re going to do next.”

As he finished there was an awfully long pause. In the gloom, Granville Grimm had put down his copy of the report and pressed his hands together as if he was praying. Rory cleared his throat
nervously, not sure whether to make another move and wondered momentarily if praying might be a good activity for himself. He tried to read the reaction on the man’s face. The only hint of emotion was a flicker on his brow as if a fly had brushed past. Eventually, the silence was broken by a quiet, calm voice.

“Are these serious suggestions?” asked Granville Grimm.

Rory was so taken aback at this opening line that he had nothing to say in response.

“Is there a problem?” Rory heard his own voice quavering as he asked the question.

“No there is not
a
problem,” said Granville Grimm, “There are lots and lots and lots of problems. Correct me if I’m wrong,” he continued in his measured, polite voice. “The fact that my family doesn’t fit with people’s expectations, and that there have been a series of deeply unfortunate accidents, are what you want to make the centre of your campaign? That is both disappointing and insulting.”

Rory could feel panic beginning to rise inside. Swallowing hard and pulling at his collar to let off some heat, he tried to play things as cool as he could. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, as his mind whirled.

“You seem to consider the main attraction to be that we are odd and possibly dangerous,” said Granville Grimm.

“I didn’t say that,” said Rory, knowing that at the very least he had thought it.

“No, you said …” Granville Grimm flicked back through the report, “unusual … out of the ordinary … different. You seem to suggest that the hotel ought to become some kind of zoo and we are to be on display.”

“Er … it’s not like that,” said Rory thinking that this was nearly how Bonnie had interpreted his idea.

“It sounds like that,” said Granville Grimm sliding the report across the table top to Rory as if he had seen quite enough of it and wanted it nowhere near him now.

Rory knew he had to say something but didn’t know what to
say. “It’s just that … well … your run of misfortune
is
your Unique Selling Point. There’s no other hotel like yours … anywhere. So that’s the thing … er … that’s the … er … strength I thought you should play to.”

Granville Grimm continued to observe Rory through his steepled fingers. “We don’t want to be set up as some kind of bizarre freakshow,” he said. “Everybody is different, aren’t they? Why should that mean that people have to make a big issue out of it? I mean you seem a bit peculiar to me. I know of no other eleven-year-old marketing expert but I’m not planning to send anyone to gawp at you.”

Rory was appalled at how closely Granville Grimm’s reaction mirrored Bonnie’s opinion. He could imagine her beside him, so keyed up she’d be doing 360 degree turns, muttering “I told you so” in his ear. The meeting was rapidly going downhill and Rory realized that he desperately needed to buy himself some time to think, before he slid further towards personal disaster.

“I wonder if I could use your facilities,” he said in a moment of inspiration.

“I beg your pardon?” said Granville Grimm.

“I need to go to the toilet,” said Rory.

“Ah yes, yes, of course. Top of the stairs on the first floor,” said the hotel owner with a dismissive wave.

Rory slipped off his seat and scuttled towards the door, breathing hard and relieved that he had salvaged a few minutes to think, even if it meant being alone in a corridor in Hotel Grimm.

“
WAIT
,” called Granville Grimm. “I see no point in continuing this meeting on your return. Your approach is not what I had hoped for. Not at all. Please return in a week with an alternative. A significantly
different
alternative.” With that, Granville Grimm left his chair and melted into the darkness.

Rory felt a strange mixture of relief that the meeting was over already, and lingering dread that he was firmly back at square one. He also felt that he really did now need the toilet.

With his mind still whirling, Rory wasn’t really thinking straight as he headed through the doorway into what he had been told was a bathroom. In the half-light, he edged along the side of the bath and reaching the faint outline of the toilet, raised the lid. Instinctively, he glanced down. It seemed deeper and darker than a normal toilet. His heart racing, Rory was weighing up just how much he needed to go when he detected a movement at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

“Oi! What do you think you are doing?” Grog appeared in the doorway and was even less impressed than usual.

“Er … I needed the toilet,” said Rory.

