dream a little dream

Mordino is making noise somewhere. I lift my head long enough to see that he’s pulled out all the drawers and disheveled the blackout curtains. I mumble something but can’t make it out and drift back into sleep.

I’m back in Russia and it’s cold. Freezing. I understand that I’m dreaming but I don’t recognize the forest. It’s every forest, all pine trees and snow. I’m cowering from the cold between two trees. I can see Sophia in a clearing and she is crying. Her shoulders lurch back and forward as she sobs and screams.

I can hear her but it sounds like laughter. I shout out in confusion and run toward the clearing but I can’t get any closer.

Sophia looks at me, smiling. She is not crying. I blink my eyes shut.

When I open them again Sophia has changed. She is not Sophia anymore. She is old. A hag, doubled over from arthritis and wrapped in furs to keep out the cold. And she is not alone. Two men straddling guns on broad shoulders are talking to her. I recognize them from the airstrip. Sophia’s brothers.

The old hag looks at me from the clearing and laughs, the noise reverberating up through the trees. Hack. Hack. Hack. She raises her finger and I see the brothers follow it until they are looking at me. Confusion crosses their faces before they raise their guns and start to run.

I take a breath and start to yell. My feet kick out to run but I’m awake now.

There’s a thump on the door of the hotel room.

I relax, realising where I am and see Mordino sprawled out on the floor. The sight of him seems safe. There is a second thump on the door and the voice on the other side shouts something familiar. It’s in Russian.

Russian.

‘Shit,’ is all I can say as I head for the window.

Záchytka

Apologies for the break. Mordino passed out in the hall and I had to keep my fingers in his mouth to stop him from choking on his tongue/vomit; stopping me from using the keyboard obviously. (Notes on Záchytka)

***

The ringing in my ears won’t let up. I’m in the corridor, stumbling, pushing and dragging Mordino toward the sanctuary of our room. Behind us, Jack’s friend is screaming blue murder. Jack isn’t screaming anything. Jack is lying still back in his room.

Murder? Mordino didn’t hit him that hard. He can barely even stand up for chrissakes.

We trundle into my room. I run the shower until it’s icy cold and sit Mordino’s contemptible bulk under the stream. I close the door to mask his yelps and head for the comfort of my stale mattress.

I’m sure my eyes are only closed for a second. Perhaps two. The bathroom door is open and Mordino is standing by the window. His clothes are dry.

How did he do that?

The three bears

It took so long for Mordino to stop snickering like a Japanese schoolgirl with her knickers past her knees that I slipped into a rage. Not because my bag was nicked. Not because I was fending off pneumonia with the warmth from my palms. But because I could see that the skinny, toothless feck thought he had the moral advantage.*

The jacket he finally gave me did little for the situation, bar injecting the necessary confidence for my return to the lobby. The Lovely Lorna (79) was still nowhere near her station so I helped myself to a key - brightly labelled ‘MASTER’ - and headed for the hall.

The first room I opened was empty, the bed was made and the wardrobe was open and waiting for it’s guests to arrive. The second room was also empty, though there was a short leather skirt and a tank top folded into a neat pile by the window. (I won’t lie to you. Times were hard and it did cross my mind.) The bed in the next room was too hard so I fecked off to my own floor to try my luck in the rooms upstairs and avoid turning into Goldilocks.

It was harder to find an empty room on this floor - I listened to the mumblings, whispers, moans, groans and sweet nothings of the other guests. The room next to my own seemed empty and without any further invitation I headed for the wardrobe. I nearly cried when I saw the trousers and shirt inside the flimsy cabinet. It wasn’t until I had one leg already into the pair of grey pinstripe slacks that a woman’s voice called out from the bathroom.

‘Jack? Is that you?’

So this is how these situations manifest themselves. I had a sudden rush of empathy to my dwarf invader. There was also the curiosity to investigate whom the voice belonged. I never did get the chance to have a peep though as Jack walked in from the hallway and his companion, toweled to spare her dignity, walked out from the bathroom and screamed.

‘I can explain,’ I said and Jack punched me.

* It would be unfair not to point out, that on average, my turning up naked in a bar would have been the result of some debauched act of my own creation. For once, this was not the case.

Settling in nicely

Bollocks. Only one bed.

I drop my bag in a corner and head for the tub. At times like this there is little more a man can do than soak for an hour or three. The one bed means that in the course of tonight Mordino will have to sort himself out with some accommodation. For now it is time to become reacquainted with the smell of ylang ylang.

The noise of the bedroom door woke me from my decent, semi-submerged nap. The bubbles tickle under the nose, very soothing. I see a squat shadow dart past the bathroom door and into the bedroom and gingerly step out of the bath in pursuit.

‘Hello,’ I announce, standing in the doorway. There is a short bearded bloke pulling my bag onto his back.

‘Bliddy hell. They said nowt about anyone in here,’ he garbled, eyeing me from the far corner before screwing up his face. ‘Put some clothes on.’

Before I could argue that there was in fact ’someone in here’, and justifiably naked in my own room, the git ran past me. Not being one to let my bags run away from me, I gave chase, calculating that as the taller of the two I would catch up with him in a jiffy.

My mathematics under duress not being what it should be he got away, but not before I followed him down the stairwell and back out through the foyer. It was the sudden cold air that did it, froze things up.

Livid, I walked back into the hotel. The reception was unattended so I was forced to brazenly walk toward the bar, cupping the jewels for some dignity.

I called to Mordino from the door but he was preoccupied by a man in spats.

Reception committee

There is nothing worse than those first days back in Dublin. Getting familiar with who ever is charge and finding your place in the pecking order. I hadn’t even looked to see where I ranked yet. I just longed for a nice Merlot and a bath.

The Lovely Lorna (73) shoots a worried glance at Eli while she checks me in. He is stepping back and forth through a doorway - one foot on the wooden floor, the other on the crimson carpet. When she looks back my way I smile and lean over her desk.

‘Here’s your key Mr Fournier,’ she says in an unnecessarily official tone.

I think she likes me. ‘Please, call me George,’ I say and give her one of my winning smiles.

The Lovely Lorna (73) ignores my personal touch and hands me a key. ‘Through that door and up the stairs,’ she says pointing to a door on the far wall. ‘Yours is number 306.’

‘Thanks Darlin.’

Eli Mordino cuts a gaunt shadow in the corner of the foyer as I head for the stairs. He had attached himself outside and was suggesting he stay with me.

‘Get you reacquainted with the city and what not.’

A free ride for a few days is what he means. For now, I head upstairs and leave him to his game of hopscotch.

Welcome home.

It wasn’t my idea to come back to Dublin. It was taken out of my hands by some bearded characters standing in the freezing wind on an airstrip in Russia. They had a compelling argument but I thought I was winning them over. That was before they drew out the sawn-off shotgun.

I learned a hard lesson that day: Don’t argue with bearded characters from northern Russia after you have declared your love for their daughter.

Landing in the emerald isle was a real blast. I walked into the Gresham to get myself a room and was escorted off the premises fairly sharpish. After trying everywhere else in this crusted city I was left, somewhat disheveled, with a duffle bag and a smile on the front step of the Maybury Hotel. It’s more a dingy lean-to with cheap pints than a hotel. The lovely Lorna (73) with the great arse settled me in a corner, where I watched the room for a while and deliberated the situation.

Welcome home. Sure.