Grimm (4 page)

The Chronicle
had often looked for a comment from PC Malky Mackay whenever something awful had happened, but all they seemed to have got from the policeman was that the incidents were being looked into, or that there appeared to be no evidence of any wrongdoing. There certainly never seemed to be any police backing for the paper’s dislike of the place.

Having grown up with an understanding that Hotel Grimm’s sinister reputation made it a place to avoid, Rory now saw a pattern emerging that he had been unaware of before.
The Chronicle
seemed to suggest that there was a starting point for the hotel’s notoriety, which was linked to particular events.

Rory began to flick through pages to establish just what had happened all those years ago.

“We’re closing.” The voice cut into the weird world that he was reading about. Mrs Trinder-Kerr was standing behind him, arms crossed and nose scrunched as though a bad smell had lodged there.

As he stepped outside, he felt that he had more questions than answers. He sat at the base of the Lachlan Stagg statue that he had read about a few minutes before. Rory had walked past it countless times but never paid much attention, so it was with a fresh pair of eyes that he looked more closely at the figure. Cast in bronze, it was of a life-size, older man clad in a tweed suit with plus fours.
There was an intense look in his eyes and wild hair going in every direction. The statue was detailed enough that the top of its left ear even had a deep notch missing. With one hand raised and a pointing finger, the figure appeared poised for action, as though it had just had an idea and was about to leap down and carry on where the real Lachlan Stagg had left off. Rory noticed for the first time that there was an inscription carved into the concrete base.

Below this, a small plaque stated:

Rory glanced beyond the statue to the mural on the adjacent wall. Running for fully ten metres, it formed a giant map of Aberfintry, picking out some of the main features of the town; the High Street, the library, the school, the river, the park and the gallery with people sitting outside its café and the statue itself. It was full of life and colour with little matchstick figures in the streets and bright front doors on the houses. Rory remembered that
The Chronicle
had made a very public event of the mural’s creation, trying to unite everyone in a celebration of the town. They had even involved most of the classes in the primary and secondary schools in painting bits of it, but they had been very clear about one aspect. On either side of Scrab Hill the sky was bathed in blue, but the hilltop itself was covered with cloud obliterating any sign of Hotel Grimm.
The Chronicle
had been explicit that the hotel was not to be included. Rory couldn’t help but wonder
what it was in 1948 that had led to the need for Hotel Grimm to be hidden in the clouds.

A door shutting behind him broke his train of thought. Rory looked around to find Bonnie O’Donnell emerging from the library just ahead of Mrs Trinder-Kerr, who locked the door as she left. Out of the corner of his eye, Rory thought he saw Bonnie pause as if considering whether to come over and speak to him. Sensing this and not wanting his interest in Hotel Grimm to spark off any further problems, Rory looked away.

Back in the comfort of his bedroom, pulling the tab on a can of Zizz to cheer himself up Rory remembered that even though it hadn’t given him all the answers, he had now followed through the first stage of his plan by going to the library. Step two would involve a trip to Boglehole Road.

Rory put his key in the lock and his shoulder to the door of 47, Boglehole Road, thumping it open as he always did.

“It’s me,” he shouted as he pushed it closed again.

Hearing no response, he put his head round the first door on the left. The room was now a combination of living room, bedroom and kitchen since his Grandad had begun to struggle with the steep stairs of the house.

Today, as on most days, Grandad was in his favourite seat, his legs invisible beneath a tartan blanket and the pages of the newspaper scattered around. He was sound asleep.

Rory quite liked the idea of having everything in one room: comfy seat, TV, toaster, kettle, bed, snacks on hand and no need to ever move too far to do anything. He knew though that his Grandad hated the fact that he could no longer get to parts of his own house.

The room displayed much of Grandad’s life through a patchwork of framed photos: holiday pictures of Rory’s Gran who had died many years before; some of his Mum throughout her childhood; and one of Grandad at work in Aberfintry’s park, his bald head nut brown from days of summer gardening. The sleeping figure in the armchair now had the pasty look of someone who had not crossed the doorstep for some time.

By the window was the stand with his Grandad’s telescope, which the old man could no longer use because of his failing eyesight. Rory often spent time looking through it, but today the view towards Scrab Hill was only an unwelcome reminder of his imminent appointment.

Rory flopped on to the settee, frustrated that he would have to wait for any helpful conversation with Grandad. Boglehole Road had become a great place to come to if he had something on his mind, particularly as his mum and dad were so busy with their own activities.

