A Day in the Life

[Darkleather]

I'm not sure if this is the right place to post this, so I apologise if it's in the wrong place.  This short story was inspired by a character from a trilogy written by a friend of mine.  It's only been seen by a couple of people, so I'd be keen to get some feedback on it.

A Day in the Life

04:12

Ken stood outside the back door of The Vestibule shivering in the pre-dawn chill and wishing he could understand anything that was being said to him.  His task was simple – go and collect the flour.  Msr Antoine Careme’s much praised bread required a special flour and the chef refused to use any other kind.  Ken knew that in less than 2 hours, guests would be expecting redolent, crispy shelled bread to be presented to them as part of their breakfast. All he had to do was get the flour.  He could see it, he could smell it, but between him and it was the seller.

At no more than three feet tall, the seller was not threatening – but something about him (Ken assumed it was male) exuded menace.  He was wearing a dirty brown hooded cloak that swept the floor and all that Ken could see inside the hood was a couple of pinpoints of light that he thought must be eyes.  The flour-seller chattered incoherently at him and waved a device at him that was made of a lattice of interconnecting tubes with a large funnel at one end.  Ken hoped vainly that it might be a musical instrument or some bizarre form of communication device – but the way that it was pointed at him led him to believe that it had some darker purpose.  Ken raised his hands to try and calm him down.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.  I just need to take the flour inside.”

The little man was clearly getting angry and his chitterings were reaching fever pitch.  Ken pulled a note from his pocket and carefully read out the series of syllables that had been written on it.  Rather than calming the creature down, this seemed to incense it and it jabbed the device at Ken’s stomach.  He stepped backwards and was brought up short by someone behind him – did the flour vendor have someone with him?  He spun around and saw a tall man dressed in an impeccable grey three-piece suit with a precisely knotted pink tie.  With relief, he recognised Mr Typhon. 

“Good morning, Kenneth.  Do I detect the whiff of a trade dispute?”

“Good morning, Mr Typhon.  I’m just trying to get the flour from this…” he looked behind him at the diminutive form.  “… man but he seems very angry and I’m not getting anywhere.

To his relief, Typhon smoothly stepped past him and began to address the little man in the same indecipherable language.  The little man calmed down as the emollient tones of Typhon enfolded him, and he tucked the device away inside his shabby robes.  Mr Typhon turned to face Ken.

“Kenneth, I believe the problem has been solved.  You may take the flour inside.” 

Ken picked up the first two trays and started to head inside.

“And Kenneth, may I suggest some language lessons.  It would appear you accidentally referred to this esteemed gentleman as the entrails of a shaggy elephantine desert dwelling quadruped.”  He paused.  “And that is bad.”

Ken tried to tug his forelock and nearly dropped the flour.  Instead, he gabbled a thank you and headed back inside.  With a sigh, Typhon took his brass pocket watch out, checked it and followed Ken inside as the flour seller scuttled off down the alley towards the road.

08:38

“Mr Typhon, Mr Typhon!”

The apprentice concierge shouted across the lobby, shattering the normal calm of The Vestibule.  “Would you excuse me for a moment?  I sense that Cecil wishes to speak with me.”  He turned away from the raven-haired beauty who was accompanied by seven men of reduced stature.

“Cecil.  I believe we have spoken before about this.  As you seem to need a reminder, let me say again that my hearing is without impediment and so there is no need for you to raise your voice above your normal pitch.”  Cecil gulped down his urge to speak and clamped his hands over his mouth.  Typhon waited until his face had gone a shade of red that was starting to clash with the carpet, before taking pity on him and said: “Proceed, Cecil.”

With a huge gasp, Cecil started breathing again and then passed on his message.

“She is coming, Mr Typhon.”

“She?”

Cecil nodded. “Yes, Mr Typhon. She.”

“You may need to be more specific, Cecil.  Do you mean H Rider Haggards eponymous She?  Perhaps you mean the queen from the second Alien film, although I believe she is referred to as a ‘bitch’ rather than ‘she’?  The woman referred to by Mr Elvis Costello in his song?  Or by Mr Charles Aznavour in his?  Are you perhaps referring to Selina Jen, Hebe Tien and Ella Chen?  Because I don’t think I need to remind you what transpired during their last visit to this establishment.”

