Should Have Killed The Kid (5 page)

4.

Even through the sleeting rain that nearly obliterated his windshield, Dave saw that the Gallo's Hotel had made a few more promises on it's website than it actually delivered. As he pulled into the bog of the gravel car park, he even tried to convince himself that it was for the best that Naomi had chosen not to accompany him.

There would be fireworks,
he thought as he imagined the fuss she would have kicked up upon this scene being revealed. It only made him feel mildly better though and by the time he'd slithered the Tiida into rough alignment with the three utes already in place, the brief grin that had twitched at the corners of his lips quickly reverted back to the bemused sneer he'd worn for the majority of the seven hour car trip he'd just undertaken.

Her words that had pretty much run on a constant loop throughout the trip didn't really help at all.
You’re a fucking cunt. A fucking poisonous person.

And just like that, five years down the gurgler,
Dave thought and slammed the gear stick into park a little too hard then leant forward over the steering wheel, peering around through the rain smeared window. It was a masterpiece of double storey decrepitude that reared up before him. Dave shook his head at the boarded up windows and half-collapsed verandah that ringed the second floor; the cracked render of the walls – splotchy brown with large chunks missing, revealing the crumbling brick underneath. He snorted at the nearly fossilised outdoor furniture that was haphazardly scattered beneath what still stood of the verandah. Craning his neck up, he saw that the tin on the roof was not actually painted brown like his first glimpse had suggested. Instead the patches not coated in rust appeared as though they had once been a green colour.

No external shots on the website, Dave thought, should have been a tip-off.

The exterior certainly didn't reflect the sumptuous interiors that had been displayed there. But Dave had sort of been expecting that since he crossed over the Murray a good fifteen minutes ago and discovered that the hyperbolic promise of being right on the water's edge was horse shit. The blind turn off the highway into scrub, down the meandering little dirt road that had only been signed by a sheet of plywood tacked to a tree had done little to bolster his confidence. Nor had the one house he'd passed in a clearing midway through the dense stretch of forest; a ramshackle monstrosity of rotted boards and caved-in tin that he had been certain must be abandoned.

But as he'd passed through the stretch of forest he'd emerged on the other side to clearer land and a tarmac road and Dave had felt a flicker of faint hope. Clearly the area around him was in the process of being revamped. Across the road from the Gallo's Hotel twelve brick houses stood in varying states of completion. Their uniformity suggested some manner of estate was in the process of being constructed and, judging by the cleared land and stilled machinery that surrounded them, many more were in the offing.

Although that faint hope had been crushed the second he turned off into the boggy car park and seen that the hotel itself had more in keeping with the house in the forest.

But that's okay, I'm not here for its stunning looks, Dave thought as he slowly breathed in and out and then opened the door. The wind hit him like a knife, cutting straight through his jumper like it was made of mesh. The rain swiftly followed, angled perfectly to fall through the car door and saturate Dave before he even had a chance to clamber out.

As he struggled around to the boot to retrieve his duffle bag, he could almost hear the tone Naomi's voice took on when she was pissed. Don't you even watch the news, David? There's floods up that way at the moment. Why the hell would you book in for a holiday?

And that had been before the real kicker had been revealed.

A pub? A goddamn pub? That had been her reaction.

No, not a pub, a hotel. An old one. You like that kind of stuff, he'd replied.

I like old architecture, David. I do not like excuses for you to drink yourself stupid. She'd shredded that idea like tissue paper and then the fireworks had really started.

He slammed the Tiida's boot shut a little harder than he had to, then slung the duffle bag across his shoulder and trudged his way across the boggy ground to the relative shelter of the verandah.

Over the thrum of the rain on the tin roof the sound of hammering reached him interspersed with the occasional high pitched whine of a power tool from beyond the propped open flyscreen. As he slicked the excess rain from his hair and eyes, Dave saw what looked like a door that had been transformed into a ramp to bridge the step on the threshold. The white paint was scuffed and tracked with muddy footprints that suddenly left a sinking feeling in Dave's stomach.

Combined with the utes lined up out front and the general state of the building, Dave was starting to think that the marathon drive may have been a wasted one. Surely the place couldn't be in operation?

Though they did take a deposit. He remembered how excited he'd been plugging in his credit card number on the online form. How he'd sat there thinking he'd found the best of both worlds: the old building for Naomi and well, if necessary, he could still get in the odd quick pint.

He could only snort in derision now at how very wrong he'd been.

'Hello?' Dave leaned around the door and called as the hammering and power tools abruptly cut off but there was no response. It was the sort of situation he'd always hated. Although he knew it was ridiculous, he couldn't help feeling that he'd step right through the door and right into the path of a screaming tradesman. What the fuck are you doing?

Almost be easier to just head back to the car, Dave thought, at least until a fresh gust knifed even icier through his saturated clothes and he realised how dumb he was being. What? I'm going to throw away seventy bucks just 'cause I'm worried about coming off as a tool.

Dave let the bluster carry him over the threshold and crunched his way across plastic drop-sheets into a little doglegged alcove, slicking more water free from his hair.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping as he turned the corner and entered a completely different world.

One of stained wood, leather and immaculately polished floorboards. So divorced from the exterior that, for a moment, Dave stood gaping. He glanced back, wondering if he'd somehow stepped through a portal and been transported to a completely different location but the plastic drop-sheet nixed that idea. He shook his head.

 Why the hell would anyone put this much effort into the interior of such a dump?

'Hello?' Dave called again as he wiped his feet as best as he could before stepping off the plastic and heading toward the large, dark wood bar that ran the length of the far wall, backed by a mirror and wooden shelves that seemed to scream for lined up bottles.