“In
HERE
? In
HERE
?” shouted Grog.

“Well it is a bathroom,” reasoned Rory.

“Oh no, I don’t believe it! My babies … be careful of my babies!” squawked Grog. “Has he harmed you? What has he done?” Grog hobbled further into the room as Rory froze. The thought of what Grog’s “babies” might be, sent fear and nausea pulsing through him at the same moment. The room suddenly felt colder, damper and darker and there was no mistaking the occasional wet slithering and slapping noises that his mind could no longer blank out.

His eyes now adjusted to the gloom, Rory forced himself to look down at the toilet. A metre of snake had slid dripping over the lip of the bowl and was easing itself on to the floor by Rory’s feet. It looked as though there were a few more metres to follow.

He stepped backwards his heel connecting with a solid object. Wincing as he looked down in trepidation he found a bucket full of white salamanders writhing blindly in a wet slapping ball. Rory lurched to one side and put out a hand to steady himself, knocking a gecko off the wall and sending three others scurrying towards the ceiling.

By now he was spinning around in slow motion trying to put his feet and hands nowhere and somewhere at the same time. Anywhere to avoid contact with whatever the next creature might be. As he did so, Grog hurpled over towards him as fast as his twisted frame allowed.

“No, not there!
BE CAREFUL
!” shouted Grog, as Rory swayed and
spun. “No, not there, that’s the newts…. oh my poor loves,” Grog paused to caress a large toad lazing on the edge of the bath as though to reassure it.

Rory finally staggered to a stop beside a large metal drum near the door. Looking inside he found that it was full of dead mice. Rory whimpered.

Grog spat out an explanation, “Well the big ones have to eat something tasty, don’t they, and there’s no shortage of the little blighters in this place.

“Bentley, get back in your home,” he continued, directing his attention to the snake which had prompted the commotion. It appeared to look lazily at Grog, its tongue flickering in and out then promptly began to reverse back down the toilet.

Rory stumbled out of the bathroom, his heart thudding against his chest. Suddenly the dank corridor seemed as appealing as a cosy teashop compared with Grog’s pet sanctuary. He leant against the wall and wiped the sweat from his brow, making a mental note that the rooms next to this bathroom would be particularly difficult to let to guests.

“I heard a commotion and wondered if you were involved,” said a familiar voice. Rory looked around to find that Grimson had emerged from the shadows, with a mixture of amusement and mild concern mingling in his voice.

“I shall never sit on a toilet again,” said Rory.

“Things going well in your rebranding plans then?” asked Grimson with mischief in his eye.

“This job is
not
getting any easier,” said Rory, looking back with disbelief at the room he had just come from. “Did I really see that in there?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Grimson. “Grog knows what he’s doing. He’s been looking after those creatures for years. One of them caused a scene
once
when it escaped and ended up in a guest’s bedroom, but on the whole they’re very well behaved. So is Grog really,” he finished with a smile.

“Mmm,” said Rory unconvinced and looking around himself to
check that no creature had decided to attach itself to him.

“Anyway if you want some light relief why don’t you come and see my room.”

Rory accepted the offer and walking alongside Grimson through the hotel, he realized that he now had a guide who might actually answer some of his questions. “What’s the story with this Corridor no one’s supposed to go near? It all sounds a bit mysterious.”

“Yeah, that is an odd one,” replied the lad. “I’m not one for superstition but even that one gets me. There’s something there that gets seriously unhappy if you go anywhere near it. I’ve stuck a toe in the end of the corridor but that was enough for me. The sound it makes does not encourage you to go any further. It never causes any bother otherwise so we all just leave well alone.”

The smell of paint caught Rory in the back of the nose and throat at the same time as he entered the door marked “GG.” At the end of the bed stood an easel and scattered all around its legs were curled up tubes of oil paint, brushes sticking out of pots, a palette and a mound of raggedy, paint-smeared cloths. Apart from a couple of heavy dark wardrobes and chests of drawers the room seemed to be little other than a bedroom and a studio.