Cecil looked momentarily confused – a state, Typhon mused that seemed to be entirely too natural for him.

“No Mr Typhon, I mean She.”

Typhon heard the peculiar stress that Cecil put on the word.

“Oh.”  He gave a gentle sigh.  “Cecil, prepare Her normal room.  Remove the lurking plants from Reception.  Inform Mr Armitage that he will need to work his magic with the thermostat.  And, Cecil, I have noticed some algae on the glass of the aquarium.  Deal with it, please”

Cecil gulped and paled slightly before rushing off.  Typhon put one hand to his forehead where he could feel the twitching of a stress headache beginning.  Beaming a welcome, he turned to greet the man that had just entered the lobby.  “Lord Lucan.  What a delight to see you again, Sir.  And what joy that this time you have remembered to clothe yourself before gracing us with your presence.”

13:12

“I asked for medium-rare and this steak is medium.  The wine is corked and my dates gazpacho soup is freezing cold.  What kind of a place is this?”

The harried Maitre D’ tried to decide which comment to deal with first.  The equally harried waiter who had been dealing with the table was doing his best to look invisible and sidle away from the situation. 

“If you will just allow me to explain, Sir, the gazpacho….”

“I told you, you cretin, that I wanted to speak to the manager.  Are you the manager?”

The normal background noise of the restaurant had stopped and the Maitre D’ knew that if he turned around, he would see everyone watching him.

“Well, Sir, I am responsible for…”

“Well?  WELL? No, I’m not bloody well!  I demand to see the manager!”

“I assure you, Sir, that there’s no need…”

The man stood up and with a dramatic flourish hurled his napkin onto his steak.  “The manager! NOW!” 

“Excuse me, but I could not help but feeling that someone wished to speak to me.”

The Maitre D’ gave a small sigh of relief as the familiar tones of Mr Typhon drifted over his shoulder.

“And who the hell are YOU?”

The quiet of the restaurant was broken by the tinkling smash of a glass dropped by Francois the wine waiter.  Apart from that, there was absolutely no sound as both patrons and staff looked on in shock. 
“The ‘hell I am’, is the manager, Sir.  You may call me Mr Typhon, should it so please you.”  Typhon turned and smiled at the rest of the room.  “It would certainly please me, Sir, if we could behave with some modicum of decorum as I believe you are currently disturbing the rest of my patrons.”

“Where the hell did you come from?”  The man was looking to and fro in confusion as he was sure Typhon had not been there a few seconds ago.

“Surely that matter is one for philosophers and religious leaders to debate, Sir.  While I would be delighted to engage with you in a conversation about the existential nature of being, I sense that there are more immediate concerns for us to deal with.”  As the man stared at him in confusion, he clarified. “I believe you have a problem with your meal.”

“Eh? Oh right, yes.”  Put off his stride, the man sat down and picked up his napkin.  He took a sip of the glass of wine in front of him, and turned back to Typhon.

“Yes.  This steak is incorrectly cooked.”

“I see, Sir.  We will remedy that at once.”  He turned to the waiter, who was failing in his attempts to become invisible.  “Replace Mr…”  He turned back to the irate diner.  “I’m sorry, Sir, but your name seems to have temporarily evaded me.  Unusual, as I have an excellent memory for our most respected guests.”

“Crowley.  Randall Crowley.”

“Of course.  I’m devastated to have forgotten it.  Stefan, replace Mr Crowleys’ T-bone steak.  Was there anything else?”

Crowley took another sip of wine as he tried to remember what he had been complaining about.

“Yes,” he exclaimed triumphantly as he took a further sip. “This wine is corked.”  He waved the half-empty glass at Typhon, blissfully unaware of the irony of the situation.

“Corked, Sir? A Chateau Cheval Blanc Saint-Emilion?  How terrible.  The monks will be devastated.”

