The Levitating Village
Chapter One - The Acronauts
It levitated. Of course it did. I had read the papers, seen the news and watched the documentaries, but until I was approaching that place nestled in its valley of hills, I didn’t quite believe it. It was the Levitating Village of Lower Upton, and here was I, Douglas Uriah Layton, assistant to Frederick Trent of Trent, Marcus and Trent; the second Trent being a made up person to make the firm sound more affluent. In fact I don’t remember ever seeing Mr or Mrs Marcus either. Maybe he or she was fictitious too.
To friends, if I had any, I was, and am, Doug, five foot seven inches in my sensible shoed, grey socked, grey suited and underwhelming body. Plus my hair was thinning too. It was only two days ago that I got a call into the office from Mr Trent to go to the Village and get a signature on a contract from Sir William Marshall, owner and Manager of the Village’s Country Club. The folder with the contract was in the drawer in his office and I was to leave immediately. So I did. I patted the folder on the seat beside me, approaching what looked like a well used carpark and tourist area with worn and rusted fences, tufts of grass growing out of cracks in the concrete of the carpark, while ahead was a portacabin, attached at the top by a chain which in turn was attached to a crane. I parked up as best I could amongst the forest of grass and decided to carry my luggage to the portacabin rather than wheel it - I was in that kind of mood. An old man, his posture defying the strength beneath, yet an affected stoop in his posture, looked tired of his job, but tied to it like his destiny lay in it too, extended a long thin arm from within the folds of his coat, with his palm up.
“Pass.” he demanded.
“I’m sorry?”
“Pass.”
“Oh, you mean this?” I took a letter from within the folder. It had been in an envelope addressed to me. It was official permission to enter the Village, signed by the Village council. He took it from me and read it, pointing to the portacabin door.
“In.” the old guard breathed.
Inside the portacabin there were scattered scraps of tourist information leaflets almost glued to the floor from repeated moisture. with a jerk, it lifted into the air, swinging a little and sending me off balance. Eventually the portacabin came to a rest.
The air was thick and heavy with something. It was as though magic had become manifest in the air. Or static - or something. But whatever it was pervaded the very molecules around me. The grass was yellowed in places where the portacabin had dropped down to alight its passengers. A small one man hut was all that remained of the tourist business up here. The paint had stripped off the wood in places; sodden, rotten wood splintered beneath. The tiny glass windows were smashed too. What was left of a broken camping chair was thrust into the hut’s shell. Recent activity was evident from the thrown up dust and detritus that was left behind. I could see civilisation beyond. The air was a little thicker up here. I dared to undo my jacket. Yes, I was a rebel. I quickly refastened it when my red and yellow tie blew up into my face and nearly blinded me. A short stocky red headed man appeared and approached me. I eyed him with suspicion at first. He wore a Royal Mail uniform. He put me at my ease quickly however, while at the same time giving me the oddest feeling, like he was looking at me from the inside out.
He offered himself in a friendly manner, “Douglas Layton? We’ve been expecting you.”
“That sounds ominous.” I felt a chill ride down my spine.
“I am sorry.” he enthused, ”Bob Quinn. Postman and unofficial greeter. And some time tourist guide.”
“I must say I was expecting something like a car -”
“Yet again I’m sorry.” said Bob, “We generally don’t have transport up here. It’s a bit difficult for petrol tankers. But we do have these golf carts. Donated by the Country Club, which I take it is where you’re headed?”
“Upton Country Club, yes.” my voice was a little squeaky.
Bob slapped my shoulder, “Good, good. I was headed that way anyhow. I can give you a lift and an impromptu tour?”
“Sure. “ I said, seeing no problems in the invitation. I felt we had a connection now, so I started a conversation, “It’s a bit deserted here. Seems very run down. I was expecting -”
“I know. You were expecting tours and tour guides. Hustle and bustle. I’m afraid that ship sailed many months ago. There’s just me and the old man down there now. We try and keep it on an even keel. Please, climb in. I have much to show you.” The golf cart trundled slowly up the well worn street.