The floor creaked slightly beneath his feet. Dave couldn't stop looking around. Every glance revealed new glories. Dave didn't have words for most of them. He jammed on the loop of opulence and the phrase "old-world craftsmanship". The only things breaking up the sheer perfection of the room were the boards covering the windows and the plastic drop-sheet that covered the door on the left hand side of the room, obscuring whatever lay deeper into the Hotel.

He kept moving slowly, still half-expecting someone to leap out and demand, 'What the fuck are you doing?'

A large pot belly stove burned away to the right of the bar, a neat stack of logs next to it. Initially that's what Dave headed for. But as he neared his eyes drifted to the gleaming metal taps that lined the bar instead. Go down a treat, he thought, as he picked out the badges topping them. Heineken, Goat's Head, Asahi. Beez Neez, Beck's and, of course, the obligatory Carlton. As he neared, Dave's appreciation grew at the selection. He could taste the first one going down and turned in a quick circle once he reached the bar, no longer quite so concerned about encountering someone. After the long drive, it'd be perfect, Dave thought, bang down one or two. Go have a shower and change out of these wet clothes, then settle in. He had a spare couple of hundred burning a hole in his wallet – originally allocated to a night of fine wining and dining for Naomi – and he was looking forward to not having her there watching him like a hawk. Always ready with a deflating, 'Are you sure you need that one?' or, 'Don't you think you've had enough?'

Not tonight, though. Tonight he was going to get smashed and he would not have to justify a single solitary pint.

'What the fuck would you know?' the words from over his shoulder snapped him out of his reverie.

Startled, he quickly took a step back from the bar so whoever it was wouldn't think he was up to any funny business and turned. He quickly saw that the words weren't directed at him though.

Over by the covered door, a balding, white haired man stood, holding the sheets open at a previously invisible seam while he shouted back into the other room. His thick accent confused Dave for a second; abruptly turning indecipherable until it dawned on him that the man had dropped into another language. He thought it sounded Italian and the expansive gestures the man was making with his free hand certainly conjured up the stereotype. Dave could faintly hear a much calmer mumbled reply but could not make out the words. Obviously it wasn't to the man's liking. He threw his hands in the air and barked, 'bah!' then let the curtain fall and spun around, eyes blazing, jaw clenched and working, the muscles rippling up down his stubble coated cheeks.

He looked like he was about to stalk out the front door until he saw Dave and abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.

'Ah.' The man blinked a few times, making his bushy white eyebrows dance then added, 'How's it going?' after a suitably awkward pause, during which the old guy peered back over his shoulder at the drop-sheet as though he was making sure there were no witnesses to the scene. 'What can I do you for?'

'I'm David Thomas.' Dave inwardly winced at how awkward the words came out. They sounded almost petulant to his ears, which didn't match the easy going tone he'd been going for at all.

Not that his words seemed to have any effect on the old geezer anyway. He was still staring at Dave like a stunned mullet and Dave could almost see the gears working away as the man tried to place the name.

'Are you...' Dave faltered briefly as he tried to remember the name from his email confirmation. '...Marcus? Or is he here? I booked in through the website.'

'Oh...' the old guy muttered. 'Oh!' more excitedly and Dave saw his eyes light up as something clicked into place.

'How's it going?' the man repeated, darting out a hand that pretty much forced one of Dave's own into a handshake. 'I'm Bruno. Weren't expecting you. Didn't you get my message?'

'No. No I did not,' Dave said slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach. After another pause during which Bruno stood scratching at the back of his head, Dave added, 'Is there some sort of problem?'

'Nah, mate, no problem... Just, you know, thought the old warning might scare you away. See, we weren't really expecting anyone to be booking in yet. Slight misunderstanding with my boy. That'd be the Marcus you were after.' Bruno followed up the sentence with a string of Italian which, although he had no idea what it meant, didn't strike him as being particularly complementary.

'Warning?' Dave prompted after the old guy lapsed into silence again, still scratching away at his skull.

'Yeah, you know about all this.' Bruno gestured around. 'We're not quite done yet.' He added in what Dave thought was one of the biggest understatements he'd heard in a good long while.

Although he was starting to find the situation awkwardly amusing, obviously that sentiment didn't translate to his facial expressions. Judging by Bruno's reaction, he must have looked pissed.

'But it's no issue if you want to stay. Two of the upstairs rooms are done if you just stay away from the balconies and, you know, don't mind the noise and all. And of course the discount I mentioned in my message still stands.' Bruno held up his hands in a gesture of placation.

'I–' Dave started.

'And don't be thinking it's unsafe or anything like that. As you can see the bar is done, building is structurally sound and we have the locals in here most afternoons. Only place around here they can get a brew. Probably have a riot on our hands if we shut it down.'

'I–'

'But that said don't think I'm twisting your arm or nothing. Never let that be said. That Bruno Gallo railroaded you.'

'I–'

'No skin off my nose either way, yeah.'

It didn't take Dave long to figure out which course of action he preferred. Given a choice of remaining in the building with alcohol and shelter – and at a healthy discount if Bruno's words were to be believed – or returning to the Tiida and the sleeting rain to search out another place to stay, Dave knew the option he'd be picking.

A third option, just heading home, occurred to him but that was not particularly appealing. He'd had enough driving for one day and besides, his holidays had been booked in advance at work and he'd been unable to swap them – he knew, because in the wake of Naomi's walking out, he'd tried. If he did return home it'd just be to mope around the flat all day, seeing Naomi in every familiar object.

And, of course, there was the point of the deposit he'd already paid.