Тим Леббон - New Fears 2 - Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

The hotel could have been any hotel on the resort, though Sherry had spent a great deal of time agonising over the choice in the brochure. A stucco complex edged with bougainvillea, it had the added bonus of a poolside crèche, so they could entrust the twins to someone else and still keep a watchful eye on proceedings. Eamon had initially cautioned against this arrangement, fearing that either the twins or Sherry would be distressed at being separated from one another though in such close proximity; far better out of sight, out of mind. But he knew that Sherry would never agree to hotel babysitters or to placing the children in a kidz club—the post-trendy spelling now as old and worn as many of the regular holiday guests who passed through the doors. It was a miracle they were even having a holiday with Sherry’s new-found maternal cautiousness, so it seemed wise to concede to all of her whims and preferences.

Sherry trailed behind Eamon and the twins with the rest of their suitcases, having opted to retrieve the remaining luggage from the underside of the coach rather than convey the children into the hotel. Eamon remembered a time when he did all the heavy lifting in their relationship; now the more arduous task was supervising the twins. He watched the children circle the foyer on their wheeled cases while he moved slowly along the check-in queue, their orbits getting wider and more energetic with each revolution. He ignored the tuts he could hear further back in the line, even when they threatened to collide with a baggage carrier. It was easy to observe them in this detached way, from this distance, as if they were nothing to do with him, moving excitably along their elliptical paths while he stayed rooted to one spot.

Eventually his eldest—by approximately fifteen minutes— Alex, came to settle at his side, screeching the sound of imaginary brakes so there was no doubt whose child he was. Annabelle, less accurate, bumped into her brother and sent him toppling. Sherry called them the Two As , a hangover from her time as a teacher, coupled with the iteration Top of the class whenever they did so much as smile, poo, or eat what was placed in front of them. Eamon had observed nothing in their brief lives that set them out as being particularly remarkable, save their ability to cry for protracted periods of time, which they started up in earnest now over their mini-collision. Eamon tried to appease them whilst handing over their passports to the receptionist, knowing it was part of their twin nature to goad and outdo each other in all things. Only when Sherry picked them up in turn was calm restored and Eamon fell back behind them, dragging their cases and bags as they headed towards their room.

It was not the kind of holiday he and Sherry had ever envisioned taking. They were the kind of people who went travelling, who were fundamentally opposed to the package holiday mentality and who avoided tourist locations. But since the twins had come along, many of the things he felt were defining to their identity as a couple were being slowly undermined. He thought of this almost always as a betrayal on Sherry’s part, though he had to admit, as he reclined on a sunlounger, beer in hand, that he hadn’t given a thought to the lack of historical hotspots they would be visiting, or the authentic Spanish cuisine they’d be forfeiting for burgers and full Englishes.

He was, in truth, relieved not to have to learn the local lingo or spend weeks researching the best restaurants and cultural sites to tick off from an array of guidebooks. Here, he was just one of the anonymous horde of English holidaymakers, pale and pasty or sunburnt and peeling depending on how far into their holiday they were, sporting beer bellies and football shirts with equal pride. Just once, he could allow himself permission to disappear into the stereotype.

Sherry smiled across at him, two pina coladas lined up on the plastic drinks tray while the Two As napped in the shade of a parasol. The hotel complex enhanced this feeling of concealment, the pool area having been built deep into the earth, the accommodation blocks clustered around the circumference giving the impression of a beautified council estate. Eamon imagined the process of digging the foundations, of excavating all that dry red earth to make way for fun pools and slides. It was like lying at the foot of an enormous amphitheatre, a cavernous tiered hollow, decorated with terracotta planters of bougainvillea and orange blossom.

At the summit of all this, on the uppermost balcony above the reception, he spied a solitary figure. He knew instinctively that it was the man he’d seen upon his arrival. He observed the bronzed man’s bleached hair, which contrasted so discernibly with his dark skin, both testament to a lifetime of sun-worship. Though his frame was diminutive and skeletal, he stood at the apex with such command and authority, like a prince surveying his kingdom.

Eamon found himself thinking about what the view would be like from up there and was reminded of the pictures he had seen in the holiday brochure. Parasols of coconut husk, clay-coloured orbs from such a height, encircled the pool, alongside neat rows of sunbeds arranged like seating at an auditorium. Eamon’s view of the complex in comparison was obscured by the poolside bar and the imitation waterfall which cascaded down from manmade boulders, severing the kids’ side of the pool from that of the adults’.

He wondered whether the bronzed man could hear the inane chitchat from the group of teenagers at the water’s edge or the shrieks of children as they splashed in the shallows. For a moment, Eamon was transported to the top, to the blissful quietude beside the bronzed man, away from the commotion and noise of the day to day and all the burdens and stresses at the very bottom.

He felt a prodding at his side and turned to see Sherry staring at him, her sunglasses pulled down against her nose. She nudged him again and pointed firmly toward the twins who had begun to stir in their pushchair. He stood at her silent bidding, creeping across the hot ground in the hope they might fall back asleep. But a chorus started up behind him as a group of children practised their cannonballs and the Two As burst into stuttering wails. He tried to glance up at the bronzed man as he rocked the pushchair, but the angles were all wrong and he was unable to see beyond the façade of the reception. From across the pool, he did see another man, however, a young father wearing a baseball cap, bouncing a gurgling baby on his knee, and he recognised a similar worn expression that spoke of sleep deprivation and regret. But the young man didn’t return his glance for he was looking up.

Eamon rose early the next morning and as quietly as possible gathered his swimming trunks and towel and snuck out of the hotel room and down to the pool. A brigade of hotel staff were lining up the sunbeds and opening parasols, one man kneeling studiously at the pool’s edge, taking samples. The water was an expanse of smooth, unbroken turquoise, the scent of citrus and chlorine mingled together in open invitation. It was too early for a swim really, the sun still low, the water not yet warmed, but Eamon wanted the pool all to himself, to not have to swim under the scrutiny of the bikini-clad teenagers who flirted at the water’s edge or weave between elderly women blindly backstroking their way along speculated trajectories. Eamon draped his towel over a sunlounger and waited for the hotel staff to disperse.

Even at such an early hour, the bronzed man was there. Eamon wondered if he was watching the sun rise between the mountains, but his line of sight seemed directed irrefutably down. Eamon took off his T-shirt and felt the warmth of the bronzed man’s gaze as he stepped into the tepid water.