Bob took the conversation topic and turned it into a monologue, “That’s our Village shop. Run by the delightful, if slightly nutty Rose Trafford. Her son lives close and often visits to restock the shop. She keeps to herself a lot. Many of the Villagers don’t pay her much heed - they consider her a bit of a gossip.
“Now, we’re coming up on Morgan Calder’s Restaurant. It used to be two thirds of the train to Lower Upton, as you can see. He’s a bit gruff that one. Welsh temperament. The train was stuck here when the Village lifted. It’s a good restaurant. People used to come from miles around for the food. Ah, and there’s Doris Mortimer, the schoolmistress. Morning, Doris! She’s a lovely young lady, but she flirts like crazy. Doesn’t go over well with some of the wives, if you know what I mean? Harmless, but a wicked flirt. And here is our parish church, ministered to by the hard working Reverend Dylan Murray. Next door, his half Brother runs our Doctor's Surgery - Doctor Kyle Murdoch. Very good at his job, but has a very nervous disposition. Just be careful if he has to lance anything important. And here we have the Undertakers. Lovely lady owns it, Talullah Seabrook. She and her husband, Councillor Irvine Seabrook, look over both the Undertakers and Irvine’s little hobby in the next door Hairdressers. One other place, but you can’t see it very well from here is the Library. It’s quite small, but carefully maintained and looked after by the lovely Meredith Loreley. She entertains some men there that came once to this Village and never left. They are a group of inventors, who spend most of their time talking, debating and reading. We had a Convention here a few years back and those men never left. You can probably see remnants of the decorations here and there and bunting from that time. They are lovely men to talk to, if a little insular. Always worth having a conversation with, when you can - very interesting insights, they have, on the world and stuff? There also used to be a pictorial garden with its own Folly once, but that fell very much into disrepair. It used to be the sight of an old Village meeting place once upon a time too. Ah, and here we have it. The Country Club. Complete with eight hole golf course. The rest of the course is down there somewhere. “
We entered the grounds and the scenery took on an old time feel like something out of a Bronte novel. The building’s façade made me think of the restoration films made in their dozens over the decades. I had been to such places in my day tripping holidays. This building looked like a once, often used, Country House of some rich City Man, who had plowed his fortune into this place. There were Grecian statues, some actually looking somewhere close to authentic, well tended lawns and a gravel drive. I half expected to see a peacock saunter in front of me, screaming its greeting and displaying its prowess. The buildings seemed to go on for days. Somewhere in the near distance I could just about make out the first tee of the golf course. The golf cart scratched to a halt on the deep gravel path before the house.
Bob Quinn breathed out heavily as he removed my luggage from the rear of the cart, “Well, this is me. Got work to be getting on with. These letters won’t deliver themselves, you know. At least I don’t think so. Oh well, come see me anytime you want a talk, Douglas. It was good to meet you.”
“You too.” I smiled and waved a thanks to Bob.
#
There was a long green awning strutting out from the double doored entrance to the hotel interior. The doors were heavy, with squared thick glass distorting the scene beyond. The wind had picked up and the sky was darkening.
The carpet was a deep red pattern with dark blues and flecks of gold. This must have been a sight in its heyday. People from all over the world milling around; the hustle and bustle, the crack of energy and activity of staff weaving expertly through the throng with drink orders and suitcase-carrying flippancy. From what was once an immaculate sight, all that now remained were horrible dark stains and faded upholstery. It had been a five star once. Now it would be lucky to pass for a two star. There were, however, signs of attempted invisible mending. Where that too failed, strips of gaffer tape was employed to cover the worst bits. If the tape was better than what was under it, I just didn’t want to know. I walked up to the scratched yet polished reception desk. I looked around for some kind of bell to ring for attention. There wasn’t one. I resorted to calling.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
I didn’t have to wait more than thirty seconds for a response. A door opened behind the reception desk and a woman appeared. She had mousy blonde hair, long and straight, tied in a tight ponytail. Her fringe was strict and looked like it could cut through steel. She wore a navy blue skirt and navy blue jacket, which was much devoid of fashion. Her shirt was a pinky white, black tights and insect crushing shoes. But even with all this, it couldn’t hide the natural beauty beneath.