Typhon raised one hand to Francois who poured a few drops of the rich, dark wine into a fresh glass and slipped it into the Managers’ expectant hand.  With the aplomb of a seasoned afficionado, he swirled the glass and studied the colour of the wine before sipping it.

“I believe I see the problem, Mr Crowley.  The wine itself is exactly as it should be, and has been properly decanted.  However, it suffers from having been paired incorrectly with your meal.  I am surprised that Francois made such a basic error.”

There was a small but outraged noise from Francois as he hovered behind Typhon.

“Actually, he did try to tell Randall, but Randall thought this one would be better.”

For the first time, the woman at the table spoke up.  She was unusually formally dressed for luncheon, wearing a sheer, black cocktail dress and with a perfectly white stole wrapped around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Miss….?”

“Scarlette.  Scarlette Femme.”  She extended her hand and Typhon brushed it with his lips before turning his attention back to Crowley.

“Mr Crowley, Francois should have insisted on his original choice.  As this is his fault, the bottle will not be charged for.  Is there anything else that requires my attention, Sir?”  Confident that the problem had been resolved, Typhon prepared to leave, bestowing a polite smile on the rest of the diners who were mostly pretending not to be watching. 

“What about the soup?”

Typhon turned back to the table, for the first time an inference of impatience entering his voice.

“Stefan, please take Mr Crowleys soup and have it heated and served piping hot for him.”  Crowley smirked at the waiter and Maitre D’ when diners at the nearby tables began to laugh, not realizing their mirth was directed at him and not the restaurants staff. 

“Good day, Sir, to you and your … companion.”  Typhon turned away and bent to whisper in Scarlette’s ear. 

“You are always welcome here, Miss Gwyn, but Mr Crowley will no longer be able to find The Vestibule.  I do hope that your rates are as obscenely padded as usual.”
With a smile, he turned to go just as Cecil rushed into the dining room and started to wave a mobile phone at him. 

13:20

“This is Typhon.”
….
“Ah, hello Sir.  Will you be gracing us with your presence today?”
….
“No? How unfortunate.”
….
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Sir, that the privacy of our customers is very important to us.”
….
“Yes, I understand, Sir.”
….
….
….
“I appreciate that what is foretold is going to hurt, Sir, but I believe that is the nature of sacrifice.”
….
“Even so, I will not allow you access to Her room.”
….
“I will confirm that She is going to be a guest and therefore under the normal protections.”
….
….
“I can accommodate that, Sir.  Four you say?”
….
“Exactly how large a wardrobe are we discussing, Sir?”

13:30

“So, Katherine, you wish to take up employment as a maid?”

The girl was clearly not listening as she was staring at the huge aquarium that Mr Typhon was sat in front of.  She had been mesmerised by the aquatic scene since entering the room.  The occupants of the aquarium found her equally fascinating and a trio of cuttlefish was currently floating behind Typhon’s head as though they too were interviewing her.

“Katherine?”

She dragged herself back to the man that was interviewing her.

“Kate.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kate.  I prefer Kate.”

“Oh.  How delightfully informal.  So … Kate … what experience do you have?”

Kate reached into her pocket for the creased CV that her Business Studies teacher had helped her put together.  As she handed it across, she saw a spray of bubbles inside the tank as a man in a wet suit dived in.  Fascinated, she watched him pull out a sponge and a scraper and start to work at a small patch of algae on the glass.

She became aware that the room had fallen silent.

“Sorry?”

“I said, Kath … excuse me, Kate… that you seem to have had a lot of involvement in School Clubs.  Do you consider yourself a team player?"

“Yes, I…”  Kate started to talk about her favourite clubs.  As she did, her eyes swung away from Mr Typhon to where the diver was working away.  He looked up and winked at her as Mr Typhon gave a gentle cough.

“So what made you consider work as a maid ….. Kate.”

“I really wanted to work with animals, but …”  Kate began to rattle off her well-rehearsed speech, her eyes widening slightly as a huge, warty, green suckered tentacle slid out from behind a rock and twined itself around the diver.

