The Fiction and the Furious

 I occasionally do the Australian Writers'Centre Furious Fiction Challenge for a bit of fun.  This one was written for a challenge from late last year, but never submitted (because I forgot to submit it.  Not because I didn't finish it).

Room 254.  Basic room.  Two single beds, zipped together as a double, small bathroom without a bath.  The fridge was tucked under a shelf, the electric kettle sitting on the bathroom bench.  The window was open, the plastic blind tapping a rhythm on the window frame as the breeze pushed it back and forth.  The guests had checked in and headed straight for the beach, their shared suitcase left open on the bed.  They’d clearly ignored the sign requesting “bath towels not be taken to the beach”, because there were none left in the bathroom.

Room 986.  Family suite.  Two bedrooms, with a queen-sized bed in one, two singles in the other and a pull-out couch in the sitting area.  Small kitchenette in one corner, bathroom with a shower over a relatively small bath.  They had stored their luggage in the wardrobes.  The fridge held three bananas, a tub of yogurt and some cider.

Room 1209.  Premier suite.  One bedroom with a King bed, a bathroom with a two-person bath in the corner and double jets in the shower.   The furnishings were rich and soft, mostly creams, with accents of sapphire blue.  Judging from the clothing in the closet, the female guest was a decade younger than her male companion.  The bouquets in the suite each contained two dozen roses.

P-100.  The Penthouse.  The hotel’s largest suite; three bedrooms, two bathrooms and two sitting areas.  The kitchen had a butler’s pantry and a tiny, gloomy elevator for staff.  The art on the walls was original – several abstract paintings and a photograph of the hotel from the 1920s.  The Penthouse had been occupied by the same guest for two months, an American working at one of the local fashion houses.  She was rarely seen, and she insisted that her room was serviced in a two-hour window while she was at work.  Cleaning her room took the entire two hours each day – she was a heavy smoker, an even heavier drinker and she regularly had several guests in her room overnight.

The lobby.  Reception staffed twenty-four hours a day by staff who spoke a minimum of six languages, a bar and a restaurant to the left.  Security at the front door were discretely armed and uniformed similarly to the police, with the hotel crest on the collar.

He nodded to security as he left the hotel, wishing them a good day.  No one stopped him.  No one checked his backpack.  He was in uniform.  He worked here.  He was safe.

The uniform had been stolen from the hotel’s laundry, the security pass snatched off a maid’s trolley, the photograph replaced with his own.  His backpack contained a watch from room 254, a necklace and three sets of earrings from 986, a camera from the suite and gold bracelet from the Penthouse.  He’d pass them to an associate before changing uniform and name and doing the same job elsewhere.  He had several uniforms.  It was an interesting way to make a living.