“Yes, sir?” her voice was two toned, that of a receptionist who would rather currently be doing anything other than being a receptionist right now.
“I have a meeting with Sir William Marshall. And a room booked. Under the name Trent. I’m not Trent. I’m Layton. Douglas Layton. Trent’s my boss. He was supposed to be here…”
Her expression didn’t change. Nor did her tone, “Sir William is in the Dining Room, in a meeting, but you’re welcome to go on in. “
I thought I better do as bid. Plus, I wasn’t sure I had an option. I moved to the dining room door, which was represented as glass panels in a wooden frame. I squeezed in nervously. A tall man had his back to me, but I knew he had sensed my entrance. He exaggerated an excuse to the two people he was talking with, then Sir William Marshall waved me in. The other two men stood and left without a word, and their gaze was down and nervous - not unlike me most of the time. But it seemed unusual for these two men, like it was they who usually gave the orders.
Sir William was tall, almost lanky. His hair was thick and tidy, with thick black spectacles and a Van Dyke beard. His clothes were well fitting, obviously tailored, and mostly of tweed - the rich country gent look. He moved around behind the bar, which stretched the length of one side of the Dining Room. Most of the lights had been turned off in the room, and the ones that were on cast sinister shadows amongst the optics. I was caught by Sir William looking at a small ornament representing about half of the Village. It looked well made and busy, but before I could get a proper look, Sir William had quickly grabbed the model and thrust it under the bar, as though he was hiding something.
“You must be Trent’s representative, Mr Layton? I received the email earlier today. Shame he couldn’t come. Still, no matter. Do you have the contract to hand?” Sir William spoke confidently and his words expressed it so. I held out the folder that contained the contract. Sir William waved it away, “Fine. I’ll sign them later or tomorrow. No rush. Drink? I’m guessing a Vodka man. With lemonade?” I nodded. Anything alcoholic would do right now, “Is this your first visit to the Village?”
I took a sip of the drink and it burned my throat. I think it was a bit lemonade light. I answered in a Shetland pony of a voice, “I’ve seen the documentaries, well some of them, read the newspaper articles, but I've never been here before. I was a bit put off by that incident some three years…”
“We don’t talk about that.” cut in Sir William, “Drink up. I’ll get Lana to see you to your room.” I did so, and almost choked. I followed Sir William back to the reception, “Lana, I would like you to show this gentleman to his room. We’ll talk later no doubt, Mr Layton?” He smiled, affected a bow and left, returning to the Dining Room.
Lana, the name I would never forget, stood at her post behind the desk. She was distractedly sifting through the post. At Sir William’s command, she dropped the post and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Coming to my side, she lifted my suitcase that I had left behind in the reception while going to talk to Sir William. I tried to wrestle it from her.
“Please, let me.” I attempted. But she was having none of it.
“It's no problem, sir.” she said through gritted teeth.
We journeyed up two flights in the open fronted Victorian elevator, wordlessly. Me because I was painfully shy, her because she regarded her job with the disdain it deserved. Lana led the way to my hotel room. The decoration from downstairs was continued up here. The same reddy carpet with a Duct Tape finish. The doors to the rooms, especially on exiting the elevator, were as I would have expected. Thick wooden doors in thick wooden frames, with thick brass handles and locks. But I was led away from there, and the further we went in, the less ornate things appeared, until we neared our destination. These doors were of thin whitewashed wood in thin whitewashed frames. It reminded me, using my filmic reference points, of the servants quarters. I wouldn’t have minded, but I didn’t see many people in the hotel. In fact so far I had only seen two jumpy but business-like men, Sir William and Lana. And me of course. I think I was being sent a message; that I am not important. Luckily I was used to that.
