Out of Time Read online

  He stopped in the cobbled street for a moment to get his bearings. The breeze blew against his face, and he could smell the sea on the air. Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he soon found a folded piece of paper containing the directions he had printed off from the Internet.

  Exit train station.

  Turn left on to Elwy Street.

  At the end of Elwy Street, turn right onto Wellington Road.

  Destination address is situated adjacent to Promenade.

  Seemed straight-forward enough. Having temporarily forgotten how chilly the British coast could be, he buttoned up his jacket and set off. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, he was standing outside the Sea Breeze hotel.

  It was bigger than he imagined. For some reason, he thought it would be a little quaint affair. But this place was huge. Set in a street of normal two-story terraced houses and flanked by an Indian restaurant and what looked like a derelict building, the hotel towered over him like some misplaced Gothic tower, five floors high.

  The mortar holding the bricks in place in the building next door was dark grey and crumbling so much that only an elaborate array of scaffolding appeared to be holding it together, and graffiti was daubed over the walls.

  TUPAC LIVES

  MONK IS A WANKER!

  CCFC KILL SCFC

  The stone-finished walls of the hotel were discoloured from the constant pounding of the elements, and he could see that some tiles had been lost from the overhanging roof. One of the ground floor windows was sporting a huge, unsightly crack running from corner to corner. The place would definitely benefit from some light renovation work, along with the premises next door.

  Before checking in, Joe crossed the road and stopped on the promenade for a few moments to gaze out across the churning sea. Angry white-topped waves crashed against the fortified sea wall, sending droplets of water flying through the air. He could taste the salt on his lips.

  Looking around, so far as he could tell the only other people in this dying town were an old lady walking an excitable little brown dog, and a couple of teenagers making out on a bench. They were getting splashed by the waves, but didn't seem to care. Evidently, they had other things on their minds. Joe watched as the boy tried to sneak a hand up inside the girl's red puffa jacket. But she caught him in the act and smartly swatted his hand away.

  'Get a room!' he felt like shouting, but restrained himself. The kids would probably stab him to death and steal his bags.

  Leaving the young lovers to it, Joe crossed the road again and walked up the short path that led to the hotel entrance.

  The door was big, old, and heavy. It had once been green, but now most of the paint had flaked off like dried skin exposing the sodden brown wood underneath. If it hadn’t been for the sign outside, he might have taken the building for a squat.

  Pulling down the door handle, he pushed hard. The door swung inward on creaking hinges into a small reception area. Inside was a scuffed brown sofa, a coffee table, and a large oak desk set against the far wall. On the desk sat a little brass bell. Joe walked up and rang it.

  Immediately, a door behind the desk opened and out stepped a plump little woman wearing a prissy white apron. Her greying hair was swept back in a bun, and she appeared to be in her mid-to-late fifties.

  The moment their eyes met, Joe was overcome by the strangest sensation. There was something vaguely familiar about her, though he was certain they'd never met. He had never even been to this town before.

  Weirder still, he got the impression that the woman felt the same way. There was the smallest flicker of recognition in her eyes. Then, it was gone.

  “What can I do you for?” the woman asked with practised politeness.

  “Oh, hello. My name is Joe Dawson. I believe I have a reservation.”

  “Oh, Mr. Dawson... Good, good...” she said. “We've been expecting you. One room, three nights, isn't it?”

  “Yes, that's right,” Joe replied. “Three nights, but the website I used said I have an extra one for free?”

  “Oh yes, that's fine. Doesn’t everyone love something for free?” she cackled. “And when would you prefer to pay, Mr. Dawson? Now or on departure?”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I'd like to pay the balance now. In cash. If I run up any additional expenses, I'll be happy to settle up when I check out.”

  “Of course.” The plump woman looked as if Christmas had come early. There must be a shortage of guests eager to pay cash at this time of year. Or any time of the year, come to that.

  Joe opened his wallet and counted out four crisp twenty-pound notes, then a ten, and laid the money on the desk. The woman snatched up the money from the desk and thrust it into the pocket of her apron. “If you'd like to follow me,” she said, “I'll show you to your room...”

  As she led Joe through a door and up a flight of stairs, she talked constantly, imparting an impressive list of rules and regulations. “Guests are prohibited from consuming food or alcoholic drinks in the rooms,” she was saying. “And there is absolutely, positively, no smoking. Anywhere. At any time. It’s against the law now, you see. Please respect the privacy of other guests at all times, and refrain from making too much noise. This includes playing music at high volume and having your telly too loud.

  “Also, try to remember that this is a family hotel, Mr. Dawson. So if you really must have... visitors... please be try to be discreet. Your room will be inspected on check-out, and you will be expected to reimburse the hotel for any breakages or damage incurred during your stay.”

  Not being much of a talker, Joe just listened. Unlike almost everyone else on the planet, it seemed, he believed that people should only talk when they had something relevant to say. When they could make a meaningful contribution. Otherwise, words were just white noise. The mistake most people made was that they used words like little toys.

  Words were anything but toys. At best they were tools, at worst they were weapons. Weapons that could kill and maim.