“The remuneration we offer is reasonable and there are numerous additional benefits to be gained from working for The Vestibule..”

The diver was struggling, his sponge and scraper falling to the floor of the aquarium.  He desperately swam for the surface, but the tentacle tightened and pulled him towards the darkness at the back of the aquarium.  The cuttlefish had stopped watching Kate and were now following the struggle with interest.  As they flashed different colours at each other, they looked to Kate like gamblers that she had seen at a boxing match. 

“ .. you will find that you are exposed to all sorts of new experiences …”

The diver grabbed at the tip of the tentacle and tried to unwrap it, but it was too strong.  Instead, the prehensile tip reached up and whisked his re-breather out of his mouth.

“ … at times it will be challenging…”

The diver bit down on the end of the tentacle.  Kate expected a spurt of blood, but its’ skin was clearly too thick for his teeth to do any damage.

“ … but the rewards will set you up for life..”

The tentacle responded by slipping around the divers’ throat and he struggled harder.

“Excuse me, but is he alright?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The diver.  I think it’s killing him.”  The diver was slowly being pulled out of view.

Without turning around, Typhon replied.  “Cecil?  I’m sure he’s fine.  Now, Kate, are you interested in the job?”

Eyes wide and somewhat disturbed by the scene before her, Kate replied “May I think about it?”

“Of course.  If you speak to Tina at the desk, she will take your contact details.”

Typhon escorted Kate to the door and was about to close it behind her, when Kate turned and looked up at the taller man.  “I’ve thought about it.  I am interested in the job.”  Typhon smiled down at her.  “Excellent.  Then we will speak again soon.”  He nodded at Tina who was waiting just outside and closed the door before returning to take his seat at his desk.  He picked up his Montblanc fountain pen and began to write.  Behind him, Cecil was being dragged out of view.  Typhon leant backwards and tapped sharply twice on the glass.  The tentacle immediately released Cecil and disappeared out of view.  Cecil grabbed the re-breather and gulped in some air before heading for the top of the tank.

“Cecil.”

Cecil paused, treading water as he looked at Mr Typhons back.

“I believe you missed a bit.”

Cecil sighed and swam back down to collect the sponge and finish the job.

15:00

Bob peered into the junction box in front of him, his torch held in his teeth and tried to work out which of the wires was connected to the air conditioning for Suite 351.  He cursed softly as he took a step backwards and felt water seep into his boot through a hole that he swore had not been there at the start of the day.  Normally, he had no issues with his job at The Vestibule, but this particular task had required him to go into the tunnels underneath the hotel.  Unlit, and reminding him of an old Patrick Troughton episode of Dr Who, Bob had the creeps from the moment he got down here.  Luckily, he had been warned by Tina and had sketched out a map rather than relying on his phone – the signal to which had cut out almost as soon as he got down here.

Bob froze as he heard a skittering sound behind him.  He had heard it several times now and was sure it was probably a rat.  Or maybe more than one.  Maybe it started off as one rat, which had spotted Bob and gone off to get his friends.  And now the whole swarm was lurking on the walls and ceiling behind him, just waiting for him to turn around.  Bob swore to himself and tried to focus on the wires in front of him.  He knew he shouldn’t have watched Willard last night.

Bob gave a grunt as he moved a bunch of wires aside and saw the faded list of suite numbers taped to the back of the box.  He couldn’t make out the numbers, so leant closer to try and make them out.  As he did, he felt something run over his foot and he jumped, banging his head on the door to the junction box and dropping the torch.

He had watched enough horror films to expect the torch to go out.  Luckily, he was not operating under the rules of a Hollywood script-writer and so the torch stayed on and he gingerly picked it up from the mucky puddle it had rolled into.  As he did, he caught a glimpse of a dark-furred creature scurrying away.  Fuck!  It was a rat – and a big one.  The sooner he could get out of here, the better.

Bob went back to the junction box.  By using his torch along with the light on his phone, he was able to get a better look at the numbers – but they were water damaged and it was definitely one of two – one with a blue wire, the other with a red wire.  Bob started to trace them back, and then jumped as he heard a whisper from the darkness.  He shone the torch in that direction, but there was no-one there although he caught the gleam of a pair of animal eyes reflecting the torchlight back at him.

