Grimm

In the gathering gloom, the crows slowly circled the turrets and spires. Perched precariously on a pinnacle of rock, the hotel looked as though the next breath of wind might topple it down the hillside. A pin-prick of light appeared and then disappeared as a door opened and closed again. A shadowy figure limped to the dilapidated station that housed the machinery. Moments later with a growl and a grind, a cable car emerged and creaked out on sagging hawsers into the night-time sky. To the sound of small rusty wheels turning, it left the huge flat rock ledge before swinging above the flatter grassy slopes of Scrab Hill, towards the sleeping town of Aberfintry.

At the bottom, a squat stocky figure met the cable car as it clattered into the ground level station then, carrying something, the person headed into the quiet streets of the town, seeking out the letterbox of an ordinary house. In his hand he clutched an envelope sealed with blood-red wax and stamped with the mark of a snarling wolf’s head.

Rory looked in the mirror and wondered if he would ever get the chance to do so again. The letter was lying discarded on his bed. Its contents hadn’t changed, much as he had willed them to. He tried to weigh up their significance. Surprising? Yes. Worrying? Absolutely. Dangerous? Almost certainly. Rory groaned and stared at his pale, tense reflection. There was not the hint of a smile. His brown eyes looked tired, and his short dark hair spiked up because he had run his hands through it a dozen times, in as many anxious minutes. It was a far cry from the beaming Rory McKenna clutching the shiny plaque who looked down at him from the framed photo above his bed.

“What are you grinning at?” Rory said bitterly to the picture of himself. “It’s all your fault anyway.”

He trudged to the window, passing the neatly stacked tower of Zizz Cola cans in the corner of his room. Topped up whenever he wanted, it sat reminding Rory of his “achievement,” yet the thought of opening and drinking one now made him feel sick. Looking out into a blustery evening sky, Rory could see the brooding silhouette of Hotel Grimm high up on Scrab Hill. He swallowed hard and shuddered. Normally, Rory’s approach to life would be to ignore the difficult things and just hope that they would drift away, but this was different … very different. He closed his eyes and groaned. The letter lay curled up, a seemingly innocent sheet of paper, the contents of which had definitely ruined his day …

“Ladies and Gentlemen, will you please put your hands together and give your warmest welcome to the quite remarkable … Rory McKenna.”

The room burst into applause from the candle-lit tables. The men in dinner jackets and the stunningly-dressed women craned their heads to see Rory’s short figure weave his way between the chairs. Rory began to feel very hot under his collar, which was unsurprising since he rarely wore a shirt and tie. Camera flashes exploded around him and he was aware of a sea of smiling faces, none of whom he knew, but all applauding him as he made his way to the stage.

“It’s my great pleasure to present this award to Rory,” boomed the loud American voice. “Rory’s impact on our business has been nothing short of phenomenal. At the age of just eleven, he has succeeded in doing for Zizz Cola what most marketing professionals can only dream about, and his contribution has led to the most remarkable business story of the year. This recognition at tonight’s International Marketing Awards Ceremony is a fitting thank you to this young man.”

A plaque was thrust into Rory’s hands and he was gently pushed to the front of the stage. Looking out, he could hardly make out the back of the vast room.

“
You lucky wee rascal!
” The thought of his Grandad drifted into Rory’s head and made him smile as he gazed out.

Despite himself, Rory was really quite enjoying all of this. However, as he stood soaking it in, another more niggling voice flitted into his mind.
Funny isn’t it … it was really nothing to do with you.

A photographer shouted for him to turn and hold the plaque aloft, and Rory pushed this more troubling thought to the furthest corner of his mind and enjoyed the moment.

Sitting in the blazing sun outside Aberfintry’s Art Gallery Café, Rory put the ice-cold glass of Zizz Cola to his face and thought he could hear his skin sizzle. It was easily the hottest day of the summer so far. On the way there he’d seen hairy dogs desperate for a haircut, and people struggling to eat ice creams as they melted quicker than they could be eaten. Now, as the sun bounced off the metal tables at the café, Rory relaxed with his cold drink and watched as people all around did their best to get comfortable in the heat. On a beautiful day like today, facing away from Scrab Hill, you could almost forget about the hotel and its catalogue of disastrous events; not to mention the extraordinary shadow it had cast over the town for years.

The only significant movement was from a little girl skipping past, off to play amongst the sculptures positioned throughout the gallery’s walled garden. Seemingly refreshed after her cold drink, she was singing as she went.

“It’s fi-zzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right … It’s fi-zzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right … It’s fi-zzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right.”

Rory took a long deep drink of Zizz, smacked his lips noisily and sighed out loud as he slumped back in his chair, letting the sun soak in. He was going to be in for a bit of a wait. He was with his Mum, who was off speaking to the Gallery Manager about an idea for another of her wacky exhibitions. Morag McKenna — or “Momo” as she had restyled herself since her artistic career had taken off — waved her arms and “oohed” and “aahed” just a little more than Rory could cope with these days. Sitting back in peace and quiet, and shutting his eyes to it all, was a much better option.

“Another satisfied customer!” drawled a voice with an American accent.

It took Rory a moment to realize that the comment had been addressed to him. He opened his eyes and squinted. The sun was blocked by a very large man in a voluminous suit putting his tray down at the adjacent table.

“Sorry, that was rude of me, but I couldn’t help but notice how much you were enjoying your drink.”

“Oh …?” said Rory, not really sure what else to say.