  Joe was still trying to process the swathes of information when, in the middle of a white-walled corridor on the second floor, the plump woman suddenly stopped and flung open a door. “Your room, Mr. Dawson...”

  A musty stench spewed forth from the open door. The room smelled like it hadn't been lived in for years, and maybe it hadn't.

  Regardless, Joe thanked the woman.

  With a little smile, she pressed a couple of cold metal keys into his open palm.

  No key cards in this establishment, then.

  And with that, she turned and scurried back down the corridor, humming to herself as she went.

  The sparse room could be described as 'functional' at best. The only furniture was a single bed pushed against a wall, a portable television set perched atop a battered chest of drawers, and a rickety little desk and chair which looked like they had been salvaged from a condemned school some time in the fifties.

  The 'no frills' approach suited Joe fine. He didn't need much in the way of entertainment or amenities. He'd done enough procrastinating over the past few weeks and was looking forward to getting into some work. All he really needed was a bed to sleep in, and a mains supply to plug his laptop into. An Internet connection would be a bonus, but not a necessity.

  Maybe he’d be able to get some work done in this place after all.

  Shrugging off his rucksack, he went to the window and opened it wide to let the fresh air in. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply as the sea breeze invaded the stale atmosphere.

  There was another door set into the far wall. On investigation, Joe found a tiny shower room with a basin and toilet. The room was barely big enough to house all three, but at least it was clean. There was a mirror above the sink and a towel rail, complete with two white towels, fixed to the back of the door. He nodded approvingly. It wasn't the Ritz, but for thirty-quid a night he really couldn't expect much more.

  Bill settled and bags stashed away, Joe decided to take a short walk. He locked the room door behind
him with one of the keys the plump woman had betrothed on him (he assumed the other fit the front door with the peeling green paint), and walked down the corridor toward the staircase at the end.

  There wasn't a soul in sight. Nor an audible sound, apart from his feet padding on the worn brown carpet. There were no snatches of conversation, no laughter or giggles, not even the sound of a television coming out of any of the rooms he passed. Even the reception area where he had checked in was empty again, the plump woman having probably retired to whatever comforts lay behind the closed door.

  The dormant juvenile delinquent in him wanted to hit the brass bell on the desk, just to see if he could make it to the door before the hotel Nazi materialized. But Joe suspected that whatever she was doing in that cosy little room of hers, she would be on her feet and out long before he could make a clean exit. Instinct told him the woman wouldn't see the funny side.

  Outside, the amorous young couple were still sitting on the bench. Evidently deciding to take a break from tongue tennis, the girl's head now rested on the boy's shoulder and they both stared out to sea as if hypnotised.

  Joe looked left down the promenade, then right. Despite the general lack of activity, he felt a small rush of excitement. There was nothing quite as like being a stranger in a strange place. Sometimes it was frustrating, not knowing where anything was. But giving yourself little challenges, often something as simple as seeking out a newspaper, was a sure-fire way of keeping the mind sharp and oiled.

  He didn't want to buy a newspaper today. It was already late afternoon. He would only be reading old news. Besides, the latest news and current events depressed the hell out of him. War, famine, crime, economic crisis.

  He decided on a walk along the seafront instead. It wasn't often he came face-to-face with the awesome spectacle of the sea, and he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

  The tide seemed to be receding. Soon, it would retreat enough for him to walk along the beach without fear of getting swept away by a rogue wave. He could look for pieces of driftwood, and think about Joshua Wyrdd. He already had the germ of an idea; for this adventure his hero was getting press ganged and put to work aboard a 17th Century galleon. There would be pirates and mutiny, treasure. Hell, he might even throw in a sea monster or two.

  Only at that moment did it occur to him that the subject matter of his latest book had largely dictated the location of his latest retreat. Obviously, it was physically impossible to get yourself press ganged and put to work on a 17th Century galleon in this day and age. In Britain, anyway. You should be so fucking lucky. But just being around the sea for a few days should be enough to stir his creativity.

  A good writer didn't just write. That would be too easy. Sometimes, you had to immerse yourself in something to get a real taste of it. Like a method actor preparing a career-defining role. At various points in Joe's career he had been employed in a warehouse, a soap factory, a swanky London eatery, a countryside trout farm, and a crooked used car dealership. Anything to penetrate the glossy veneer and get closer to the heart of a story. Obviously, he would never be able to fully capture the mindset of the people he wrote about. He would always be a transgressor, an undercover hack with a whole other identity, while the people he wrote about had no such luxury.

  Possibly his worst assignment thus far had been at a meat packing plant in Sunderland, where he worked the night shift for two months in order to pen a hard-hitting expose about illegal Eastern European immigrants. These people were recruited in Poland and Romania, given false paperwork, shipped over in cattle trucks, and set to work for less than two pounds an hour. They lived in houses the 'recruitment agency' rented for them, sometimes six or eight bodies to a room, in conditions unfit even for animals. That had been a real eye-opener.

  You can't just walk up to people on the street, tell them you are researching an article, and expect them to spill their guts to you.

  That won't wash.