He went back to his work, but the wires were so tangled that it was impossible to work out which suite they were for.  His job was made worse by the whispering and scrabbling, which continued and seemed to be getting louder.

Bob could feel drops of sweat sliding down his face despite the cold air.  This was a relatively simple job and all he had to do was reverse the polarity – the only problem was which wire to cut: the red one or the blue one?  As he dithered, the whispering got closer and closer, louder and louder.  Bob determinedly did not turn round, sure that the sound was in his imagination, despite the fact that he could almost make out words.  Red? Blue? Red? Blue? He still couldn’t decide, and had to blink to get the sweat out of his eyes.  The whispering increased in intensity and Bob was sure that if he turned around, he would see some hunched form lurching towards him.

He blinked again, the wires swimming in and out of focus.  He decided to cut the blue wire and raised the clippers to do it.  As he did so, there was a splash behind him and a weight descended onto his right shoulder.  Bob let out a shriek and jumped to one side, his feet slipped out from under him and he crashed to the ground in the noisome water.  Expecting some shambling zombie, he raised the torch and saw … a pair of green wellington boots.  As he panned upwards, he could see an immaculate suit that seemed to be a pale peach in colour and finally, he saw the face of Mr Typhon who was extending a hand towards him.

“My apologies, Robert, if I’d realised how nervous you were I would have announced my presence rather than putting my hand on your shoulder.”

“Oh, that’s … that’s ok, Mr Typhon.”  Bob could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he accepted the help to stand up. 

“Do I take it, Robert, that the air conditioning situation is being resolved?”

Bob stepped back to the junction box.  “Not quite, Mr Typhon.  I’m not sure which of these wires is the correct one to cut.”

Mr Typhon raised an eyebrow.  “I’m no expert, Robert, but I believe it is the red one.”  He paused.  “It is always the red one.”

Bob nodded and with a confidence he did not feel, cut the red wire.  “Right, I’ll head back upstairs, Mr Typhon.  We’ll have that suite sorted out in plenty of time.”

He packed up his tools and started down the tunnel.  Then a thought crossed his mind, “Were you whispering just now, Mr Typhon?”

“Whispering, Robert?”

“Yes, Sir, whispering.”

"I’m not in the habit of whispering, Robert – unless I am also lurking which I assure you I am not doing.”

“Oh, OK.”  Bob turned to go.  As he did the light swept across Mr Typhon and Bob could swear that his right hand was holding a large rat by the scruff of the neck.  Disconcertingly, the rat seemed to have a human face.  Bob moved the light back, but Typhons hands were empty.

“Is there a problem, Robert, or do you enjoy shining your light in my face?”

“No.  No, sorry Mr Typhon.”

Bob headed back to the more cheerful corridors of the hotel.  Mr Typhon, sighed as he watched the light disappear and then looked down at the creature gripped securely in his hand. “I shall have to ask Ms Mason to take better care of her pets.”

16:30

“And then he said ‘I believe you missed a bit’.”

Cecil’s story was treated with a ripple of laughter from the other people in the staff room.  All were enjoying a break and had been provided with sandwiches and coffee from kitchen of the over-worked Msr Antoine Careme.  The room was small and provided an oasis of peace for the otherwise busy staff.  Cecil took a sip of his coffee and took a bite of pain de seigle before leaning back on the rear legs of his chair.  Tina was sat at the other end of the table and was engrossed with a whetstone, a chamois cloth and some oil as she set about smoothing an invisible nick out of the edge of what seemed to Cecil to be an unfeasibly large sword.
Cecil had been the last to recount his story in what had become a ritual shared by the five.  They would spend their afternoon break recounting what had happened to them since they last met.  Bob was ruefully looking at his boot that had a tear in the leather upper – along with what looked suspiciously like tooth marks.  Ken had told the shortest tale – he was engrossed in a book of grammar for a language that Cecil was far from familiar with.  Stefan, meanwhile, was reviewing the Specials Menu for the evening and trying to work out what wine to pair with Escargots avec quatre textures de Marmite.

