Cheslee Winetorp was on the move again. He moved around a lot. He put his itchy feet down to the fact that he had no family to speak of. He had been abandoned as a baby, and found at the side of the road, but as soon as he was able he moved on, eager to make his way in the world. Cheslee Winetorp was also incredibly paranoid, and thought everybody was out to get him, or hurt him, or trick him. He relied on no one but himself, and hated getting too close to people. This was another reason for his itchy feet. There’s a voice, that keeps on calling him. Down the road, that’s where he’ll always be. Every stop he makes, he makes a new friend. Can’t stay for long, just turn around and he’s gone again. Maybe tomorrow he’ll want to settle down. Until tomorrow, he’ll just keep moving on. Ba-dah-de-dah, Bah-da-de-dah.
Now he was reaching the end of another journey. Cheslee was making his way through Hardman’s Wood when he saw the lights of the town twinkling up ahead. Rather than face the rigamarole of finding accomodation for the night, he decided he would sleep in the woods. He had done this many times before, and was happy sleeping outside. He was even happy doing his business outside - even number twos, so that makes him different to me. Does it make him better? You decide.
But that night, he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable, even though it was an unseasonably warm night, and he decided, as false dawn glowed in the night sky, he walked into the town, to get a sense of the place.
He passed the shops with their shuttered windows, and pretended, as he often did, that he was the ruler of a dark, empty kingdom. He owned these streets, and the silence they contained. No cars drove by, at his request, and he was alone with his thoughts.
Cheslee Winetorp prided himself on his self awareness. He was aware that his mousy brown hair was nothing special. He was aware that people didn’t naturally like him. He was aware that he probably ate too much. Bad stuff at that, and that his preoccupation with food wasn’t healthy, but it was part of what made him Cheslee. That and his terrible fear of mirrors. He would always pathologically avoid mirrors.
He trotted up and down the streets of his dim principality, his dark eyes flitting from side to side. He stopped at a dustbin. It was over flowing with food. He noticed that it was outside the back door of a restaurant. He could feel nothing but emptiness in his belly, so, he rooted through the waste. He found a few morsels and wolfed them down.
He felt no shame about this. No one was around to see, no one was around to judge him, this was his own domain. When he’d eaten his fill, being careful to avoid anything that might make him ill, he continued along the silent street to the one light he could see twinkling in the distance.
When he reached it, he discovered that it was a hotel. Just the thing. Sleeping in the woods was all well and good, but a hotel was better. It was a warm night, and the door was open, so Cheslee walked straight in and waited in reception. The hotel was a small affair. Just an old terraced house really, and reception was a little dark wood desk with a telephone, a bell and a ledger placed on it. No one stood behind the desk. Cheslee thought about ringing the bell, but had second thoughts. He didn’t want to wake the sleeping inhabitants.
He waited for several minutes, then decided he would explore the building. He walked quietly up the stairs. A narrow corridor with busy wallpaper was lined on either side with doors. He could hear gentle snoring emanating from several of the rooms.
At the end of the corridor a door stood open. Cheslee peered around the doorframe and saw the dark room within. It appeared unoccupied. A small single bed was made up, and a feeble bedside lamp was lit. No suitcase or evidence of occupant. The bed looked inviting, and without much thinking, Cheslee clambered onto the covers and curled up. He glanced over at the trouser press and wished he had some trousers that needed pressing. Then, within moments he fell into a blissful sleep.
In the morning he went downstairs, meaning to apologise to the proprietor, and settle in properly. He ventured downstairs and stood in one corner of the small reception, waiting for someone to arrive. A small, grubby looking man came in and out several times, but not once did he look in Cheslee’s direction. Cheslee must have stood there for twenty minutes. He called out, but still the man refused to acknowledge him.
Cheslee followed him out of reception and into what passed for a restaurant. Four or Five tables were simply laid up. No menus on tables as far as Cheslee could see, and no breakfasting guests.
The small, grubby man had disappeared, and the place once again seemed deserted. Cheslee stood and waited. He was patient. Another thing he knew about himself. He was extremely patient. After a few moments a different man entered the restaurant. He seemed to be the chef. Two things tipped Cheslee off in this regard. He came from the kitchen and was dressed as a chef. Other than that, I’m not going to describe him. You can do some of the work for a change. Go on. Think about this chef. Get a mental picture. Yep. That is exactly what he looks like. That is the power of words.
The chef did not ignore Cheslee. Nor did he speak to him. He simply stared at him. He gave him the same look he had seen many times before.
“Hello.” Said Cheslee. “I’d like to stay here, if that’s possible. In fact I stayed here last night. In the room at the end of the corridor? I’m sorry - I couldn’t find anyone to check me in.”
The chef turned on his heels and left.
“If it’s not too much trouble - could I have some food sent up to my room. As I said - it’s the room at the end of the corridor. Room 7 I think. Lucky for some.”
But the man had left. Cheslee had the familiar feeling he had had so many times before. Instant dislike. But he was within his rights. They just wouldn’t have anything to do with each other.
He clambered up the stairs again and went into his room. When they wanted him to do the paperwork, they’d come and find him sure enough.
He would go back to bed and think about what to do next. One thing was for sure. His life needed direction. He had no place in society, that much was clear. Enough of this aimless wandering.
Downstairs he heard some commotion. The small man and the cook arguing about something.
A little later, he didn’t know how much later, he heard some movement out in the corridor. When he got to the door, no one was around, but a plate of food had been left outside.
That’s something, thought Cheslee. He sniffed the plate, which was nothing more than cheese and crackers.
Something was wrong with it.
He was certain. His paranoia was rarely wrong. Apart from being a debilitating social problem.
The men had done something to his plate of food. Though his stomach ached and whined, Cheslee left the plate where it was, and withdrew to his room.
Of this he was now certain. The chef was trying to harm him in some way. But why?
His paranoia got the better of him, and now, instead of sleeping on the bed, he hid under it, finding solace in the darkness. Once again, the monarch of his own quiet domain. He slept fitfully that night, and in the morning woke to find a plate of bread and jam, on the floor near the bed.
They had been in his room. But they had not woken, or talk to him, or tried to explain their grievances. He ignored that plate, though the jam wafted deliciously towards him. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the underside of the bed.
Here he was. Pressed against the floor, under a strange bed, in a strange hotel, being hunted with nibbles by a grubby proprietor and a fat chef. Was your mental picture fat? Well he is fat. He’s also black. So if you didn’t imagine a black chef, you are a racist. This is why I should do all the words.
Cheslee suddenly felt the crippling paranoia that had plagued his whole life tighten around him like a constrictor.
He was being a fool. They weren’t trying to kill him. They were taking pity on him. They were trying to help him.
Cheslee ran towards the hall. He was going to find the two men. To explain. To talk. To iron things out. To perhaps even, become friends.
But before he reached the door, something strange happened.
His feet stuck to the floor. Stuck fast. He couldn’t move them at all. Couldn’t pick them up. Couldn’t shift them. He was trapped.
That was when he heard the chef and the hotel manager heading towards the room with heavy footsteps.
They appeared in the doorway and looked down at him. The chef was holding a large heavy looking saucepan.
Cheslee Winetorp was self aware about many things. But the thing he never understood about himself was this. Cheslee Winetorp was a rat.
But not for much longer.
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