more a stratum of patterns such as those in the embers,
meaningless but discomfiting. Then she jolted back to full
alertness.
‘What the fuck is it now?’ she demanded aloud.
Not thunder or lightning this time, but some
stupid bastard making a noise in the corridor. Pretending
to be McTavish or whoever. Groaning. And tapping on
doors.
Audible even above the rising wind and distant
crash of Atlantic waves on rock.
‘If that’s Denis Proctor playing silly bastards I’ll
castrate him,’ she seethed.
More groaning, more tapping, coming closer.
‘Get back to bed and let me sleep, you arsehole,’
she yelled.
The Gideons had thoughtfully left a Bible on her
bedside table. Elsa picked it up and flung it at the door but
missed. It crashed into the wall instead and fell in a creased
heap.
The groans became louder. Someone tapped at her
door.
Furious, Elsa leaped from the bed and grabbed her
dressing gown. She felt too knackered and pissed off for
games at this time of night.
55