Читать книгу Отель / Hotel - Артур Хейли - Страница 8

Marsha Preyscott wished she had spent her nineteenth birthday some other way. It had been a mistake to come here. But as always, and rebelliously, she had sought something different, which was what Lyle Dumaire had promised.

She had known that boy for years and dated occasionally. His father was president of one of the city’s banks as well as a close friend of her own father. Without thinking about it, she said yes, when he asked whether she wanted to come with him upstairs to the small, crowded suite 1126-7. There were more people than she expected, and some of the boys were already very drunk. One of the girls had passed out.

Something was happening in the adjoining room, to which the door was closed, though a group of boys, whom Lyle Dumaire had joined – leaving Marsha alone – was there. She heard a question, “What was it like?” but the answer was lost in a shout of laughter. When she realized, or at least suspected, what was happening, disgust made her want to leave.

If her father had come home as he promised, she would not have been here now[4]. Instead, there would have been a birthday celebration at home. But he had not come home. Instead, he had telephoned from Rome. Perhaps, there were some things in Rome, which he wouldn’t tell her about, just as she would never tell him what was happening in room 1126 now.

Youth was a dull time, Marsha often thought, especially when you had to share it with others the same age as yourself. There were moments – and this was one – when she longed for companionship that was more mature. She would not find it though in Lyle Dumaire.

Others were beginning to leave the suite. One of the older boys whom she knew as Stanley Dixon came out from the other room, “… girls said they’re going.”

“Why not somebody from here?” It was Lyle Dumaire’s voice, much less under control than it had been earlier.

“Yeah, but who?”

Marsha ignored them. The suite was almost cleared. If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down.

Then she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front of it, his hands behind him. The lock clicked.

“Hey, Marsha,” Lyle Dumaire said. “What’s the big rush?”

Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.

“I’m going home.”

“Aw, come on. Have a drink.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Some of us have had a good time already. It’s made us want more of the same,” said Dixon. The other two, whose names she didn’t know, were grinning.

“I’m not interested in what you want.” Though her voice was firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear.

“Listen, Marsha,” Lyle blustered. “We know you want to. All girls want to. Eh, fellas?”

They began to move closer.

“If you touch me I shall scream.”

Suddenly, without seeming to move, Dixon was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another holding her arms. She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.