Room 13 Read Free Page A

remark had coincided with a lull in conversation as everybody strained for a glimpse of the abbey, and Mr Hepworth had heard it. ‘Old Hepworth told you that Bram Stoker, who created the character of Dracula, was inspired to do so after having seen the ruined abbey. Dracula does not live there or anywhere else. He is a figment of Stoker’s imagination, Gary Bazzard, and sometimes I wish the same might be said of you.’
    There was laughter at this. The boy’s cheeks reddened as he resumed his seat. Fliss smiled faintly, gazing out at the distant ruins and beyond them to the sea.
    It was ten past twelve when the coach drew up outside The Crow’s Nest Hotel. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson, who ran it, were standing on the top step waiting for them. Lisa flushed, remembering what Mr Hepworth had said about it being all her fault. She hoped he wouldn’t point her out to the Wilkinsons as the culprit.
    ‘Check under your seats and on the luggage rack,’ warned Mrs Marriott, as everybody stood up. ‘Don’t leave any of your property in the coach.’ The children checked, then filed slowly along the aisle and down on to the pavement. It was sunny, but a breeze blew from the sea, making it cooler than it would now be in Bradford. The driver went round the back and started unloading bags and cases, which their owners quickly claimed.
    Fliss looked at the hotel. There was something vaguely familiar about the steps. The porch. Even the breeze, and the distant sound of the sea.
    When everybody had their luggage Mr Hepworth led them into the hotel. Fliss looked at the iron bird on the black gate. For a moment she thought it was meant to be a gull, but then she remembered the name of the place and decided it was probably a crow. Somebody had made a poor job of painting it. Drips had run down to the edges of its wings and hardened there, giving them a webbed, spiky appearance, so that it looked more like a bat than a bird.

‘RIGHT, LISTEN!’
    Lunch over, they had crammed themselves into the lounge with all their baggage, squeezing into chairs and settees, perching on the edges of tables, sitting on bags and cases on the floor while the three teachers sorted out room allocations and other matters with the Wilkinsons in the hallway. They had taken in the view from the bay window, looked at the prints round the walls and were starting to get restless when Mr Hepworth stuck his head through the doorway.
    ‘I’m waiting, Andrew Roberts.’ The noise faded as Andrew Roberts stopped using the top of his suitcase as a drum and everybody looked towards the teacher. ‘There are bedrooms on four floors in this hotel, and two rooms to a floor. I’m going to give you your room numbers now, and tell you which floor your room is on. As soon as you know your floor and number, I want you to pick up your luggage and walk quietly up to your room. What do I want you to do, Gemma Carlisle?’
    ‘Sir, go up to our room, Sir.’
    ‘And how do I want you to go?’
    ‘Walking quietly, Sir.’
    ‘Right.’ Mr Hepworth glared about the crowded room from under dark, bushy eyebrows. ‘Walking quietly. Not charging up the stairs like a crazed rhinoceros, swinging your case, smashing vases and screaming at the top of your voice. And when you find your room, go in and wait. Don’t touch anything, and don’t start fighting about whose bed is which, or who’s going to have this wardrobe or that drawer. The teacher responsible for your floor will come and sort all that out as soon as possible.’ He put on his spectacles and began reading from a list.
    ‘Joanne O’Connor, Maureen O’Connor, Felicity Morgan and Marie Nero, top floor, room ten.’
    ‘Aw, Sir –’
    ‘Moaning already, Felicity?’
    ‘Me and Lisa wanted to be together, Sir.’
    ‘Well you’re not, are you? We’d be here all day if we started trying to put everybody with their best friend. Off you go.’ He scanned his list again . ‘Vicky Holmes, Samantha Storey and Lisa Watmough, top