The Wonderground

23 - The Pulverised Pigeon

Around the edge of the central space were more shops and restaurants, dotted in a ring under a covered walkway that circled the 'Eye'.

Jack spotted a weather beaten, broken sign that was hanging at an awkward angle over the piazza from a single rusted chain. The sign was swaying slightly from the movement of the elephant. It said 'HOTEL'. The six dragged themselves up the frayed, faded red carpet that forked like a dragon's tongue down the four stone steps from the less-than-welcoming entrance. A couple of them wiped their feet as they passed across the threshold. They need not have bothered. The lobby appeared as if the hotel had been abandoned years ago. The light that managed to break through the grime of the smeared windows offered a depressing picture through the swirling dust. The floor and walls were bare. Rags hung loosely from the window frames. At least three of the wooden steps were missing from the staircase that curled upwards to their left from a stagnant green puddle with insects skittering across the surface. And there was a goat! In the corner. Chewing on the arm of the only piece of furniture in sight. It smelled to Charlie like the dairy they had visited once on a biology field trip.

Seated at a woodworm-riddled desk within a small cubicle to their right was a small, impeccably dressed man in a three-piece suit with tails. His hair was lacquered and perfectly combed with an arrow-straight parting down one side. His head was down and he was writing in a large book that took up most of the desk. They stood and waited patiently for the man, but he did not lift his head. Amelia tried coughing politely. Isla took a tentative step forward.

"Excuse me," she offered. Her voice echoed throughout the sparse reception area. The man's left eyebrow twitched. He raised his spotless, white gloved hand and pressed it against Isla's nose in a stopping gesture. Isla dared not move and stopped breathing. She could hold it no longer and let out a huge sigh.

"Shush!" hissed the man. He was scribbling with a large iridescent green peacock feather quill that scratched onto a piece of yellowed parchment.

"This is worse than the Dorchester's tracksuit policy!" snorted Jack. "How many qizils did you say we have?" he asked Charlie loudly.

Understanding Jack's intention, Charlie responded with, "About forty I think," emphasising the value.

The man flung the feather over his left shoulder and his demeanour switched in an instant. "Welcome to the New Loxo hotel," he announced with a flourish. "How may I help you today?" simpered the receptionist baring all his bright white teeth in a practised smile. "I am Vratar, at your service."

"If this is the 'New' Loxo hotel, what was the state of the old one?" observed Rose as the goat trotted past them, its hooves clacking loudly on the uneven tiles, a piece of stuffing material hanging from one corner of its mouth.

"We need six rooms for one night please," said Amelia.

"Of course, young madam," sneered the receptionist. There was a large board with rows of rusty hooks behind the head of the receptionist. Most of the hooks had iron keys hanging from them. The man jumped up from his seat and hastily drew a moth-eaten curtain across the board.

"Let me check the ledger," he said, returning to his chair. He pulled an oversized leather-bound book onto the desk from the shelf behind him and flicked through the pages.

"It seems we are full," he said, looking unconvincingly crestfallen.

"What about all those keys?" asked Charlie, pointing at the curtain.

"That is the broken key area," replied Vratar with a deadpan expression. "Every key. Broken."

Charlie folded his arms in disbelief.

"We do have the honeymoon suite available," suggested the man, pretending to concentrate on the ledger.

"How big's the honeymoon suite?" asked Rose.