The room was number twenty three. Lana opened the door and led the way in. I followed. She moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, presumably to check the towels or something, while I stood in some random spot in the room only now realising where I was and exactly how odd things had been up to this point.
“Are you trustworthy, Mr Layton?” she called from the bathroom.
“Please - Doug.”
She put her head round the doorframe. An uncomfortable smile entered her face trepidatiously, “Are you trustworthy, Doug?”
“I like to think so, Miss -”
She returned to the room and stood before me with arms folded, “Just Lana will do fine. Are you married?”
“Um, no?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Are you adventurous, Doug?” she said, eyeing me like one would an interesting sculpture.
“Sometimes.” Well, I did have a striped tie on, didn’t I?
“You don’t say much, do you, Doug?”
“I don’t have much call for it in my line of work.”
“And exactly what is that? Your line of work I mean?”
“Um, well, I’m a clerk to a Solicitor.”
“And that involves little talking?”
“Well, usually no, but in Mr Trent’s firm -”
Lana looked at me suspiciously, “You pals with Trent?”
“Good God, no.” I laughed, “I barely see him unless it’s for him to shout at me or get me to do his jobs, like this one.”
There was a long uncomfortable silence, where an entire short play could have been performed. Twice.
“You’ll do.” she managed at last. The door opened to the room and Sir William appeared.
“Lana, I need you on reception.” he said. She made a hurried exit. Sir William waited for her to go before continuing, “All settled in, Mr Layton? Good. Room to your liking?”
“It’s very nice.” I lied.
Sir William smiled and followed Lana’s exit. I stirred myself and moved to the bed, sitting on it and looking around my environment. The hotel was virtually empty, yet I had been put out of the way, up here and halfway down the corridor. I wonder why? I mean, if this passed for one of the best rooms in the hotel, I was certainly glad I wasn’t in one of the worst.
I freshened up, changed out of my work clothes to my everyday clothes, which were virtually identical in every way, except for a sleeveless shirt and a thinner tie. Of course I was adventurous. Just not with fashion.
I washed and took some rest on top of the sheets of the bed before preparing for the evening.
Eventually I meandered my way back down to reception, only getting lost twice. The rest of the Country Club looked identical to every other part. After a number of lefts and rights and rights and lefts, and straight ons for a hundred yards, the corridor you end up in looks very similar to the one you started in. It was a puzzle. One I didn’t much feel like solving. I eventually took myself to the Dining Room-cum-Bar and decided to have a liquid dinner. It was quicker and more satisfying.
In the Hotel Dining Room-cum-Bar, Sir William stood polishing a glass with a tea towel, on which was a much faded pattern of the Village. I noticed a human skull sat on a shelf behind the bar. It was missing the lower jaw. Sir William noticed me looking, “I know, it’s quite morbid. But it was gifted to me by the archaeologists who visited here during the busy times. It is the male skull of a plague victim, apparently. This Village was once a plague town in the medieval times. See, here, on the side of the skull, the big hole? That’s what they did, bashed the head in with some blunt object. It has been said that if the victim of the plague was removed from his eternal rest, he would return and spread the plague once more - but that’s all superstition and nonsense, I know. I’m a bit of a history buff, see. They even found a hidden tunnel under this hotel on one of their visits, you know. They stopped coming after that. Now, what can I get you?”
“A glass of house red?” I managed.
“Ah, off the spirits tonight? Good form. Clear heads needed.” agreed Sir William. A few bottles later I climbed into bed.
#
That night, my dreams were wrought with images of men with dark, blood stained and dirt stained clothes, like cloaks without the cowl, because on their faces were strange, almost pantomime masks - white, or as close as it could be with the filth grooved cuts on or near the blacked out eyes. The nose of the mask was long and beak like. It put me in mind of a character in a programme from the 70’s and 80’s. But the humour was missing. The figures carried long poles and bags that appeared to contain herbs and the like. There were scenes of men and women, in tattered clothes, their children crying out and grasping for something that wasn’t there. Hope. That was missing.