The other noticeable feature was that there was little wall space left, which explained why paintings were now being hung outside in the corridor. Every inch was covered in portraits of all shapes and sizes. Rory turned slowly around. From floor to ceiling he was completely surrounded by people, all seeming to look blankly into the room.

“I love faces,” said Grimson closely watching Rory’s reaction.

“So I see,” said Rory.

“Every face is unique,” Grimson went on. “I always think that each one tells a story of its own; where it’s been, what it thinks of life now, what it hopes for the future. That’s what I like trying to capture when I paint someone.”

Rory wasn’t quite sure that he followed, but as Grimson talked, he walked slowly around the room looking more closely into the eyes of the faces that the boy had painted.

Six portraits were grouped together. None of them were people that he recognised but Rory soon worked out that the combination of four men and two women, and the ages and appearances of the people featured meant that they were the six dead guests.

“Is that not a bit sick?” said Rory nodding towards the collection.

“Quite the opposite,” said Grimson. “It seemed like a good memorial — I felt like each of them should be captured for who
they were … not just in a sensationalist paragraph in the local paper.”

Rory nodded appreciatively, then stopped in his tracks as a familiar face appeared before him.

“That’s my Grandad!” he said.

“Oh right,” said Grimson, “That one is a few years old now. I really enjoyed doing that one. He looked like a real character. Is it like him?”

Rory thought of the old man slouched in an armchair who seemed to be fading away with every visit. He looked at the portrait. The face staring back appeared warm, wise and with a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, yes it is, but I’d forgotten he looked like that,” said Rory.

Rory’s attention was taken by another one. He could see someone familiar but couldn’t work out who it was. It showed an upright man with a proud gaze and a look of fearlessness. Peering into the eyes Rory realized that if he imagined the person in the painting with a stooping, limping walk, ruffled hair and a hacking cough, then it would turn into Grog.

He turned in confusion to Grimson who spoke up. “That man is full of surprises. He’s picked up some injuries over the years and they’ve not left him in the best of humour, or the best of health. But if he’s on your side, you could trust your life to him.”

Rory felt sure that Grimson was now stretching things a bit but didn’t feel that he could say so. He continued to move around the room taking in more of the portraits. He saw Mrs Trinder-Kerr looking organized and efficient and more friendly than Rory’s recent experience at the library suggested, Malky MacKay appearing upright and approachable even just from the painting of his head and shoulders, and then his own mother Momo McKenna, bright-eyed, as if a new idea had just captured her attention. Lots of familiar faces, and each with Grimson’s distinctive edge to them.

“How do you manage to do these paintings? It’s not as if you’ve had people posing for you.”

“It’s a combination of two things. I have a bit of a photographic
memory but to kick it off I go in the cable car.”

“Do you really risk your life in that thing?” said Rory. “How does that help? Nobody else ever goes in there and it’s surely too far away from the town to see anything?”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Grimson. “You should go in sometime and check out the telescopes that Stobo has fitted in there. They are the coolest thing. The detail you get is amazing.”

“My Grandad has a telescope. I like using it,” said Rory trying to be polite and knowing that setting foot in the cable car was not something he intended to do.

Rory scanned the walls to see who else he knew.

“That’s Bonnie!”

“Ah, that makes sense,” said Grimson. “She definitely seemed a bit of a character on the phone the other night.”

Rory looked long and hard. The portrait showed her from the waist up. She looked lively, quirky and bright. In fact, she looked so full of life that she might just start speaking or even step right off the canvas. But Rory felt unsettled. He couldn’t work out what was different about her from the Bonnie he knew, but there was definitely something. Something wasn’t right. Something was missing.

“The wheelchair … you’ve not painted her wheelchair.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” said Grimson in a matter of fact voice. “I never paint furniture into anyone’s portrait.”

Before Rory could think it through he came face-to-face with himself. The face looking back at him seemed a bit thinner than he thought he looked and there was something else that took him by surprise.

“I look a little bit worried,” he said to Grimson.

