We Promise Not to Tell Read online

  “We Promise Not to Tell”

  Is written and presented by Marcus & Connie Detroit, assisted by author Albert Able

  Chapter 1 - Marcus

  Sitting hunched over and frowning at the sheaf of papers held in his hand, the magistrate looked up, his eyes focused towards where I stood in the dock. The courtroom fell silent and expectant, he peered over his half moon spectacles for a few seconds and then clearing his throat noisily, he returned his gaze to the papers.

  “Without doubt, the standard of morality at your hotel is the worst I have ever experienced,” he announced imperiously as his gaze lifted once again and roamed the rest of the court “in the circumstances therefore,” he paused briefly to dramatise the moment, his expression now even more grave, “I intend to make a meaningful and lasting example of you” his brow wrinkled etching the importance and wisdom of his words “and in order to send a clear message to all the men, especially the married men visiting your hotel” the icy stare flicked back to me “I am obliged to sentence you, Mr Marcus Detori, to…” he paused again, a cynical smirk gradually spreading across the craggy face, his mouth opened to speak “a minimum of …”

  The voice faded, I could no longer distinguish the words; I had a terrible pain at the back of my eyes and I seemed to be drifting in space. Suddenly I was aware of the perspiration trickling down my back, sending a shiver of fear throughout my body; to me it seemed as though time had suddenly stopped.

  How had it all come to this? How was I going to die? Lethal injection ?. Choking in a cloud of gas ?.

  How and for what? I was becoming dizzy, the courtroom started to spin before my eyes… Was I dead already? But then in the middle of the vortex a blurred vision began to focus and amazingly my mother’s angelic face materialised.

  “Thank God!” I said aloud and thrust my arm out to touch her. “Mamma will sort it all out - she always does.”

  She smiled at me, that gentle understanding smile embodying all the love and protection she had always so selflessly given to me. She reached out to take my hand but just as I thrust forward to touch her, a dreadful noise painfully invaded my head and like a snuffed out candle the image of my mother vanished, destroying my dream forever as I recognised the fire alarm’s raucous warning.

  I sat up in the bed with a start and flipped on the light; the wheezing klaxon drowned out the telephone’s humble bleep but the flashing red warning light alerted me to the call.

  I grabbed the receiver. “What is it?” I snapped irritably over the din.

  “Reception here Sir,” the clear but urgent voice of Connie the duty Night Receptionist sounded in my ear. “Come quickly please." It is not exercise." It is real fire." The Fourth floor; you know?”

  Connie was Polish and it was only the strain of the moment that cracked her usually flawless English. I always felt a kind of sympathetic embarrassment at innocent people’s distress. Strange isn’t it, in spite of feeling so cross at my sleep being interrupted. I clearly remember thinking, not “where is the fire?” or “how serious is it?” but “thank goodness for rock solid Connie.” Come to think about it, Connie often featured in my thoughts at that time and not just because she managed so effortlessly to handle the awkward situations, which routinely confront the hotel’s front office.

  I looked at my watch; two am. ‘the fourth floor’; I knew exactly where the problem was likely to be. “On my way,” I replied, throwing the telephone back on its cradle and reaching for my trousers with the other hand.

  The fire had apparently started in the suite on the top floor at the rear of the building. “Not again,” I thought to myself as I climbed the three flights of stairs to the fire zone.

  Suite 401 was situated at the top and at the end of the west wing. It had its own elevator access and a private fire escape to the street. Which in practice, acted as the discreet access for the “special” guests and their friends who regularly occupied the luxury accommodation.

  On two previous occasions, small fires had started there. The first was when a disgruntled “model”, disappointed by the paucity of the “gratuity” offered for her services, started a fire by putting her lighter to the corner of the pile of confidential documents carelessly littering the desk, where the “politician” had been working before his “period of relaxation”.

  Later, and standing behind me for protection the “model” rather indelicately described the guest’s behaviour by shouting, “F***ing cheapskate! You f***ing politicians, you’re all the f***ing same!”

  The anonymous occupant of the hotel suite on the other hand confidentially informed me that her gratuity had been entirely proportional to, “her effort - or rather the lack of it!”

  The last fire had been started, when another un-named high profile occupant, having fallen out with his “partner” endeavoured to end the evening and the relationship by pouring a bottle of VSOP Cognac over the half-naked terrified man, before contemptuously flicking a lighted match at him and screaming, “I hope it burns that miserable, useless little toy off!”

  The poor fellow had instantly rolled into the bed covers to suffocate the flames, unfortunately, whilst he managed to escape unharmed, except for some rather smelly singed hair, the bed linen caught fire causing mayhem for the hotel.

  As I approached the suite on this occasion, a trickle of smoke curled lazily from under the door. The alarm had been quickly silenced and so now, the only sound filtering into the corridor was of shouting and laughter from Suit 401.

  I slipped my special passkey into the lock and cautiously pushed the door open instantly releasing a cloud of smoke, which enveloped me and rolled into the corridor. The smoke possessed the unmistakable aroma of that delicious plant which makes your head spin and your mind seem to work overtime.

