The Royal Hotel, Orange, NSW

The Royal Hotel in Orange, New South Wales, is the worst hotel I’ve ever stayed in. Don’t be misled by the use of the word royal, there's no opulence, it’s the type of place recently divorced men in their forties commit suicide in.

I worked for a small branding agency in Australia called de Masi jones at the time. I travelled occasionally for meetings but it was begrudgingly; there were no luxury suites or fancy restaurants, it was always the closest hotel to the airport and service station sandwiches. The accommodations were arranged by our secretary, a bushpig named Shannon, and we didn’t get along. I’m not sure what her problem with me was as I’m quite amiable. I gave her a three-pack of underarm deodorant for Secret Santa one year. We were only meant to spend ten dollars and the three-pack cost twelve.

My room at The Royal didn’t even have its own bathroom. I had to share a bathroom with everyone else on my floor and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the 1970s. Tiles were missing and those that weren’t were brown and furry like a wet otter. You had to flush the toilet with a bucket of water and the shower drain was blocked with a wad of hair the size of a grapefruit. It was a tub shower and when the water rose to ankle height, the wad of hair floated around like seaweed in a current. When I stepped out, I had hobbit feet.

My room looked like a youth remand centre cell or a taxation department interview room. There were no pictures on the wall or welcome chocolates on the pillow, just a single bed, a wardrobe, and a box of empty pickle jars. The lock on my door was broken and the door jamb was splintered; it looked like it had been kicked in. When I rang the front desk to inform them about the lock and request a different room, I was told they were fully booked and to push my bed in front of the door if I was concerned about security. When I moved the bed, I discovered a prosthetic leg under it. Why would someone leave a prosthetic leg behind unless they died?

“Hello, it’s David Thorne in room 17 again. I moved the bed like you said and found a prosthetic leg under it.”
“A leg?”
“Yes, a prosthetic one. It has a sock and shoe on it. What do you want me to do with it?”
“You can keep it if you like.”

Around 2am, I was woken by a loud knock on the door. It may actually have just been a normal volume knock, but my head was only a few inches away.

“Who is it?” I asked, startled and confused.
“It’s Trevor.”
“Who? What do you want?”
“Let me in.”
“What? Why?”
“Just let me in. I’ve got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“Just open the door.”
“Do you work here? Is this about the leg?”
“What? It’s Trevor.”
“I was sleeping.”
“Fine, I’ll slip it under the door.”

I heard something being shoved under the door and footsteps walking away. I waited, until I was sure he had left, then turned on the light and reached under the bed to check what it was.

It was a folded A4 piece of paper with a drawing of a sword on it.