“I might not have the legs to run a race any more but I’ve got two great lugs for listening,” Grandad would often say. In previous years, much of their time was spent in the workshop at the bottom of the path, where there was an old armchair in which Rory would sit as Grandad pottered away on cuttings or seeds for the garden. The armchair was pushed against a door, which Rory had only ever seen padlocked, and he had given up asking what was in there. “My wee hidey hole,” was as much explanation as his Grandad had ever given.

It was a good two or three years since Rory had been down to the workshop because Grandad was now inside the house and their activities had changed as a result.

“Right it’s whist this week. A great wee card game, but you’ll need to concentrate,” he’d say shuffling the pack with still-nimble fingers.

Recently, Rory’s efforts to teach his Grandad how to text had exasperated the old man.

“Would you not just be quicker talking to folk, Rory?” Rory thought it was funny that the man whose fingers could fly across the buttons and keys of an accordion and produce such fantastic music could fail to key in “Hi Rory it’s Gdad” to a mobile phone.

“That’s because I’m making proper music,” said Grandad defensively, “not setting off some daft ring tone.”

In recent times, Rory’s favourite thing to do at Boglehole Road was to look through the black metal box with the clasp and padlock, that Grandad called his “wee treasure chest.” No matter how often Rory looked in it, he always found something he hadn’t noticed before; a button from an army uniform, a rabbit’s foot, or a dog-eared sepia photo of Grandad in a suit on an ancient-looking bike.

“What’s this?” Rory would ask and within minutes he was transported to another time and place by stories of the past.

Today, however, was going to be one of the increasingly common days when Rory sat in silence and then slipped away unnoticed.

Looking for something to distract him, Rory reached over for a recent copy of
The Chronicle
sitting on the coffee table. The headline read “Sheep left cold by Grimm’s Hill.” The front-page article described farmer Angus Robb’s anger that his sheep grazing on Scrab Hill were
producing a low yield of wool. “You’d be lucky to get a balaclava out of each of them,” said the farmer. The paper concluded that “even the hill was now affected by the hotel’s presence.”

Rory sighed. With every story he read about Hotel Grimm he seemed to hear the clunk of another nail being driven into his own coffin. Inside the paper he found a special “Memorial Edition” supplement entitled “Lachlan Stagg. Aberfintry’s own Record Breaker. The Legacy lives on.”

Opening it up, Rory found a biography of the man, born and bred in Aberfintry, whose life had been dedicated to achieving as many world records as he could. By the time his record-breaking career was cut short, he had amassed a remarkable fifty-nine of them, one for every year of his life. “World records require imagination, creativity and discipline,” Stagg was quoted as saying. “It’s not just achieving them, it’s setting them at a level where you are likely to hold on to them.”

As Rory read on, he discovered that Stagg had begun early, gaining his first record at the age of eleven with a twenty-six foot tall house of cards. The picture of this was alongside others of Stagg in the act of claiming various records. There was one of Stagg emerging rather hot and considerably thinner about the face than usual, as the result of spending four consecutive, record-breaking weeks in a gas mask, and another with his arms aloft, bedecked with medals after winning the annual Scrab Hill Race for the sixth time in a row. This feat had never been equalled as the event was stopped for safety fears after a landslide narrowly missed competitors.
The Chronicle
claimed that the hotel’s subterranean work on a new wine cellar was to blame.

Rory read on about Lachlan Stagg’s knack of turning misfortune into achievement, best illustrated by the River Fintry fly-fishing competition, when a wayward cast led the hook on his line to whizz past his head and gouge a chunk out of his left ear. Ten minutes later, the unplanned-for bait ended up landing the biggest fish ever caught in the River Fintry.

Down one side of the page, were listed Stagg’s record-breaking collection of qualifications amassed throughout his life; lawyer, architect, pilot, plumber, chef, acupuncturist, judo master, Russian
teacher, ski instructor and tiger tamer to name but a few.

These skills often led to yet more records. For example, as a chef, when together with Ramsay Sandilands, a local cooking enthusiast, he created the largest pancake ever made. Stagg balanced an enormous pan on the roundabout in the local park and provided the whole town with breakfast.

As time went on, and Stagg’s list of achievements grew, he spotted the one record that he was keenest to achieve. He wanted to become the world record holder for the person with the most world records. But it was not to be.