  I stepped through the lobby and peered into the room. I could just make out a couple of partially dressed people propped against the wall in a passionate embrace. Others were wearing party hats and drinking Champagne from the bottles. Several others sprawled, heads back in armchairs, cigarettes in hand deliberately dragging more of the aromatic smoke into their lungs.

  “Ah there you are Marcus!” said the tall pale-faced man standing with his hand on the door handle for support. “I think we may have caused a bit of a stir!” he giggled like a little girl. “Come on in and have glass of Champagne or something?” He drawled, winking knowingly and gesturing for me to join the party.

  “No thank you Sir,” I replied curtly and gave him my professional half-smile’ the one you force through your clenched teeth. The smile you employ when you can only restrain yourself because you know you will be able to make it worth your while in the end.

  You really hate the man and all he represents but you can still smile at the thought of how you are going to make him pay, it’s that thought which always brings on a little internal chuckle. “I think we’ll have to tidy up pretty soon Sir - don’t want any more trouble with the authorities, do we?” I replied unctuously though my sickly smile.

  “Quite so,” the man smiled back. “A couple of hours okay?” he offered, trying and failing to look serious.

  I shrugged my shoulders. In fact, it did not really matter to me at all but this is always the moment when you have the advantage.

  “Trouble is Sir, I’m going to have to fix it with a couple of people - you know with the fire alarm company the security people and all that?”

  “Of course, hang on a minute,” he murmured conspiratorially and vanished into the bedroom.

  “Is everything okay?” A female voice startled me for a moment, but when I turned, I was relieved to see Connie standing in the doorway.

  “I just thought I’d come up myself." I didn’t think that it would be a good i
dea for that nosey night porter to get involved,” she smiled self-consciously.

  I stared at her – seeing her with new eyes for the first time. I had never before appreciated just how attractive she was. My heart literally missed a beat.

  “That was thoughtful of you Connie,” I managed to say.

  She did not reply and remained in the corridor.

  Do you know? I remember that day as if it were only yesterday; neither because of that crazy recurring dream that was to haunt me, nor because of the fire in Suite 401 or even the two-hundred pounds the playboy diplomat thrust into my hand to fix the room and help me to forget the drug-induced orgy.

  It was none of those things, but it was the day when Connie first touched my heart and that was the most wonderful day of my life.

  Chapter 2 - Connie

  Born in Krakow Poland, I was the eldest of two children lovingly raised by our devoted parents. Whilst poorly educated themselves, they steadfastly believed that education was the only way to extricate their children from the yoke of peasant life. Consequently, my sister and I were whole-heartedly encouraged to study at home, as well as at school. I eventually rewarded them by achieving a degree in social economics and English language, paving the way for my prime ambition in life, to travel and to see the world. My little sister was not quite so ambitious and in-spite of her own excellent results was content to seek a good career in her homeland.

  In those dark days, obtaining a permit for me to travel outside the country to fulfil my dream was difficult, in fact nearly impossible to achieve. Any application could take at least a year to be considered.

  My dad however was not the sort of person to sit back and wait and had heard of a man at the Town Hall who could produce not only valid travel documents but also and perhaps even more importantly, overseas work permits. The cost however was high and the family had to beg and borrow to acquire all the money.

  Eventually however, they passed over the agreed sum and the man from the Town Hall produced the appropriate travel exit and entry visas. “You must enter England as a student” he emphasised tapping the entry visa. “This you give to the man in London who will provide you with the ‘Work Permit’” and reverently handed over the letter with the address of the man in London “he is also going to organise some temporary accommodation for you.” I was so excited I eagerly accepted the offer; assured as he put it. “That the accommodation would be quite adequate, at least until you get yourself properly established.” In conclusion, he assured us that as every thing had now been organised and paid for in advance there was nothing left to worry about.

  My parents were as delighted as I was and fully convinced that they had done everything possible to start me on my epic journey, presented me with a battered old suitcase they had scrounged from a neighbour together with a nearly new overcoat. The final gesture was an envelope containing fifty English pounds. I have no idea where and I did not ask how they came by it.

  A few days later, after a tearful separation from my family, I was sitting alone and shivering in the freezing cold at Warsaw airport. Worst of all, I was also suffering from serious doubts as to whether my travel plan was such a good one after all. However, all that changed as I boarded the aircraft and when the giant machine finally lumbered into the air, I knew that there was now no going back and my adventure had finally started.

  The aircraft taxied to a halt at London Gatwick and the passengers disembarked.

  Customs and Immigration official looked sternly at the skinny twenty-year old standing meekly before him and then back to the passport and entry visa in his hand. The officer’s expression remained passive as he scanned the document for a few more seconds and then without looking up “Student?” he asked absently.

  “Yes” I managed to mutter from a tinder dry mouth.

  “Okay.” The Customs officer looked bored, it had obviously been a long day; he stamped the paper twice and then still holding the permit, he looked up suddenly, I am sure my heart missed a beat. The official stared at me for a moment as if it was the first time he had ever seen me. Then his expression changed into a smile. “There we are, and good luck with your studies.”

