Free Hotel Midnight by Simon Clark

nail – my ‘silly toes’, you’ll remember . A glint of reflected moonlight played on the ceiling.
    When the last chime of the clock faded to a dying hum Piet whispered, ‘James? Did you hear that?’
    ‘Hear what?’ I pictured a stranger armed with a blowpipe.
    ‘The clock struck thirteen.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘I counted them.’
    ‘It’s never chimed thirteen before.’
    I felt rather than saw her shrug.
    ‘It did just now.’
    ‘It must be heat.’ OK, as rationalizations go it was a weak one. Figuring out why a clock struck thirteen instead of its customary midnight twelve doesn’t head your list of priorities when you’re ready to sleep.
    Drowsy, Piet murmured, ‘Hope you have a good weekend, James.’
    ‘Hope you have one, too, Piet.’ Ever since we were first married we wished each other that on a Friday night. I don’t know how it started, but it had stuck fast.
    Downstairs the clock began to chime.
    ‘Again …’ Piet whispered. ‘Lucky thirteen.’
    ‘Damn clock. There’s no such time.’
    For a moment we lay awake, both of us waiting for the rebel clock to voice its idiosyncratic heresy once more.
    Only silence now. It chose not to challenge the laws of chronology again just yet.
    I closed my eyes.
     
    How can it be when you wake up seventy miles from the nearest coastline you hear the sound of the sea? The rush of surf rose into a crescendo before receding to a hiss. The clock radio beside the bed glowed: 2:09 a.m. I listened to the noise outside the bedroom window. For a moment it sounded like conspirators whispering down in the garden. Then slowly, inexorably, the whisper rose into a hiss, which in turn swelled into a soft roar that reminded me of surf cascading toward a beach.
    ‘Piet?’ I spoke her name softly.
    From the way her gentle breathing continued uninterrupted I realized she was still asleep. For whole minutes I lay still. I listened to the rise, followed by fall, of that surf-like sound. For all the world, it seemed that the tide had rolled seventy miles or more over dry land as far as our garden fence. After a while I realized I couldn’t sleep again until I’d satisfied my curiosity. So, after easing my nail-less big toes into a pair of slippers, I padded out onto the landing without switching on the light. I didn’t want to disturb my wife and son. Then I headed downstairs in the direction of the clock that had recently taken to chiming thirteen. For the moment it was satisfied uttering a rhythmic tick-tock. I was pretty much moving around by sense of touch. Yet risking a fall would be witless to say the least, so I groped along to a small wooden table between the dining-room and lounge doors. There I knew I’d find a torch. It only took seconds to locate the drawer in the table. Soon after that I had the torch in my hand. Even so, I postponed switching on until I made it into the kitchen. If Piet woke to the sight of torchlight beams flashing about the staircase it would only give her a fright. She’d already had her fair share of those today.
    However, the moment the kitchen door closed behind me, I thumbed the torch button. The light sprang out to reveal the Dalmatian sitting up on his beanbag, tail swishing. Perhaps he was expecting a bonus walk? The fur had matted on his side where the wound was located. If anything, it might have been caused by the dog licking his flank. Maybe the taste of his own blood intrigued him.
    ‘Woody, no need to get up,’ I whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
    The surging hiss came again, forcefully enough to make the dog glance at the window above the sink. A growl sounded in his throat.
    I swung the torch to shine it through the glass. Giant shapes crowded against the pane. A shock jolted down my spine. My God … I thought my heart would lurch out through my ribs.
    Then I took a steadying breath. ‘Woody. Don’t worry. It’s only branches.’
    Trees. Branches. Leaves. Yes, that’s what I could see all right. But that hardly