“Are you?” replied Grimson.

“Sometimes,” said Rory thinking just how worried he had been recently.

“I did it after you were up here the other week,” said Grimson. “I was watching you as you went around with Grog.”

Rory was relieved to get confirmation that at least some of the shadowy figures, which he had thought he had seen in the
background on his tour around the hotel, must have been no more than Grimson the artist eyeing up his next subject.

“Well, I guess it’s fair to say that I was pretty worried at that stage. I didn’t know if I was going to get out of here alive,” he said.

“Well, there you go,” said Grimson with an air of being satisfied but unsurprised that another of his paintings had been declared accurate. “You people in the town really are prone to exaggeration, aren’t you?” he added.

Rory couldn’t think of what to say in response. Here in the relative comfort of Grimson’s room, the hotel seemed to have lost its sinister trappings.

“Have you done yourself?” asked Rory.

“Yeah. I’m just over there,” said Grimson pointing to the far corner of the room. Rory was curious to see just how Grimson pictured himself, given the accuracy he seemed to have achieved with everyone else. Rory found the picture, a thin face looming out of a dark background. What jumped out at him were Grimson’s eyes. They were piercing and intense and seemed to look right at you and into you.

There was just one painting that had two people in it. Rory didn’t recognise the woman and at first glance thought that the man was new to him too. The woman was striking with a pale slender face, long dark hair pulled tightly back and a scarlet dress. With a closer look Rory realized with a start that the upright, smiling man with close cropped hair beside her, was a younger, brighter and happier Granville Grimm. Rory wasn’t quite sure what to say. The picture was so markedly different from the man downstairs that he wanted to comment but felt embarrassed to make reference to the fact. Rory realized that Grimson’s lean, striking looks came from his mother.

“Is that your Mum?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Was that her gravestone I saw the other day?” Grimson said nothing in response. “I’m sorry she’s … sorry she’s not here any more,” said Rory.

“Me too,” said Grimson.

“Your Dad looks kind of different,” said Rory. Grimson’s responses dried up. “Should I stop saying stuff?” said Rory.

“Sometimes I’m up for talking about it and sometimes I’m not,” said Grimson.

“That’s okay,” said Rory. “It’s up to you.”

“It’s been a few years now. Mum got ill and then just went downhill really. It’s been a bit rubbish since she died. That came after all the accidents with the guests and it seemed to be the last straw. Dad sort of … I don’t know … went to pieces really. So did this place as a result. Dad’s spent a long time just shuffling around and not really connecting with things. The fact that he asked you to come up is actually a really good sign that he might be getting back into things.”

“Oh right,” said Rory, cringing at how wrong his first set of ideas had been and feeling a new pressure to get things right.

“I just do my own thing a lot of the time. I get loads of time for painting which is what I want to do anyway, so I suppose it works out okay for me.”

“Do you think things will ever change?” asked Rory.

“That depends a bit on you, doesn’t it?” asked Grimson. Rory looked away embarrassed at the thought that his pretence with Zizz Cola was seen as the basis for a route out of trouble. “I think the old Dad is still in there. I reckon he’ll appear again some day, but in recent years it’s like he’s been living in a cloud of sadness. That’s the only way I can think of describing him.”

Rory’s found his mind in a spin. He was so used to hearing stories of Hotel Grimm and its owner from the playground and from
The Chronicle,
but here was a completely different picture being presented.

“I got it so completely wrong with my ideas for the hotel,” he said in a doom-laden voice.

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first and you probably won’t be the last. Everyone thinks Dad’s odd. He’s just heartbroken. And he doesn’t have it in him to fight back against all the stuff that rumbles on about him in the town.”

“I ought to say sorry to him,” said Rory.

“Well the best thing you could do would be to come up with something that gives him a new way of looking at things.”

“I thought I had that, but I should have listened to Bonnie and Grandad.”

“Well it must be hard to be a marketing genius all of the time,” said Grimson with a grin.

Rory forced a weak smile.

