By now the groans had moved on. Other doors
were being tapped upon along the corridor.
‘What bloody game d’you call this?’ she demanded,
wrenching open the door and stepping out into the
passage.
To her left a dark, hooded figure prowled through
the coagulated shadows, moaning softly. Of course she
knew instantly that it wasn’t her joker photographer Denis
Proctor.
The club-footed roll proved a dead giveaway.
‘Is this your idea of a weird joke, Mister Fucking
Conrad the cripple?’ she called. ‘Only, you see, you don’t
impress me one bit and I mean to give you and your hotel
the sort of shitty write-up that’ll make the plague seem
inviting.’
The figure hobbled on as if it hadn’t heard, still
groaning.
called.
‘Look at me when I fucking talk to you,’ Elsa
It continued moving away, retreated out of sight
into deeper shadow, and she heard it clumping down the
staircase.
Determined not to allow the warped hotel
proprietor any satisfaction at her expense,
Elsa clutched the dressing gown more closely around her
and stalked after him. She’d kick away his bloody club-foot
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