  I took the permit and in-spite of the flood of relief could not speak, my mouth was still too dry. I simply smiled back coyly and moved quickly passed the desk.

  Now all I had to do was get into London and find the address for the accommodation.

  I took the train from Gatwick airport to London Victoria. When I finally arrived at the station, rather than squander the money I had allocated for the taxi, I caught a double-decker bus to Battersea High Street and sat enthralled taking in the view from on the top deck. However, as I got off the bus, a fresh surge of anxiety began to creep though my tired body when eventually, and only after asking several times, I found myself approaching one of the less salubrious areas in the district.

  After walking more than one hundred meters down the dimly lit road I found the drab red brick house, a wrought iron number seven dangled from the door-frame. The once white paint was peeling from the door. The whole house looked deserted and forlorn. I consulted the address on the piece of paper for the umpteenth time hoping that there was some kind of mistake but there was no mistake, the number seven, stared up at me from my piece of paper.

  I reached out and hesitantly knocked on the door, after a few moments, the scruffy threadbare piece of material, which passed as a curtain, was pushed aside and a face appeared briefly at the window.

  It was the final straw and my nerve finally deserted me but as I started to turn and was about to run away, the door opened.

  Out of curiosity I suppose, I stopped and turned to see an Asian woman peering out of the gloom. “Are you the Polish girl?” The woman’s soft voice asked politely.

  I looked into the smiling face and relieved by the welcome tone held out my hand. “Connie Zatocheck.” I said.

  “Come in, we’ve been expecting you.” The woman shook my hand “I am Naomi” she said and then guided me through the dimly lit hall and into a rather better illuminated room. “This is Ahmed.” Naomi introduced the man slouched in an armchair.

  “Hello” Ahmed said without moving.

  Naomi looked at me and held her hand against her breast. “Can I get you some tea?”

  “That would be lovely.” I accepted gratefully.

  As Naomi vanished from the room Ahmed sat up, with a thin smile on his narrow features as pointed to a chair “ Sit down, Connie is it?" You must be tired.”

  I had not had anything to eat or drink since lunch-time and was exhausted from the journey. “Thank you, I am a bit” I said and sat on the dining chair facing him.

  Ahmed leaned towards me. “So I understand you need a work-permit and somewhere to stay?”

  “Well yes, my father arranged everything; he even paid the man in Krakow for the work-permit.” I told him trying to appear confident but Ahmed’s swarthy appearance made me nervous.

  “I see, well I’m afraid it’s not quite like that." You see what your father’s friend did, was to organise a meeting with me." He asked me to find the accommodation and also to obtain a work permit but you must understand no money passed hands, it will all have to be paid for here.” Ahmed raised his hands and sat back.

  I was shattered; I knew my father had paid the man from the Town Hall for everything. I pushed aside the distressing memory of the extra payment I had been obliged to secretly provide as well.

  “But we have already paid!” I objected.

  “I’m sorry but that man has cheated you, because he never paid me any money, how could he? You must understand to arrange an illegal work permit is going to be very difficult and also very expensive?”

  “But I have no more money!” I replied and slumped into the chair. “What am I to do?” I was desolate.

  Ahmed smiled for the first time and leaned forward again. “Don’t worry I’m sure we can work something out?” He said convincingly “Tell me what kind of work you are looki
ng for?”

  “I have a degree in Social Economics and English.” I told him. “But I can do any kind of work to start with, chambermaid anything until I get settled. You see I want to make enough money to travel and see the world!” I smiled and looked back at him attempting to appear as determined as possible.

  “I see, well you won’t make much money as a chambermaid and don’t forget you will have to pay for your work permit?” Ahmed looked serious and frowned nodding his head from side to side in doubt.

  I was about to speak when Ahmed raised his hand; a fresh smile adorned his bearded face. “But perhaps there is a way, an attractive girl like you; with the right connections it should be easy to earn ten times the wages of a chambermaid!”

  I recoiled in shock as he placed his hand on my knee.

  At that precise moment, Naomi returned with the tea. “Here we are and I’ve made you a little sandwich as well, I expect you could do with it?”

  Judging how Ahmed suddenly slouched back onto his chair combined with the look of distaste on my face, I was sure Naomi had instantly assessed the situation. Naomi looked decisively at Ahmed and the back to me. “You can stay here tonight my dear.” She said protectively placing a friendly hand on my arm “and then tomorrow we’ll get everything sorted out, okay?”

  Naomi turned back towards Ahmed “This girl is too tired now and so I think its time for you to go home to your wife and family and we’ll talk tomorrow.” She stood defensively with her hands on her hips.

  Surprisingly Ahmed stood up “You’re right.” Then he looked back towards me. “Think about it: easy money eh?” He winked. “Sleep well; I’ll be back.” He nodded and left.

  I was on the verge of tears but then Naomi stood reassuringly in front of me. “Now my dear” she held out her hand “the best thing for you is to get some sleep, you’ll be quite safe in the room next to me and then we’ll sort it all out tomorrow, eh?” She raised a knowing eyebrow and led me upstairs.