Stagg even had a connection with Hotel Grimm, as the author of a book about the stonecarvings and gargoyles there, but it was this publication that was linked to his untimely demise. Following three nights of heavy rain, Stagg’s fishing gear was found by the side of the swollen River Fintry. His hat and one wader were discovered far downstream and, after much fruitless searching, the only conclusion was that Stagg had drowned in pursuit of one of his favourite pastimes. The fact that this tragic event had taken place on the day his book was launched was enough for people to believe that Hotel Grimm had robbed the town of its favourite son.

Another heart-warming story,
thought Rory casting the paper aside. Grandad grunted but failed to stir any further. Deciding that today was not the day to find wise words at Boglehole Road, Rory tiptoed out, leaving a note to say he had dropped in, but without mentioning his increasingly imminent appointment.

Trudging home and lost in his thoughts, Rory didn’t notice the bike pulling up beside him at first. “Boo,” said a voice gently beside him. Startled, Rory turned to find PC Mackay beside him. It hurt Rory’s neck to talk to Aberfintry’s police officer. At 6 feet 5 inches tall he towered above most things. Fortunately he often squatted down to chat, his long legs bending like a grasshopper’s to get low enough for a face to face conversation.

“You look a bit pre-occupied,” said Malky.

“Supppose so,” said Rory.

“Been to see your Grandad?” asked the policeman, now pushing his bike and taking a measured stride to fit in with Rory’s slow walk.

“Yeah, but he was snoozing so it was a wasted trip.”

“Aye, he seems to be sleeping more these days,” said Malky.

Rory said nothing prompting Malky to look at him. “You okay, Rory? You seem a bit low.”

“I was wanting to ask my Grandad about something but I timed it wrong.”

“Can I help?” asked Malky.

Rory thought for a second and then threw caution to the wind. “If you knew someone who was planning to go up to Hotel Grimm would you be concerned?”

Malky’s eyebrows raised momentarily. He nodded slowly and looked thoughtful. “Not if he had told someone he was going and when he expected to be back … and that he didn’t do anything daft when he was up there,” said Malky. “I know a lot of other people in this town would have a very different opinion, but that’s mine.”

“But what about its reputation?” asked Rory.

“You don’t get harmed by a reputation. You get harmed by dangerous people or by taking silly risks. There are none of the first up there, so tell your friend to avoid the second and they’ll be okay.”

Rory nodded. “This um … friend, was talking of going up there on Saturday morning for about three hours, I think.”

Malky gave a brief nod and then pointed left. “I have to go this way,” he said. “Good to see you again, Rory. Tell your friend to take care now,” he added looking back over his shoulder.

With a day to go, Rory found his thoughts taken up more and more with what Saturday morning might bring, so much so that he couldn’t face doing some of the things that were part of normal everyday life for him. The other lads looked a bit bemused as he turned down a game of playground football and took himself off.

“Come on, Rory …”

“Yeah what’s up, Zizz Boy?”

“Got some new prize-winning slogan on your mind?”

Instead, Rory found a quiet corner to sit and read some of the scribbled notes he had made from his shift in the library, which did little other than depress him and provide further anxiety about the weekend’s appointment. To make matters worse he opened his lunchbox to find that Momo had mistaken it for one of her craft containers. It was packed it with playdough, straws and tubes of glitter.

“I saw you in the library the other day.” Rory was interrupted from thoughts of his rumbling stomach. Bonnie O’Donnell was sitting in front of him having made her way over from her usual reading spot by the trees at the far side of the playground.

“Yeah, I saw you too,” said Rory, trying not to make it obvious that he was clutching his notes together to keep them hidden from view.

“Haven’t seen you in there before,” said Bonnie.

“No … probably not,” replied Rory, trying not to get drawn into anything.

“Reference books?” Bonnie asked with a half smile.

“Yeah … yeah, that’s right,” said Rory.

“I couldn’t help noticing
which
reference books you were after … and Mrs Trinder-Kerr confirmed it.”

Rory said nothing.

“Oh come on, Rory,” said Bonnie after a pause. “What were you doing checking out information on Hotel Grimm?”

Rory shrugged.

“People generally only take an interest in that place if they absolutely have to. I’m guessing you’re in that camp?”

Rory wanted to blurt out everything, but was too frightened even to hear himself say what he was getting into. He looked away from Bonnie into the distance at the other boys kicking a ball about. Beyond them there was the playground fence, a line of houses and then the stark silhouette of Scrab Hill and Hotel Grimm.

Rory said nothing.

“Fair enough,” she continued, “but if you ask me, that big archive of press cuttings is amazing, and if … just if … you happened to be taking an interest in the hotel, let me know.”

With that, Bonnie’s electric wheelchair buzzed into action. She
spun round and headed away.