“Come on,” said Grimson. “I’d better show you out. You never know … if you stay here too long you might not make it out alive.” His smile was mischievous but had a wisp of sadness through it. Rory shook his head, embarrassed not just at what he had presented at his meeting, but about the way the town had regarded Hotel Grimm over the years. He had a heavy heart as Grimson led the way confidently through the dim corridors and back down the stairs to the front door.

“So there’s nothing else you think I ought to see in the hotel then?” asked Rory as they reached the exit.

“Not really,” said Grimson. “You did the rounds with Grog the other day, and you’ve already done some exploring outside if you’ve been to the graveyard. I think you’ve pretty much seen the lot. I suppose you should see the pavilion …”

“Is that the wreck of a place down on the rock ledge?” asked Rory.

“Yeah,” said Grimson. “It’s been in that state for as long as I can remember. Apparently, it used to be where the wealthy guests strolled down to for afternoon tea. It used to be all posh and full of tables covered in white cloths. There were fish tanks around the walls and sun loungers outside on the ledge. So you’ve seen that too. Well in that case …”

A great big smile crossed Grimson’s face. “I think you should take the easy way down the hill.”

“What, jump?” said Rory, still feeling sorry for himself.

“Next best thing,” said Grimson. “Take the cable car.”

Before Rory could think of an excuse to match the anxious thoughts that flooded into his head, Grimson was off. He opened
the hotel’s front door and began striding down the steps. Some crows flew off a tree as his loping figure approached at speed. “Come on,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll buzz Stobo and let him know it’s needed.”

“Don’t look so scared,” said Grimson as the cable car clanked into the station and came to a halt in front of them a few minutes later. “This will give you a chance to test out those telescopes I was telling you about. Who knows … it could be the beginning of your own artistic career!”

Rory couldn’t share the joke as he looked apprehensively at the cable car. Although he had seen it trundling away in the distance over the years without incident, the contraption was so linked to Hotel Grimm in his mind — and that of everyone else in Aberfintry — that no one would
ever
think of going in it.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” said Grimson, sensing his disquiet. “It’s not the death trap it’s cracked up to be. As long as you’ve got a good head for heights you’ll be just fine.”

“Do you know what, Rory …” Grimson continued, seeing that he was hanging back. “You need to stop believing your own marketing campaign. We are not as weird as everyone thinks, or as freaky as you were probably planning on promoting us to be.”

Rory didn’t know what to say in response. He took another look at the cable car. “I’d love to go in it,” he said.

“Nice one,” said Grimson, his face beaming in a way that Rory hadn’t seen before, as he strode over to the cable car station control desk, picked up a phone and waited briefly before speaking. “Hi, Stobo,” he said. “Passenger heading your way when you’re ready.” Putting the phone down, Grimson clattered open the door and stood aside to let Rory step in.

“See you again soon, no doubt,” said Grimson cheerily. “Have a nice trip!”

Rory watched as the door closed. As soon as it clicked shut he felt panic-stricken that he had made the wrong decision. The cable car
seemed dangerously flimsy and he was very aware of being alone. It was only Grimson’s smiling face on the other side of the glass that stopped him hammering on the door and wrenching on the handle to get out. He knew that anyone in the town would think he was out of his mind to risk his life in this way, but he had no more time to think about it as he watched Grimson push a large red button next to the phone. Seconds later the cable car moved smoothly away from the safety of the station.

Within seconds, the surface of Scrab Hill dropped away from below his feet and Rory was suspended in the metal and glass box making his way downhill. Looking to one side, he could see the graveyard where he had taken his wrong turning a week ago, the path down towards the ledge and the spot where he had sat to take in the view. Further below, Aberfintry sparkled in the sunshine like a picture with tiny moving pieces made up of people and cars and bikes. Rory remembered Grimson’s words and headed for one of two telescopes set on stands by the windows. Rory could see how an instrument like this would give Grimson the tool he needed to study people. The powerful telescope immediately picked out Lachlan Stagg’s statue so clearly that Rory could even make out features on the face.