  People are pre-programmed to be suspicious of journalists. Or anyone who asks a lot of questions, for that matter. They fall into the same not-to-be-trusted category as police, politicians and tax inspectors.

  To win their trust, you had to put the groundwork in. Get close to them, breathe the same air, suffer the same hardships. As an added bonus, on his investigative reporting stints Joe often picked up two pay checks. And he always made sure he was getting more than two quid an hour.

  This was non-fiction work. Mainly feature articles for consumer magazines and special interest sections of weekend newspapers. There was more of a market for non-fiction than fiction. It was also easier to write and paid better. You didn't need much of a creative spark. You just had to have a story, ideally backed up with some useful facts, quotes from reputable sources, and a few decent images. Then you simply tailored the writing to fit the demographic of the publication you were writing for. That was where the real skill lay. Being a chameleon.

  A lot of the more pretentious journalists might disagree, but to Joe non-fiction was an exact science. You can learn how to do it in school. But you had to have raw talent to be able to make it as a genuine writer of fiction, and talent was something you couldn't teach. You either had it or you didn’t.

  Most writers now survived on a diet of both fiction and non-fiction. Or at least a diet paid for by both. A lot of hacks were just frustrated authors who dreamed of becoming the next Dan Brown, but lacked the necessary skills and motivation.

  Like most writers, Joe worked to deadlines. But all deadlines really did was give you an excuse to waste time. You want the final draft of an article in ten days? Sure, no problem. That meant eight days holiday, and then a frantic 48-hour race against the clock. It wasn't laziness, exactly. It was just part of the game. The nature of the beast. Most writers delivered the copy on time. They had to, or else they wouldn't get paid.

  Joe's deadline for the third Joshua Wyrdd instalment was still months away, but was already beginning to loom large in his mind. Before long it would dominate everything, and then the paralysis would strike. He could not, would not let things get that far. Not this time. If he could get a few thousand words down, just a few key scenes, then he could stitch them together later.

  It was cloudy and blustery afternoon, and the sun was already beginning to sink as he walked into the wind, head down and hands thrust in pockets.

  To the casual observer, he must look looked like a man who was going somewhere, when in fact the opposite was true. He wandered aimlessly for an hour or so. He couldn't be sure exactly how long because he had stopped wearing a watch a long time ago. He hated being a slave to time.

  As he walked, he marvelled at how anyone could allow a place of such obvious natural beauty fall into such disrepair. The decay was like a disease, spreading through every building he saw and probably polluting the thoughts and actions of all the people who lived there.

  Since taking food back to his room was 'prohibited' by the plump hotel Nazi, he bought himself a fish supper from a seafront chip shop and ate it leaning against some rusty railings. The sea was calmer now, and in the distance he could make out the silhouettes of cargo ships. Ships passing in the night seldom speak to each other.

  Thanks, mum.

  It was dark when he returned to the Sea Breeze, which actually seemed to do the décor the world of good. You couldn't see the cracks in the walls or flaking paint in the dark.

  The moment he opened the door to his room and snapped on the light, he noticed something lying in the middle of the floor. Stooping to pick it up, he found it was a stubby black feather.

  Strange that he hadn't noticed it before. Maybe the maid had come into clean while he was out and the feather had fallen out of a pillow or something.

  On the face of it, the little black feather didn't seem important. Joe should have dismissed it and concentrated on more important things. Like his career. But he couldn't shake the nagging sensation that it was significant somehow. Or would be significant.

  Not knowing why, he plac
ed the feather carefully in one of the desk drawers, and still frowning, changed into a t-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. His working clothes. It was time to start his shift.

  Joe worked mainly at night. His usual routine was to get up around midday, eat brunch, read his email, surf the Internet, read, or watch television until late afternoon. Then he would take a shower, eat dinner, and realize with dawning horror that the day was mostly gone and he hadn't yet done anything constructive. Then, fuelled by fear, he would write feverishly until the early hours. He had even been known to write all the way through to morning, if he could hit his groove and maintain it.

  It was quieter at night. Less distractions. He constantly told himself that his working methods had nothing to do with the fact that there was nothing good on television at night.

  It was past eleven before he plugged in and turned on his laptop. His friend and nemesis, electronic harbinger of joy and sorrow.

  Faced with the daunting blank word document, Joe fought the fear that tried to rise within him and struggled to organize his thoughts into a coherent narrative. He thought about picking up on Special Project, it had been on his mind a lot lately, but decided against it. It was too much to think about right now.

  A good writer wormed his way inside people's heads, got to know what they were thinking, and knew his target audience inside out. It wasn't difficult to work out the demographic of the people who read the Joshua Wyrdd books. They were predominantly male, and in their early-to-mid teens. They were at that wonderful pubescent age where their whole life stretched out before them like a blank canvass waiting to be defaced. For them, anything was possible. They were curious, full of youthful zest, and a yearning for adventure.

  The little bastards were also the most difficult age group to write for.

  Most of them only cared about computer games and masturbation. The few that did read books, his audience, had to be enthralled, nurtured and teased in equal measures. It was a constant balancing act.