The others seemed content to sit in their own worlds for the moment, but Cecil had a question he was dying to ask.

“Tell me, how does he do it?”

The others exchanged a look and the men deferred to Tina as the most experienced staff member.  She carefully put the sword down on the table (Cecil could swear he heard the table creak with the weight) and replied “How does who do what?”

Her tone made it clear that Cecil was straying into dangerous territory, but he blithely continued.

“Mr Typhon.  How does he always know when there’s a problem?”

Tina went to reply, but instead picked up her sword again and continued to polish it.  The silence grew, until Ken – without looking up from his book – spoke.

“I think he’s psychic.”

Ken’s statement seemed to be like a dam breaking and Bob and Ken quickly joined in.

“I think he’s a time-traveller.”
“Alien visitor.”
“Secret CCTV cameras.”
“Just lucky.”
“He uses the same chips that Microsoft uses to track people.”
“I saw a magician do something similar once…oh, what was that film…”

“Wait, wait. I know how he does it!”  Cecil exclaimed.  To his surprise, the others seemed disinterested and all looked away, as if finding other things suddenly fascinating.  Cecil went to ask what was wrong, but before he could, a voice came from behind him.

“Please, Cecil, bestow on us your pearls of wisdom.  Exactly how do I, in your opinion, do it?”

Cecil gulped and stood up, unconsciously re-tightening his tie.

“Mr Typhon, I didn’t … I mean … no offence meant … I only ..”

Typhon raised one hand and smiled at Cecil.  “Cecil, as you will learn – should you survive your apprenticeship – there are many secrets in The Vestibule.  Some will be vouchsafed to you; others will remain secret.  Even I do not know all of the secrets of The Vestibule, Cecil.  For instance, I am at a loss to explain why the lurking plants in Reception are still in place, when I am positive I gave you clear instructions about them.”
Cecil mumbled an apology and left the room.  Ken, Stefan and Bob started to make their own excuses too. 

“Robert, if you speak to Mrs Henshaw she will arrange for replacement boots to be supplied to you.  I will also speak to Mr Armitage about a more ... convenient method for adjusting the air conditioning in future.”
Typhon pulled his pocket watch out.  “I believe that the calls on our time are many and various.  I will undoubtedly see you all later.”

Ken and Rob both let out huge exhalations, unaware that they had been holding their breath since Typhon turned up.  Tina chuckled.  As he walked past Tina, Ken muttered to her:

“How does he do it, Tina?  He hasn’t got us under surveillance, has he?”

Tina stood and started sliding the sword into a well-worn scabbard.

“I couldn’t possibly say.”  She paused and looked at the two men.  “But it would certainly explain a great many things.”  With a cryptic smile, she left the room closely followed by the two men, who stood for a moment in shock and then hurriedly followed.

The room fell silent, its’ light seeming to dim slightly.  Typhon stepped out of the shadows and neatly plucked a piece of pain de seigle from the central plate.  His navy-blue suit was so dark that it almost looked as though it was made of shadows.  He chewed the bread.

“Ah, Msr Careme, you have outdone yourself.”  He looked towards the door that the staff had left through and, after taking another mouthful of bread, stepped towards a painting of the exterior of The Vestibule, and vanished from the room.

17:30

Cecil gasped as he lugged another plant out of Reception and into the staff lift.  He’d moved 5 of the damned things so far and had spent a lot of his time cursing Dean and his broken leg.  He’d noticed as well that the other staff were conspicuous by their absence.  When he returned to Reception, there was no-one else to be seen.  There were still several plants, but Cecil had moved them all to be closer to the wall – surely Typhon would be satisfied with that?