After a while I realised these were plague doctors, something from the stories I had heard about this once-plague Village. I saw a scene of burning buildings, thatch swirling like tinder in the breeze, catching on other buildings and setting them alight. I don’t remember the entire dream, but I do remember the big pits, covered in tarpaulin and a hint of dust or lime slowly drifting in the air like smoke from the pit. One of the plague doctors split off and turned to me, speaking in that slow drawl people often do in dreams, “It has started. He watches you because he knows who you are. He knows. You are becoming.”
I have to admit I didn’t pay it much heed. It didn’t seem to make sense. Who is it that knows? And what do they know exactly? Plus, I was becoming what? I put it down to a stressful few hours with new and weird experiences, that this was the way my brain dealt with it and dumped the troubles of the day into a cocked hat. Besides I hadn’t been sleeping well of late and this inconvenient trip had come out of nowhere.
#
I awoke in the night, not long after the dream, to a feeling of a presence in my room. For a second I thought it was my medieval friend back to exact revenge until I smelled the distinct scent of perfume. I didn’t know whether to sit up in bed or pretend it never happened. But pretty much straight away it became largely academic. I felt a hand on my leg even through the covers. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the low light now, and I could just make out the shape of her body through the nightdress she wore. All the right amount of curves in all the most valuable places. Blood was beginning to congregate in a particular area. I coughed and hid my embarrassment by sitting up in bed. Yes, she was still there.
“Doug. Relax, don’t stir. I need to talk to you, alone. Away from prying eyes. I need you.”
“Wha?” I muttered through tired lips.
“Just remember, there are eyes everywhere. Meet me in the broom closet on the ground floor after breakfast. I have a proposition for you.”
I was too tired to take the possible double meaning. My brain was about three snores behind, “Eyes everywhere?”
“Goodnight, Doug.” she said patting my cheek with a smile.
After a couple of minutes staring at the ceiling and trying to recall all the Prime Ministers in order of ugliness, I fell back into a fitful sleep. The dream started up again; the plague pit, the plague doctors, the visual odour of death. Plague Chic I imagine it was called. Except this time there was a vision of Lana in her underwear behind reception, with a devil-like form standing beside her, which had some facial similarities to Sir William. Still, it could have been worse. It could have been the other way round.
#
After I woke and freshened up, I went down to breakfast, with the important folder under my arm. In the reception a Policeman was talking conversationally with Lana. I became apprehensive for some unknown reason. I found a closet close and squeezed into it. I was faced on three sides by furry mops and boxes of something or other on the floor. The door opened and Lana entered. She grabbed the folder from me and placed it on a shelf.
“Never mind that. You’re in trouble. And I need your help.”
“Wait, what? How am I in trouble?” I kept my eyes on the folder, like my whole reason for being here had somehow been shelved.
“Someone from the Village was murdered last night. They think you did it.”
“Huh?” I managed.
“Don’t be daft. Of course you didn’t do it! Think about it. It’s a bit convenient isn’t it? You turn up, someone dies? Besides when it happened I was in your room.”
“Yes, about that -”
“All in good time, Doug. All in good time. I need to get you out of here first. The Police presence here is, well, basically him out there. And he’s not the brightest penny in the glove compartment. Try and get out to the Library. That’s directly south of here. You should be okay there. Wait for me to come and get you, then we can discuss what you can do for me. Ditch the folder in here. If it’s that important you can always come back for it. No one checks here except me. Now, go!”
Of course my first thought was to run, but that couldn’t happen. Where would I go? They’d keep looking for me, especially if I ran. It would look a little bit more than suspicious. It would look like an admission of guilt. This is the last time I do a job for that bastard Trent. I had to put my trust in Lana. She was my only slither of hope. This was becoming one of those weeks I should have skived off. I was the perfect scape goat. A perfect patsy. I mean, just look at me? I have the upper body strength of an asthmatic man twice my age. I could be killed convincingly.
So I ran out the closet like a man with a broken back, and made for the nearest fire exit.
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