“Can I be even ruder and ask why you chose to drink Zizz Cola today?” said the man sitting down. He shifted a giant plate of sandwiches and a glass of water from his tray and looked at Rory. Momentarily flummoxed at being asked this question by a complete stranger, Rory could only say, “Well I … it’s a hot day … I needed a cold drink.”

“But why Zizz? You could just have had a glass of water like me. Or a nice refreshing fruit juice. Or even milk … I often think we can forget how good milk tastes, don’t you?” said the man looking at Rory and taking an enormous bite from a sandwich.

“Umm … yeah, but I felt like a can of Zizz today,” Rory said, not quite sure what the man was angling after.

“You’re going to think me a bit persistent but I really do wanna know why,” pressed the stranger.

“I like the taste,” said Rory, now a little irritated that his relaxing time in the sun had turned into a full-blown interrogation.

“Okay … so what do you like about the taste?”

“I dunno … it’s just … Er … well, I just like the taste,” said Rory. This answer did not satisfy the man, who put down his sandwich and leaned forward with a curious intensity.

“Mmm … I appreciate that, but I’m after a USP here,” said the man.

Rory looked blank.

“USP? … Unique Selling Point … What makes Zizz stand out for you?” said the man, wiping the side of his mouth with a napkin. “Let’s try it this way. If you were describing that glass of Zizz Cola to a friend of yours to encourage them to try it, what would you say?”

Rory thought for a moment and then the girl’s song from a few
moments before suddenly popped into his head.

“It’s fizzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right,” said Rory, hoping that this would satisfy the man.

Easing himself back in his seat the man appeared distracted for a moment. He tilted his head to one side as if he was straining to hear something. For the first time he seemed unable to respond.

“Huh, well I’ll be …” was all that he managed. Then looking into the distance he repeated what Rory had said, in a slow, quiet voice. “It’s fizzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right … it’s fizzy, it’s light, Zizz has got it right! You’re right, you know. That’s exactly right.”

The man pushed his plate to one side as if he had lost his appetite. He reached into his inside jacket pocket. “I’m gonna give you my card,” he said.

“A card?” Rory felt lost once again.

“My business card,” said the man who was now opening a slender and shiny metal case.

“Er … why?” asked Rory.

“I may need to contact you that’s all, and I will definitely need to speak to your parents.” Reaching over, the man handed Rory a stiff polished card with a razor sharp edge. In embossed lettering it read “
HARVEY
FINKLEMAN. CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER, ZIZZ COLA.
” It gave contact details in Seattle, USA.

For a brief moment, Rory began to think that maybe he should let this Mr Finkleman know that the line he had just come out with had been someone else’s. He couldn’t see the girl who had skipped past, and just at that moment Rory’s Mum returned to the table.

“Is this your boy, ma’am?” said Finkleman to Mrs McKenna.

“Yes, he’s mine,” said Mrs McKenna, flicking a wisp of red hair from her face. “Er … is there some kind of problem?”

“Not at all, ma’am … not at all. In fact your son has been extremely insightful …
extremely
insightful.”

“Insightful?” said Mrs McKenna, fluttering her enormous eyelashes and throwing a wide-eyed look in Rory’s direction. “I suppose it runs in the family.” Rory rolled his eyes.

“Well, buddy,” said Finkleman addressing Rory with a look of
understanding, “I don’t really mind wherever it’s come from as long as it’s there. Now if you could give me an email address or number, I’ll keep you posted with developments.” He handed over a silver pen and reversed one of his cards for Rory to write on.

“I was about to write a few postcards to keep some family members happy, but if you’ll excuse me, I think it may be time to cut this trip short as I have some calls to make. I’m gonna to wake them up Stateside but I think it’s going to be worth it.”

Finkleman passed a few polite words about the weather with Mrs McKenna as Rory scribbled down some contact details. Rory’s mum managed to steer the subject to her recent meeting with the Gallery Manager and she began to enthuse about her idea for an exhibition on the theme of ‘maroon.’”

“It’s a colour that people just think is a kind of red. But it has its own inner beauty. It’s been lost over time … ‘marooned’ you could say. We need to find it again,” she said with wild intense eyes, rattling bangles as her arms waved and entangling her dangly earrings in her hair.

After a few polite grunts, the bulky American managed to use his urgent need to make an international phone call as an excuse to leave the table. He said his goodbyes, clutching a bundle of unwritten postcards and headed away, leaving a largely untouched lunch, a bewildered boy and a woman trying to get her jewellery under control.

Two days were just long enough for Rory to have almost forgotten about the encounter at the café, but then an e-mail from Harvey Finkleman popped into the inbox as Rory sat at the computer.

“Er, Dad …?”

Rory’s father was in his favourite armchair to one side of the fireplace, but as usual he was half-hidden. His legs were visible, as were his hands. The rest of him was behind the paper. Rory sometimes felt he was forgetting what his dad looked like given the amount of time he spent in this position. Ken McKenna’s job as a driving instructor was another factor that meant Rory rarely saw him. People seemed to want to learn to drive just after school or
work or at some point in the evening. Rory’s brief exchanges with his dad took place as they passed on the garden path or bumped into each other at the bottom of the stairs near bedtime.

“Dad…?” tried Rory again.

“Mmmmm?” came the usual collection of ‘m”s from behind the paper.

“Do we know anyone with a legal background?” asked Rory.

“Malky Mackay,” said Mr McKenna in his typically distracted fashion as he turned another page.

“I don’t mean a policeman,” said Rory. “I mean a lawyer.”

The newspaper pages rustled again. “Lachlan Stagg,” said his Dad. “Law was definitely one of his record-breaking list of qualifications.”

“Preferably one who is still alive,” mumbled Rory, looking over the email for a second time.