He went over behind the desk and sagged into Tina’s chair.  Experimentally, he touched the keyboard to see if her computer was unlocked, but she was too experienced to leave it that way.  Cecil decided to take a quick breather before moving on to his next task.  He leant back in the chair, staring at the ceiling and exhaled deeply.  As he did, his breath formed a cloud in the air above him.  In fact, the room was getting decidedly chilly.
Cecil looked across to the revolving doors.  Snakes of ice and frost were blooming up the walls surrounding the doors.  Ice crystals were rapidly forming on the door and as he watched, the frost spread across the floor.  As the wave of cold reached the plants, they stiffened as they were frozen solid and the smaller leaves withered and fell off.  Cecil groaned – Mr Typhon would not be pleased.

The doors were now tightly sealed shut with ice and icicles were hanging from the ceiling.  The door seemed to be trying to revolve and Cecil could hear the ice groaning and creaking until with a loud CRACK it gave way in an explosion of mist and snow.  Cecil looked away as fragments of ice pattered around him and when he looked back a woman was stood just inside the doors.  The word “woman” did not begin to describe her.  Her face was white – not pale, but completely white - with her lips only a very pale shade of red.  Her eyes were a searing blue and her hair was a cascade of white that shimmered as she moved her head.  Her entire form was clad in a voluminous white and grey hooded fur coat that swept the floor as she stepped forwards.  This did an excellent job of hiding her form from Cecil – all that he could ascertain was that she was hugely tall: she must have been at least 7ft tall.   Her height was enhanced by a crown that seemed to have been made of ice and extended nearly 2 feet above her.  As she walked towards the reception desk, the tip of the ice spikes ran across the ceiling of the reception area, leaving a furrow behind it.

“Oh damn, that’ll be a bitch for me to sort out”, thought Cecil as the statuesque woman approached him.  Cecil knew that he would need help and pressed the assistance button under the desk.  When nothing happened, he looked down to see that it, and the desk, was covered in ice and it was locked in place.

She stood in front of the desk, clearly unused to being kept waiting.  Cecil tried to speak, but the intense cold stopped anything but a pathetic croak coming out. 

She looked down, and finally spoke.

“I am expected.  I will have my normal suite.”

Cecil finally managed to speak and his training came back to him, as through chattering teeth he said “Of…of….of …. c.c.c.course.  W..welcome to the V..the V…Vestibule”  He turned towards the computer, before remembering it was locked.  “I’m, s-s-s..sorry, but can you s..sign the r..register, please.”

He opened the register with a struggle, the ice only releasing its’ death grip on it after a fight.  He handed over a pen, wincing at the intense cold as her hand touched his.  She bent to write in the book, but the pen did nothing but leave a faint indentation on the paper – the ink had frozen solid.

She looked at Cecil properly for the first time.  “I am unused to delays, lackey.  Though, you are not without charms.”  She leaned forward and cupped Cecil’s face with her hand.  He felt lancing pain as the cold chilled his fillings, followed by a lassitude that numbed his body and filled his mind with a piercing white chill.  She seemed unaware of this and examined his face closely.  “Yes, perhaps you would like to join us.”  She moved a fold of her fur gown aside to reveal a young boy huddled inside.  Cecil tried to shake his head, instead the thought of being wrapped in that cold embrace was all he ever desired.

“Excuse me, Madam, but I must ask you to unhand my staff member.”

The woman whirled to see who was speaking and took a step back in shock as she found herself face to face with Mr Typhon.  She was used to towering over people, but somehow the man in the immaculate black suit was the same height as her.  She looked down to see that he was standing on a small step ladder.  Other men would have looked ridiculous but somehow, he managed to maintain his gravitas.

“I repeat, please unhand Cecil at once.”

There was a particular stress in those last words that implied a threat which was not mirrored in Typhons smiling face.  She hid the child in her robes again and removed her hand from Cecil’s face.  He gasped with shock as the full impact of the cold hit him again.

“Typhon, I want my suite.  This lackey was delaying me.”

“This…lackey, as you put it, was ..”  Typhon paused and looked at Cecil.  “One moment, if you please.”  Typhon stepped down, and pulled a thick parka out of a cupboard.  Handing it to Cecil, he then returned to his step-ladder.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes.  Cecil was attempting to perform his job.  As you are aware, the owners require all guests to sign in as this commits them to certain … politenesses while the guests are here.”

