Off Flesh
Smashwords Edition
By Andy Frankham-Allen
Copyright 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen and Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright, and has granted permission to the publisher to enforce said copyright on their behalf.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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OFF FLESH
By Andy Frankham-Allen
Travel, they say, broadens the mind. It’s a truism if ever there was one. What they fail to tell you is that it can scare the living crap out of you, too. I travel a lot, visit a lot of places, stay at a lot of hotels. I’ve been to some crappy hotels, some really luxurious ones, too. But never been to one like The Cliff’s Edge in Torquay. It was a business meeting about selling outboard motors, pretty tedious stuff, really.
Things started going weird on the Saturday after we’d all arrived. The actual meetings weren’t to begin until Monday, which left us the whole weekend to pal around and get to know each other. You know, chill in the sauna the way half-naked men seem to like to do, play tennis in the convenient courts located beside the hotel, or just go for a stroll into the nearest little town.
After finishing breakfast, scrambled eggs on lightly buttered toast and a couple of glasses of milk, I came out of the dining room just in time to catch Mr. Wyndham entering the lobby. He was dressed in his tennis whites, so no prize for guessing where he’d been. Something of a fitness fanatic, really, which came as a bit of mystery to me seeing as he didn’t eat breakfast. Something told me that Mr. Wyndham, who had a few years on me, would not be around on this little world of ours for longer than I. Still, he seemed a nice enough chap. Like me he had arrived a few days early, so we had the chance to get to know each other a little bit more than the others. I still think of him as Mr. Wyndham, even though by Saturday morning we were already on first name terms. Mark of respect, I suppose. It’s “a thing,” as my niece would have said.
“Hey there, Sam,” I said to him.
“Alright, ----,” he said to me, with a wide smile, and after a failed attempt to juggle his tennis racket and bag gave up on the offering to shake my hand. I laughed and asked him if he fancied a meander into town later. We both shared an interest in antiques, and I’d noticed a little shop on the drive here. Mr. Wyndham said he’d be more than happy to accompany me once he’d had a shower. No problem, I could find something to occupy me while he was getting rid of all that manly sweat.
I watched him walk away, my eyes lingering on his pert ass beneath the white shorts, and only turned away when he entered the lift. I glanced around the lobby, hoping no one had noticed where my eyes had looked. Not that I’m in the closet or anything, it’s just there was something about him that I couldn’t resist. And yes, it’s true; I’m a married man. So sue me.
So, there I was, not much of anything to do except wait. Once I was certain no one was paying me any attention my eyes returned to the lift. Going up, of course. Mr. Wyndham was on the first floor, so I guessed he wouldn’t be too long. I turned away, intending to find something to occupy me, but before I could come up with anything even remotely interesting there was the ding of a bell and the sliding noise of metal on metal as the lift doors reopened. I turned around. Maybe Mr. Wyndham had left something in the courts.
It wasn’t him. A couple emerged from the lift, so caught up in their own world they were totally unaware of this casually dressed thirty-something man watching them. I suspect they were having an affair…only people in the midst of a clandestine affair would be so wrapped up in each other.
For a moment I was puzzled. Surely there had not been enough time for the lift to reach the first floor? I dismissed this. Not like I wasn’t in a world of my own for a while there. More time could certainly have passed than I realised.
Once again I turned away from the lift.
* * *
Time passed, as it is want to do. At first I wasn’t sure how much, since I got caught up in conversation with another hotel guest. It was a bizarre conversation, one in which I spent most of the time nodding and making the occasional agreeable sound, since I barely had a chance to get a word in. This guest, a young lady called Elisa, rambled on about the patterns in life. To be honest I had no idea what she was getting at, since all these patterns she saw were way beyond me. I sometimes think it takes a special person to discover the secret patterns of life, other times I just think these people are barking. Elisa was, I would say politely, totally out there.
Still, if nothing else, it helped me pass the time while I waited for Mr. Wyndham. Eventually, I managed to excuse myself, which I did by cunningly introducing her to the wonders of outboard motors. A topic guaranteed to bore the living crap out of anyone, except yours truly. There is only so much deep and meaningful conversation the mind can take before midday, and mine had a full quota already.
So, off she trotted and I returned to the lobby and to the total lack of Mr. Wyndham. I checked my watch. A whole hour had passed with change. I looked around, hoping that Mr. Wyndham was elsewhere in the lobby, perhaps in conversation with someone a little more interesting than Elisa. He wasn’t, which puzzled me, ’cause I honestly couldn’t believe he’d have passed me outside without saying a word. We had, after all, spent several hours talking the night before and seemed to be kindred spirits. What was I to do? First thing that came to mind was to see if he’d fallen asleep in his room. It made a certain sense; he could have been more tired from his tennis than he looked.
I walked up to the lift and pressed the call button. And waited. Chewing my lips, trying not to appear anxious or impatient, I watched the indicator above the lift as the light told me it had moved from floor four to floor three. Should be with me in a minute. Or not. Up to fifth, and top, floor. I raised an eyebrow. It stayed at five for a fair while. Finally the light went out again, signalling the lift’s descent.
I glanced around the lobby, hoping no one noticed that I was practically hopping from foot to foot like some schoolboy about to visit a friend he’d not seen in a long time. Or, perhaps, even visiting Santa.