Walking the corridors, my mind drifts back to a year ago. More specifically, to the day I started this life destroying existence. 'You'll find that the night shift is pretty quiet when you know what you are doing'� Darren's first words to me as he took me on my first of too many security patrols. Seemingly limitless stair-cases leading to floor after floor of guest doors, checking for keys left in locks by businessmen drowned in over priced bar liquor or room service request cards from residents too 'busy' to wake up half an hour earlier. Nostalgia is interrupted as I pass a stumbling guest, red-faced from too much forgetting juice.

'I'll get my ticket inshpector'� the man slurs through an inane grin while pointing to the clocking meter hanging over my shoulder. Smiling politely, I try to pass without incident; this guest however, now with curiosity piqued, gets my attention again and asks me to explain said devices function. Stifling a sigh I explain the reason for the meter, trying to sound as interested as the first time I went through this routine and trying not to laugh out loud at the disappointment that always follows, when they realise its mundane purpose. 'How dry get to this rooms?'� Holding a key card in front of my face, the man asks for directions, in what can be only be an invented language. Giving out directions, and realising he is not understanding a word I am saying, I am suddenly reliving the last year in fast forward.

Like a cheesy montage from an eighties movie, I see myself, a free spirited vital young man, seduced by a wage increase into a life on the wrong side of the bar. A life of optimism turned to cynicism, a life of enjoyment replaced by sobriety, a life reduced to serving people I despise for being able to enjoy what I cannot. Serving bastards that can't get through a single night without trying to forget their pathetic lives. Serving assholes that can't wait for one damn minute for their precious brain destroying poison. Useless bastards!

The reflection that stares back at me as I clean the blood off my hands looks tired and old, too old for my years. Drying my hands, I look at the body in the bath tub and realise I will have to let housekeeping know to put the room off tomorrow. They will not be happy; they're overworked as it is. Taking the breakfast card off of the handle and placing it on the dresser, I close the door behind me and continue my rounds. Reaching the stair case at the floor's end, I am relieved to find no room service requests; deciding all is quiet, I make my way up to the next floor.

Half way along the corridor, my ennui is disturbed by familiar sounds coming from the direction of one of the rooms. Moans and barely audible words seeping through the cardboard thick doors, demand closer inspection, which the voyeur in me is more than willing to indulge. With my ear to the door, like a radio tuning into a station, the sounds come into stark focus; heavy male breathing and female panting can be heard, occasionally stopping to allow the expression of vulgar profanities and requests for more frequency. I suddenly find myself thinking about the last sexual memory that didn't involve me as a spectator.

My memory paints the scene of ten months prior, a day of respite from work culminating in a marathon of bedroom gymnastics, where, it seemed, any sexual whim I expressed was no longer taboo or off limits, ending with me looking down into Carol's eyes, which never left mine as she jerked me off over her face, something which, prior to that night, was something they only did in porno to degrade women, apparently. Of course this was just softening me up for a conversation I had been avoiding ever since starting the night shifts.
'We can't go on like this, this job is destroying us.'� She pleaded. 'Don't be like that honey, we only need to do this a couple of years, then we'll be out of debt.'� I responded.
Looking back, that comment seems laughable. Being in a relationship where we hardly ever saw each other, where we couldn't go out as I was at work during the hours of play, where we could sleep in the same bed, but not at the same time. A couple of years; it's amazing it lasted a couple of months. But, eventually, as it had to, the loneliness got too much and she left. Packed and moved during the night, with only a note left behind for me to read when I got home. A note filled with false regrets and feigned sympathy, pointing out the irony, as she saw it, of leaving by the morning without me even knowing she was gone. The real irony, though, was that the bitch pushed me into finding better work and then runs off when a little hardship arrives, pissing away three great years because of feeble excuses like loneliness and lack of intimacy. Pathetic excuses for a pathetic bitch. Good riddance, useless slut.

Removing the master key from the guest room door, I suddenly notice that the noise has stopped. It hasn't just stopped though; it has gone silent as the grave. Straining my ears in an attempt to find some sign of life, I notice a dark crimson stain on my tie and a room service card on the door. Noticing there is no sound at all; I grab the card and slowly open the door with my master key. The lovers lay motionless on blood soaked sheets as I take out my notebook and make record of the room number, realising that I will have to cancel their wake up call. Placing the room service card on the dresser, I close the door quietly and continue with my rounds.

