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every sound bounced off the creamy white walls and straight into Sanchez’s ears.
    Fortunately, Sanchez saw, there were plenty of porters, busboys and receptionists to deal with the guests as they all jostled for attention. Which was just as well, since checking in was one of his least favourite activities in life. It ranked right up there with having his thigh squeezed by a repugnant old fortune teller.
    He quickly realized that to waste time gawping at the sheer size and opulence of the place would likely cost him his chance of being served quickly. Already a few people had darted past him towards the reception desk. Seeing this, Sanchez shifted up a gear and headed for one of the six female receptionists. They were sitting in a row behind the chest-high oak desk, each with a monitor on in front of her. Five of them were already busy, but fortunately the best-looking one seemed still to be free.
    Sanchez scuttled over to her and set his large brown suitcase down on the floor. Grinning like a fool, he peered over the desk at her. A quick glance down the line at the others confirmed he had struck gold. Undoubtedly he’d picked the best-looking one. This was only fair, of course. A man of his distinction and sophistication shouldn’t have to waste his charms on just anyone. She was a petite young woman in her early twenties with long dark hair scraped back into a ponytail that had been brought forward to hang down over her left shoulder. Like each of the other receptionists, she wore a smart vest in some shiny red cloth, with a pristine white blouse underneath. The vest had a gold emblem sewn on to the left breast. Staring at it for an inappropriately long time, Sanchez worked out that it was some kind of a fork. Odd choice for an emblem, he thought. But hell, there ain’t no accountin’ for taste.
    ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the receptionist asked, in an accent that betrayed her origins in the Deep South.
    ‘Sure. Sanchez Garcia. I won this competition.’ Sanchez fumbled around in the inside pocket of his brown suede jacket for a few seconds, before finally pulling out the now somewhat tatty letter confirming he had won a stay at the hotel hosting the rather exciting sounding Back From the Dead singing contest. He handed it over to the receptionist who took a look at it and began tapping away on a keyboard in front of her. As he waited for her to confirm his stay and offer him his room key, he heard the voice of Annabel de Frugyn behind him. He prayed she wouldn’t spot him and come hovering round, giving the receptionist the false impression that they were together.
    ‘Ah, there you are, Sanchez, I thought I’d lost you.’ There was a horrible cooing tone to her voice, somehow.
    Fuck! He turned round and saw the ludicrously badly dressed, silver-haired old witch standing behind him with a luggage cart on which her three suitcases had been piled.
    ‘Yeah. We seemed to get split up back there,’ he said. ‘Figured I’d look for you here.’
    ‘Well I’m here now.’ She smiled, in what she fondly imagined was a coquettish manner. Fondly, but inaccurately; the effect was, in fact, nothing short of grotesque.
    ‘Maybe we should split up again? I was enjoyin’ the thrill of lookin’ for you everywhere.’
    Annabel gave him a playful shove in the back and rolled her eyes at him.
    ‘Why, Sanchez! You’re such a tease.’
    The receptionist next to the girl serving Sanchez had just finished with her latest customer and called over to Annabel, ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
    ‘Yes. You surely can, young lady. Annabel de Frugyn. I won this competition.’
    Sanchez, relieved to see Annabel head over to the other receptionist, turned his attentions back to the young woman dealing with his arrival. She was regarding him with an apologetic ‘I’m sorry, sir’ look on her face. A look Sanchez had seen far too many times in his life, especially from pretty girls. Something was wrong. He could sense it.
    ‘I’m