“Which I was ready to do, but the idiot gave me this.”  She waved the offending pen in front of him which now resembled little more than a fish finger that had been left at the back of the freezer.

“Indeed.  Which is why I have brought this.”

Typhon reached into his pocket and handed her a pencil.  A rare smile graced her face and she bent to sign the hotel register.

“You know, Typhon, there is always room in my robes for you.”

Typhon raised one eyebrow.

“A most tempting offer, I’m sure, Madam.  However, I fear that fraternisation with guests is clearly against the policies of The Vestibule.  Now, let me get Robert to help you with your luggage.”

Bob came into view swaddled in multiple layers of clothing and picked up the valises that had appeared when she did.  He led her to the lift and she left the room.

Typhon gracefully descended from the step ladder and walked over to Cecil who was still shivering.  He pulled out a hip flask, poured a generous measure into the lid and offered it to Cecil.  As Cecil gratefully accepted, Typhon looked around the reception at the ruined plants and sighed.

“Cecil, next time I ask for the lurking plants to be removed, please ensure my wishes are carried out.  Please contact Mr Wyndham and ask for replacements to be delivered.”

With the step ladder tucked under one arm, he stepped towards his office.  He paused and turned, “Cecil.  On the whole, you have done well today.  You may have a future with us.”

03:00

In a room that no staff member had entered, a blazing fire warmed the room.  On a table in front of it, four brandy glasses sat in warmers, the redolent aroma of the spirit filling the room.  A well stuffed sofa and two chairs flanked the table.  Only one was occupied – by Mr Typhon.

Typhon leant across and lifted one of the glasses, sniffed deeply and took a sip.  He sighed with pleasure as the rich alcohol tickled his throat on the way down.  Had his staff seen him, they would have been shocked as his tie hung slightly loose around his neck.

He looked up as a man in a grey suit entered and took the other chair, before lifting a glass of brandy.  Typhon nodded to the newcomer, who nodded back.  The second man leant forward towards the fire, one hand held out towards it as if trying to grab a flame for warmth.  From where Typhon sat, he was backlit and the two men could have been twins.

Neither man spoke, just sipped brandy and watched the fire in a spirit of companionship.  Neither looked up when the door opened again and two other men came in – one wearing a peach suit, the other navy-blue.  They took their seats on the sofa and, like the other two men, gratefully sipped the brandy.

Anyone looking at the quartet would only be able to tell the difference between them by looking at the colour of the suit that they were wearing.  The four Mr Typhons were identical.

“Gentlemen, time as ever is pressing and these little meetings of ours have to be brief.”

The four men started to talk through the events of the day.  As they recounted the stories, at various points they all laughed, rich booming laughs that bounced off the walls, echoed around the room and somehow made the room even warmer. 

They spoke about the staff, the Vestibule, the guests, the ongoing conflict in London.  Their glasses were refilled and pastries from the magical ovens of Msr Careme appeared, and then were consumed.

Finally, the Typhon in the peach suit stood up, straightened his tie and spoke.

“Gentlemen, I believe that is our business concluded for the night.”  All four men nodded.  “And, if I am not mistaken, our respite is about to be concluded also.”

A hammering on the door was followed by Cecils voice outside.  “Mr Typhon!  Mr Typhon.  There are four extremely well-mannered children here who claim to have a room booked by their Uncle Leo.  Mr Typhon?”

The Typhon in the peach suit turned to the others.  “As we feared, an allegorical representation of a deity knows little of the ways of subtlety.  Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Mr Typhon stepped through the door, quickly closing it behind him.  The other men could hear him speaking: “Cecil.  I believe we have spoken before about this.  As you seem to need a reminder, let me say again that my hearing…”  His voice faded as they walked off down the corridor.

The other Typhons finished their drinks and went their separate ways.  It was just the start of a new day…

[AislingN]

You create a marvellous atmosphere - Typhon is coolness personified. Well done!

[Darkleather]

Really glad you enjoyed it - thanks :)