heard a shout.
‘Oi, you.’
Mickey looked up and saw a belligerent elf, about 5ft 11ins, in a Lincoln-green jerkin, green tights, curly boots and red felt hat, marching towards him, gesticulating like a deranged tic-tac man. He wore a green and white badge the size of a side plate, bearing the words: ‘Goblin’s Greeter. Here To Help You Have Fun.’
‘Oi, you. Yes, you. I’m talking to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the elf barked.
‘Excuse me. And who are you, exactly?’ Mickey replied.
‘Security.’
‘You’re kidding me. You don’t look like security. You look like something that just fell off a toadstool.’
‘Company policy. All employees dress like elves. Disney’s got Mickey Mouse and Goofy. Goblin’s has got elves.’
Whatever the outfit was supposed to achieve, the effect was spoiled by the clumsy tattoos on his forearms.
Mickey couldn’t resist a loud guffaw. He thought about chinning him but decided against it. He was too tired for a start. Anyway, think of the court case. GBH on an elf. He’d never live it down. Easier to take the piss.
Mickey engaged the elf in eye contact, then slowly surveyed him, up and down, from the bell on his hat to the curly points of his pixie boots.
‘And how many O-levels do you need for your job?’ Mickey asked.
‘I’ll have you know I used to work in a bank. But they’ve shut down all the branches round here and replaced us with hole-in-the-wall machines. You take what you can get. It was either this or Burger King. Anyway, stop changing the subject. You can’t park here. Can’t you read?’ The elf pointed to a sign indicating parking for the exclusive use of staff.
‘Just give us a minute, boss. I’m unloading my car. I’ve just arrived. I’m checking in,’ said Mickey, the joke wearing thin.
‘Well you can unload somewhere else,’ the elf said.
‘I’m supposed to be the guest here,’ Mickey protested.
‘Not my problem. Now move it, or I’ll have it clamped. There’s a £120 recovery fee.’
‘I don’t fucking believe this.’ A quarter of a century in the police force and here I am being ordered around by a fucking pixie, Mickey thought. ‘This is unreal.’
‘Only doing my job, mate,’ said the elf.
‘That’s what the Wehrmacht claimed.’
‘Eh?’ said the elf.
‘Ve vere only obeying orders, mein Führer.’ Mickey snapped his heels and thrust his right arm forwards and upwards in a Nazi salute.
The elf took two paces back.
‘Look, mate,’ Mickey said, wearily. ‘I know you’ve got a job to do. But, as I said, we’re the guests here, right? We’ve had a long day, we’re dog-tired. We just want to get checked in, go to our rooms and sleep. So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to unload the car, put the bags down here, and then, and only then, will I move the car. Is that all right by you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Elves have feelings, too,’ said the elf.
‘Sure,’ said Mickey. ‘Tell you what, do us a favour. While I’m moving the car, why don’t you frolic indoors and get a porter to help us with our bags.’
‘The porter doesn’t work nights. Check-in time is 6 pm. You’re late.’
‘I know we’re fucking late. You don’t have to tell me we’re late. I don’t suppose you’d consider giving us a hand with the luggage?’
‘Love to, mate, but I’m not insured, see. And I’ve got a dodgy back.’
‘Tell me about it, mate.’ Mickey shook his head.
Mickey dumped the bags on the kerb and Terry began to manhandle them up the steps to reception.
‘That’s all right, son. I’ll do it when I’ve parked the car.’
‘I can manage, Dad.’
‘OK. But leave that big one. I’ll fetch it indoors.’ Mickey shut the tailgate and walked round to the driver’s side door.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked the elf.
‘Not quite.’
‘NOW what?’
‘This is a no-smoking facility. You’ll have to put that out. We don’t allow tobacco anywhere on the site.’
Mickey took a last puff, threw the stub on the floor and crushed it underfoot.
‘And if there’s anything else I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ said the elf.
Fuck off and die, Mickey thought to himself. That would be a great help.
Mickey parked the car, walked back the hundred yards to reception, took the bags inside and registered.
The girl behind the counter was dressed in the same elfin uniform as the security guard.
‘Check-in is 6 pm,’ she said robotically, in the kind of voice employed by women in call centres.
‘So we’ve been told.’
Mickey asked if there was any chance of getting something to eat.
‘Sorree,’ said the girl. ‘Goblin’s Grille closes at 9.30 pm, Monday to Saturday and 8 pm on Sunday.’
Room service?
‘Sorree.’
Mickey asked if there was an all-night take-away nearby, where he might pick up some food.
‘Sorree, guests are not allowed to consume food bought off the premises in their rooms. Policy. You’ll find a full list of rules in the welcome pack in your room.’
Mickey would have to wait until breakfast, 7.30 am to 9.30 am, Monday to Saturday, 8.30 am to 10 am, Sundays.
The receptionist handed Mickey their room keys. ‘Second floor. You’ll have to use the stairs. The lift is out of order. Sorree.’
‘Great,’ said Mickey.
‘Glad to be of assistance, Mr French. Welcome to Goblin’s. Have a nice day.’
They lugged the cases up the stairs and, as Mickey settled the kids into their rooms, Andi ran him a hot bath.
‘At least the water works.’
‘Come
