Strangers

THE YOUTH HOSTEL AT GLENFIRTH

It never ceased to amaze Mairead how little respect folks had for the property of others. This building was here for the good of the community as a whole, and yet people seemed perfectly content to use and abuse the facilities without a care.

The old farm had stopped being a farm more than two decades ago now. After falling into disrepair, the one remaining habitable building, this two bedroom cottage, had been renovated and re-opened as a very basic youth hostel, catering to the needs of visitors attracted to the area by the hills and the hiking. On the whole people usually abided by the basic rules of the facility: pre-bookings only, clean the place when you leave, collect and return the key to Mairead down the road. But the girl who’d used the place last night hadn’t returned the key and Mairead needed it back as three lads from Newcastle were due later this afternoon. She had better things to be doing with her time than chasing around after bloody kids who thought the world owed them. She’d put all her cleaning stuff in the back of the car before she set out. If the lass couldn’t be bothered to hand back the key, she thought, then she sure as hell won’t have cleaned up.

The cottage door was open. The building was cold, but then again, it usually was. Mairead leant in and called out. ‘Hello… Hello, is anyone here?’

No answer.

Agitated, Mairead put her Hoover down by the door. This had happened all too often this season. The remains of a meal had been left on the table. Slovenly. It made Mairead cross. And she could smell tobacco too. Bloody hell, how large did she have to make the No Smoking signs? There was one stuck on every interior door. Was that not enough?

The kitchen could have been worse, she supposed. There was a little washing up left on the draining board, and a pile of clothes which had been washed and rinsed but never hung out to dry.

‘Hello…’ Mairead shouted again. ‘Are you here, Miss? I’ve come for the key. I’ll have to make a charge for the state of the place. It’s really not good enough.’

She picked up a waste-bin and carried it over to the bedroom door. She knocked and waited for a reply. When she moved again, the floor was tacky beneath her shoes.

Mairead looked down and saw blood. More blood than she’d ever seen before.