A Withering Rose
by John Atkinson

It was one of the worst storms he had ever seen this side of the English Channel. The rumble of the hired 1970 Alfa Romeo was barely audible over the rain hammering the road, and the windscreen, with forceful vigour. The map lay crumpled in a heap on the passenger seat, momentarily legible in the flare of light as he lit a cigarette. The car eased its way up the mountain road, headlights searching for the Hotel Sanguine, the location of tonight’s pick-up. A simple job really, and such a let-down for his final act. Thomas had always wanted to go out with a bang, not wither away into a late retirement, but with the Cold War tirelessly warming up, that didn’t seem to be much of an option anymore.

Michelle heard the crunch of the tyres on the gravel path, even over the pounding of the rain, before she saw its headlights sweep through the windows. The slightly yellowish light gave the pale white of the walls a waxy pallor and made the walnut panelling and check-in desk seem worn and washed out. A minute or so after the lights died and the engine silenced she saw a man enter. He was soaked through his expensive suit, as crumpled as he was wrinkled. The rose that hung from his lapel was ruined both by its age and the rain. His nicotine stained yellow-white hair was swept back over his head. He could have been distinguished once, she thought, maybe even handsome. Not anymore.

Thomas knew that he was gracing this little hotel with his presence; he straightened his cuffs, smoothed back his hair and drew himself up to his full six feet. He sauntered over to the check-in desk and gave the girl his winning smile, a smile so many young girls had swooned over in his long years serving her majesty’s government. He made a show of asking for the best room, hinting that the girl would be more than welcome to join him later. He left her simpering and smiling demurely at him as he ascended the stairs, a picture of dignity and allure.

Michelle was repulsed; the man had all but asked her to join him upstairs! She was both offended and disgusted that such an old man could be so lecherous and forward with her! ‘That’s the English for you’, she thought to herself as she began again to clean the dust and grime from the hotel’s lobby.

Thomas was disappointed with his room; he was used to luxury rather than the Spartan emptiness of this small box. He placed his suitcase on the chair by the mirror, opposite the bed, and changed his suit for the dry Armani in his suitcase. He took out the manuscript for his memoirs and placed it on the desk, smiling a little at the prospect of all the trouble, and red faces, it would cause in Lubyanka Square to have his life’s work in the public eye. He gave his shoes a quick once over and smiled as he saw his face in the gleam. He transferred the ailing rose from his damp suit to his new lapel and began to make his way down the stairs. An entrance such as his was wasted on the audience; merely the same girl from before, now serving behind the bar, and his contact stood nursing a Cognac. Thomas frowned at Karl; the man had never had taste, dressed in a brown suit and tweed hat he looked every inch the cheap communist Ruskie he had come to despise. He stood next to Karl and barked his order of Bourbon on ice.

Michelle poured slowly, keeping her eyes on the old man.  Now he was dry and in a new suit he looked even worse, she thought, like a man dressed for the grave. She felt the distaste begin to show on her face and momentarily turned her head aside so as not to let the old man see just what she thought of him. Thomas saw the girl shyly glance away from meeting his gaze, he smiled to himself and took the brief moment of privacy to nudge Karl and slip the envelope containing the money into his hand. At the same instant he felt Karl slip a few sheets of paper, folded, into the inside pocket of his jacket. The hand-off made, he slowly drained his glass of the whiskey, keeping his eyes fixed on the cleavage of the serving girl. Once the glass was drained he headed upstairs, with a meaningful look at Michelle.

Naked he lay in the bed, he cursed to himself as he looked at the clock on the bedside table and realised it had been an hour since he left the bar. ‘Maybe that Ruskie is taking his goddamn time finishing his drink’ he thought to himself, and laughed as he realised how desperate that sounded. No, he was in full control and she would not be able to resist the mystery that surrounded him.

A few minutes later the door to his room slowly opened and in crept the serving girl, clad in a sheer purple night gown and seemingly nothing else. She put a finger to her lips to signal silence and moved towards the bed, crushing the fallen rose beneath one foot. She slipped between the sheets as silently as a wraith and made no noise, of pleasure or otherwise throughout their brief lovemaking.

Once it was over Thomas drifted off to sleep, content and assured in his own unfailing allure and masculinity. He awoke a few moments later when he felt the knife slip between his ribs. His eyes locked on to the piercing blue eyes of the girl, he saw the disgust in them and knew Karl’s treachery. He turned his eyes away from her and they  fell upon the last thing they ever saw; his name, Thomas Berringer, consumed by flames as his manuscript burned in the fireplace.

BIO: John Atkinson is an avid reader of both horror and fantasy. The only thing he enjoys more than staying up late to read a story is staying up late to write one. Influenced mainly by the works of Stephen King and H. P. Lovecraft he seeks to create an atmosphere of dread and intrigue in his stories. Rather new to the trade he hopes to establish himself in the business and hope you enjoy his stories! He doesn’t like marmite.