Two hours later, when I finally finish my rounds, I take my pad and check the numbers against the wake up call list, and to my surprise, end the patrol with no breakfast requests. Just as well, I tell myself; because if the hotel had been any busier, that round could have lasted all night. Checking the clock, I see I have four hours left before shifts end, and as I am feeling helpful, I decide to go to the kitchen and help the restaurant.

As is usually the case, I find a pile of plates and cutlery in need of cleaning, so rolling up my sleeves I start the hot water running and add soap. Taking a plate from the pile I go to dunk it in the water, when I am inexplicably mesmerized by the printed pattern and the food stains obscuring it. I start thinking about the person who had designed the pattern, how insulting to leave food stains obscuring his life's work. I think about the chef who cooked the meal, how ungrateful to send back a plate still bearing his art. This plate is a crime scene, cleaning it would be like destroying the evidence. I look over at the pile of dirty dishes and realise that I can't clean any of them, each item is its own story of injustice and covering up that much iniquity would make me no better than the worst overpaid soulless lawyer on the planet.

Suddenly I am disturbed by a buzzing from my pager; looking at the clock again, I realise three hours have passed. Putting the plate back on the pile, I take an educated guess that the morning cleaner has arrived, and go to the front door to let her in.

At the door, as expected, is a tall, attractive, dark haired Portuguese woman dressed in a chambermaid's uniform. Putting on my best smile, I open the door, only to see a look of horror on her face, followed by the sight of her running away as fast as she can. 'Gladys isn't going to like this.'� I muse, realising that the head housekeeper has always found it hard to get cleaners for the lobby. With a puzzled expression, I close the door and check the time again. Sudden awareness of the restaurant staffs imminent arrival causes me to print of a list of in house guests, which I amend in biro, to let them know who has departed and who won't be coming to breakfast. Finishing the list, I smile as I realise that they have a quieter morning than usual.

On my way back to the restaurant, to get started on laying out the buffet, I am interrupted by the pager again. Being a good quarter of an hour before the waiters usually arrive, I apprehensively make my way to the front door; but am pleasantly surprised to see that the cleaner has returned. Putting on my good smile again I open the door, only to be bustled out of the way by two large men in uniforms of dark blue, broken only by fluorescent yellow vests.

Feeling somewhat bewildered, I am asked by one officer to take a seat, as the other looks around the lobby; for what, I don't know. Pondering this puzzling turn of events, I suddenly find myself wrestled to the ground, arms pinned to my back and cold metal clasped to my wrists. This all feels far too surreal to be happening, I think to myself as I see the other officer hold up the breakfast guest list I had just printed. Thrusting it in my face, I am rudely quizzed about the meaning of my amendments. Nonchalantly I state my belief that the notations are self explanatory:
Room 25, Mr Graveson, deceased; room 42, Ms Leehan, deceased; room 82, Mr Lake, deceased; room 117, Miss Smith, deceased; room 151, Ms Mendel, deceased; room 210, Mrs Parker, deceased.

The next hour is spent in cuffs with police officers quizzing me repeatedly in a language that seems familiar, yet I cannot understand. Men in uniform are buzzing all around like wasps at a picnic, brushing objects with black powder, talking on radios in exasperated voices and giving me looks that are judgemental yet horrified at the same time. They bring in my manager, who listens to their bizarre language then collapses to his knees and sobs.

Seven o'clock arrives sooner than I expect as I am guided to my feet and led out the front door, past work 'colleagues' and their patronising, accusative expressions, when panic envelopes my entire being. Finding unnatural reserves of strength, I break free from my chaperones and push past my colleagues to run back inside.
With police in close pursuit I finally reach my goal, the panic subsiding as I come to a halt. Reaching into my pocket, I can hear the sound of voices all around; all speaking at the same time, still making no sense. Ignoring the noise I pull my hand out to the sound of thunder in my ears and a searing heat in my chest followed by a deathly chill. Looking down at my hands, I can just about make out the hole in my clocking card through the blood and swirling haze as the world starts to go dark, as a smile crosses my lips and one thought breaks through the mire of apathy that has enveloped my mind:

'Guess I won't be getting paid today.'�

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