Illicit Deception

Illicit Deception Part 1

Hello! My name is Robin Ashurst. I have been told that everyone has a story to tell. This is mine! Various twists of fate led me reluctantly, on a journey which my life in ways I could never have imagined. Ordinary people like me do not get involved in matters of state, political intrigue, or get immersed in the murky world of organised crime. I believed without question, all my history lessons at school, those documented accounts were true and accurate. I have now discovered that facts and individuals may not be as they appear. People can be deceived, details distorted by self -interest; it becomes harder to find the truth than to expose a lie. I am no author, so please bear with me. This is the true account of all events as they unfolded.

Generally, I felt that I had been a disappointment to my parents. I got a job in a local hotel in my teens and never really moved on. Then, in my twenties, I worked in pubs, clubs, and hotels all over the country, always at work when others were partying and missing out on, well something! Now at the age of thirty-three, I had nothing to show for all my efforts, and what bothered me more was that I didn't know anything else other than hotel and bar work, with its low pay and long unsociable hours. My relationships were as short-lived as my jobs, cool in my youth as I was fearful of commitment to people as well as places. I always got 'live in' positions, but what little I had earned over the years had been spent, never saving anything. Yet, on reflection, I was not unhappy with my lot. I've had some fun times along the way, with fellow revellers and hotel guests, who I met over the years.

You see, I really did and still do, love the world of hotels. My father had worked abroad through nearly all of my childhood. Visits to see him and holidays were spent in some of the best hotels in the world. They were decadent and luxurious places, where the elite indulged themselves. As a child, I treasured my hotel visits. No household chores, no homework, just excitement, and glamorous people. Fast approaching adolescence, hotels were where I had my notable and memorable experiences. My first kiss, my first alcoholic drink, the loss of my virginity, and so I grew up.

I had now ended up in a sixteen-room hotel on the south Devon coast. Having been built around the twenties, The Limes was constructed in a grand colonial style, symmetrical and enduring with wrought iron columns and a balanced array of glass windows. It was well-appointed with an eclectic variety of Edwardian furniture. Almost every room had a balcony with a sea view. Surrounded by landscaped gardens, the hotel was prominently situated on top of a cliff with the beach some fifty meters below. At night, the waves could be heard pounding the shingle. The ships sailed through the breakwater into the harbour at high tide, plying their trade, moving in and out of the china clay docks. It was always a hypnotic sight and took not only my attention but also guests who avidly watched the giant steel monsters manoeuvre into spaces that didn't appear large enough for their great structures and passing in between other pleasure vessels, tiny in comparison.

The hotel had been named The Limes, after being built on the site of an old lime kiln. But now, age and a lack of investment over the years had, unfortunately, given the place a rather threadbare and dishevelled feel, which meant that the once Edwardian grandeur of The Limes had de-generated to shabby and 'tired.' It would have been a nineteen bedroomed hotel if three of the rooms had been in a fit state to let out to guests, but roof repairs were long overdue.

I was called manager! What a joke! I was 'Jack of all trades. My duties included managing everything and not just the hotel services but catering and accommodation, loosely referred to, in my contract of employment. It ranged from general maintenance to front of house, bar work to emptying the bins. I even had to do some cooking when our hotel chef Jermaine, an idiosyncratic Frenchman, was indisposed due to an overindulgence of one of his country's finest liquid exports. Jermaine was a small delicate man, with a full head of long black hair, who could only be described as 'highly strung.' He had been employed in some of the top hotels in London and Paris. Jermaine was a true craftsman of his art, indeed, the finest chef in Devon, when he was sober, that is! The proprietor just tolerated his moods and unreliability, as it was good for his ego.

The owner was an enigmatic, red-headed authoritative figure with an accent that I assumed was South African. His name, Hansen Mulhenny, described the fellow so well. I understood that he had come here at the end of apartheid and, with some cash on his hip, had purchased two hotels in the West Country. Hansen then flitted between both. He was an easy man to work for but not an easy man to know. My boss certainly had a mysterious side and often disappeared for long periods. Once, he arrived with a female partner, but she lasted a month and then vanished. We presumed she had gone back to South Africa, never to be seen or heard from again. Hansen was easy to work for because he didn't worry if the hotel made a profit or not, only that it didn't make too much of a loss. My job was comfortable and easy because I was never under any pressure to increase turnover or reduce expenses. I was content to a degree, as it allowed me to live in such a beautiful part of the country and by the sea.

The Limes was kept going by regulars; these were not locals. We didn't have many of them, even as paying guests in the restaurant. The generations of old Devonian natives regarded The Limes as the place where people went who had more money than sense. The newer stream of incoming inhabitants, the ones who were seeking quiet retirement in their dotage years or wanted to get away from the city hustle and bustle types, considered The Limes as a tourist hotel. They generally gave us a wide berth and ranked us in the same tacky 'grockle' fashion as the caravan parks and amusement arcades on the pier. Somewhere not to be seen. Rarely then, did they cross our threshold. Apart from our summer visitors, we had a very strange mishmash of individuals from every continent. These people kept coming back, and I think many were Hansen's friends or certainly acquaintances. Often, they stayed for weeks at a time during the season or out of it. So, this was my situation on a very pleasant day in early April. The daffodils were out and the fresh smell of spring was in the air, which was early this year after a mild but wet winter. The warmth of the sun streaming into the hotel was a pleasure and lifted my spirits.

The bell went in the lobby, a rather grand name for a small space, all it accommodated was a reception desk, which was not big enough for two people to stand behind. I was bottling up in the bar. Unhurried, I sauntered over to see who was disturbing my morning duties. Today my mood was good, but I felt pressured as it was about ten o'clock. Breakfast had finished, all the checkouts had departed. I had been up since half past six to start work. Mr. Summers, who was posturing as an ardent beach walker, had been with us now for ten days, always greeted me on the dot at seven, the second that our breakfast service was supposed to start. Jermaine had been in the bar the previous evening, with some guests, so I hadn't closed before two. Now, I really wanted an hour or so in my room before my lunch shift. This had to be a pesky morning coffee order from ramblers. As if I didn't have enough to do!