I’ve had enough of this God-awful place and I want to go back south and to the City. I know why I’m here, however; I can’t keep my prick in my pants—to be blunt. I have been sent to work at the Station Hotel, Market Town—amongst the Philistines. I am a security consultant, that is my career; and I’m good at what I do—without a doubt. The only thing that I do enjoy hereabouts is the ale—it is true what they say; the ale tastes better the further north you travel.

It is lunchtime and I sit down in the bar for my customary lunch—4 pints of foaming bitter and a bag of salted nuts. I am just enjoying my first long draught of my beverage, when the pasty-faced hotel manger interrupts me.

“Excuse me, AD, there seems to be some trouble in room 121,” He intones.

“Can’t you send one of your staff, I’m having my lunch,” I retort in total disrespect.

He inhales deeply and looks like he is about to weep.

“Alright, alright, I’ll deal with it.”

I think it is best that I don’t upset him any further; I’m beginning to get the company a bad reputation hereabouts—and that won’t go down to well in higher circles.

Room 121 is on the third floor and at the end of a long corridor. When I step out of the lift, I can see several of the cleaning staff and the porter huddled around the doorway. I dismiss the cleaners.

“Porter, what is occurring?” I ask the decrepit specimen that stands afore me.

“Tis a reet going on,” He starts in the broad vernacular.

I dismiss him too; how am I supposed to know what he is talking about?

I rap gently at the door—but to no reply. I slowly open the door and take a look inside. There is a man in there; he is sat with his back to me and is looking down onto the railway line that runs alongside the hotel.

“Are you alright, Sir?” I ask as I step inner.

“Fine,” he replies as he stands to face, “And you?”

He is a fine looking gentleman and his suit is well cut. “I was told that all is not well, sir; is that right?”

“They said that I shouldn’t be in here,” He replies glumly.

I ask him if he should indeed be in here and he rudely sits back down at his seat by the window and shows me his back once more. If I thought that I could get away with it, I’d grab him by the collar and drag him out into the street. I hear a cough to my behind and turn to see the manager. He beckons me back into the hallway.

“He was here when the porter brought guests up.” He whispers behind his bony hand. “The guests are waiting in the foyer for their room.”

“Can’t you put them into another room?”

He shakes his skeletal head. I would drag him out into the street too, if I could get way with it.

“Why not?” I offer in despair.

He turns and leaves without a reply. I step back into the room—my nails are cutting into my palms because I am so angry.

“Let us stop all of this nonsense and let me escort you from the hotel, Sir.”

He stands to face me once more and he is grinning like a loon. He shakes his head—a little longer than he ought, to my discomfort. I smile and hold my arms out wide (it is in all of the training manuals; including the ones that I have written).

“Should we go then?” I offer in a gentle tone.

In return he sits back down and looks towards the window. I curse under my breath. I step back into the corridor and call the manager. He is with me before I have even settled my pager back into my pocket. I advise him to call the police—they would have him out of the room in a trice.

“Wouldn’t that look like you can’t manage your job; the job that we are paying you for?” He replies to my advice. “The guests are becoming unsettled.” He adds bluntly before leaving.

It is pointless talking to the man again—he is obviously enjoying the attention. Before I seek out the manager, I get the porter to stand guard and let me know if the situation should change—I would be in the bar if he wanted me. I again endeavour to persuade the manger to put the guests into another room—which he reluctantly does. I order that the heating should be switched off in room 121, the mini bar emptied also and all of the sheets, towels etc., to be removed. He will soon tire of this, to be sure.

I sit back down at my table and order my beer to be refreshed. I unfold my newspaper and begin to read. When I have read it from cover to cover, I take on the crossword puzzle. It is difficult but I manage to complete it, apart from 5 across. Damn it! I hate it when there is only one clue that I cannot solve. I throw down the newspaper and look at my watch; it is nearly 3pm. I’d better take a look at our unwanted guest.

“E’s still in there,” bumbles the porter.

I take a look; he has not moved a muscle since I last saw him. He is humming an infuriating little ditty of some sort.

“You all right, Sir,” I ask in fake deference.

“I’m fine; and you?”

“I would be fine, you simpleton if you were to get up off your arse and leave.” I mumble under my breath.

I have to leave before I erupt. He is still there at teatime and suppertime. I charge the Night porter with his guard whilst I retire at midnight.

I wake early the next day. I feel quite refreshed after a shower and a cup of black coffee. I order a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast in my room. I’m just about to take my first mouthful when a knock comes to my door—it is the manager.

“He’s still there.” I hear him say as I slam the door into his face.

“I’ll sort it,” I yell through the wood.

“Make sure you do!”

The man is still sitting when I arrive at room 121. The night porter excuses himself and leaves—his breakfast at home would be getting cold. I decide against engaging him. I wait a while before the porter returns and stands his guard once more.

“He’s still about, sir?”

I order that the bathroom be secured; he’ll have to leave for his ablutions—won’t he?

I look at my watch; it will soon be lunchtime. I have a brainwave. I call down to the kitchen and ask them to bring me a plate of cooked bacon sandwiches—the aroma alone should tempt any man away; never mind one that hasn’t eaten for nigh on 24 hours. When it arrives, I waft it about the room—albeit to no immediate response.

“Aren’t you hungry, Sir?” I ask.

“Not at all,” He replies politely and without a backward glance.

He is still in place when I go for lunch, tea and supper. The manger is not at all happy at the way I am handling the situation—fuck him!

I try to watch television, but I am too distracted. “What is it with that man?” I shout out. I pick up a book and begin to read. My concentration does not last past the first sentence. The phone rings; it is head office. They are asking my immediate recall; there is a job in Brighton they want me to oversee. I remonstrate: “I still have things to do down here; I can’t leave a job half done.” I rage.

They give me 3 days to wind things up. I manage to stretch the 3 days to a week—the man is still settled 36 hours later and I won’t be thwarted by time. I have a sudden thought which powers into my skull like a steam hammer and sends my brain asunder: “What if the hotel manager was to report my incompetence to my superiors? I would be let go forthwith!”

I call him to my room. When he arrives I invite him to sit. I apologise for my rudeness towards him as I offer him a drink. He smiles a sickly smile.

“So you don’t want me to inform your bosses of your incompetence,” He replies with a smirk.

That is the last thing he will say to me for a while. I bring a heavy lamp stand down onto his head. He is knocked unconscious and I truss him up like a turkey. I easily bundle him into my wardrobe—a gag of my sock will stop him from calling out.

I sleep little that night; I am well distracted. When I awake at dawn, I dress hurriedly—I can hear the manger moaning in the cupboard. I am straight to room 121. The night porter is nowhere to be seen and the door is ajar. Cautiously I peer inside.

“He might be gone from the hotel, sir,” utters the porter to my rear.

“Gone!” I yell. “And when did he go?” I add in the same outrageous tone.

“Not 5 and 20 minutes ago, sir.”

“Did he say anything before he left?”

“Nuthing… apart…”

“…Apart form what?” I interrupt.

“E thanked me for my troubles and pressed this coin into my palm.” He said as he opened up his hand to display a gold coin.

I grabbed the coin from his hand and threw it down the corridor in sheer temper.

“Fuck his money,” I roared in frustration, “We don’t want it. Do we?”