(We resume Striking the Sun from Part Two. This is the first chapter. We’ll share the entire Part Two chapter by chapter over the coming months.)
The story so far
After a catastrophic fall-out with his professional cycling team, Dominic thinks back to when he first met his boss and best friend, Liam Greene. In 2003, a fifteen year old Dominic discovers his bicycle can emancipate him from small-town life, and finds a confidant in Liam. Dominic and Liam experience teenage life together, and along the way, Dominic’s unlikely crush on Amanda Grass ends in heartbreak when Liam announces he’s her boyfriend. By 2008, Dominic is the star of a small, corrupt British cycling team, with a small group of close friends. Liam returns from a winter in France facilitated by Henri Giroud, and stakes his claim as a champion. He quits in dramatic fashion to join the biggest team in the world. Dominic quits out of solidarity, and spends three months soul-searching on Koksijde, before finding a place on a small Belgian team.
Disillusioned journalist Susan conquers a hangover and the amorous advances of sports writer Steve, then haphazardly covers an event she doesn’t consider particularly newsworthy. She’s placed on a performance plan by editor Jonah and his deputy, Nathan, but while it prompts her to attempt to improve her life, she soon relapses into bad habits. As she finishes up the launch of the G Magazine with an existential horror playing on her mind, she finally admits her alcoholism.
Henri Giroud’s articles border on the nonsensical, and his commentary is an assorted mix of grunts and misunderstandings. He arrives for a voiceover job, where his inability baffles his new colleagues. But perhaps an essay for Cahiers du Cyclisme hints that he’s more cognizant of the cycling world than he’s given credit for.
Chapter 15 – Dead and Empty
“Is this your hotel?” The taxi driver said.
It didn’t look like it. The car park was a vast sea of empty concrete. In the grey winter light and under low clouds, the tower rose dead and empty into the sky.
The cab drove away when I reached the top of the steps leading to the entrance, and with that my last link to civilisation was gone. The inside of the building was so unlit that I couldn’t see through the glass, my own reflection rapidly approaching me as I neared the entrance. I expected the door to resist my push, for me to have somehow ended up stranded outside a locked building on the wrong side of the island, but instead it swung open on my lightest touch.
The windows were designed to keep out the oppressive summer sun, but on a day like today left the deserted lobby feeling foreboding and dark. The reception was untended. After ringing the bell a couple of times and receiving no response, I made my way to a leather wing chair and sat with my bag at my feet staring vacantly at a fireplace that didn’t look like it had ever been used. I called Nikki but she didn’t answer, and when I hung up I noticed my roaming phone had connected to the Xanox network. One more reminder of Liam’s success.
My new team sponsor was Veiligstil Glas, a Belgian double-glazing company. The co-sponsor was a Belgian company that took government contracts to repair cracked paving slabs. It really was a triumph that the team’s owners managed to sell shirt space to these companies, but these small, national companies seemed unreliable long-term financiers for a team with international ambitions. Nikki had been my only point of contact so far, but she was the press officer by all accounts. How many other roles was she filling for the team?
My phone rang in my hand.
“Dominic, it’s Nikki. I’m in the team car behind the riders right now. You’re in room 302 if you want to pick up your key behind the desk and get settled. Okay?”
The call ended so abruptly I wasn’t sure if she’d hung up on me or my phone had lost the signal. I dropped my phone into my bag and hoped it was the latter, a small failing of the Xanox network.
Despite the peculiar circumstances that had met my arrival, I’d continued to respect the usual hotel boundaries, and now Nikki’s suggestion that I go somewhere I shouldn’t be to retrieve my room key filled my chest with an irrational nervousness. Was I really supposed to just go behind reception and get it myself? I peered over the top of the desk. There was an off-white plastic computer that didn’t quite fit, teetering over the edge. From the size of it, and from the curious yellow staining that made it look an antique, I assumed it was some vestigial remnant from the 1990s, never updated and running complex, obsolete hotel check-in software. Next to it was a tall stack of papers with dog-eared corners, and a chewed biro laid on top. I plucked up the courage to walk around behind the desk, where I found what looked like a dartboard case with “claus/claves” written on it in thick red marker. The small double doors opened with a creak, and behind I found a rack of small silver keys hanging from tiny hooks, too many to count. I took the one labelled 302.
I wanted to take the staircase to my room, but after circling the lobby all I could find was an elevator, which made a juddering noise when its doors opened at different speeds to one another. It sunk when I stepped in, then slowly lifted me to the third floor, swaying gently the whole time. It released me into a narrow corridor with salmon walls and a dark green carpet so footworn its fibres were visible in the most heavily trafficked spots. The door to 302 looked old, and the tired lock groaned when I turned the key. The door pushed open three quarters of the way and then banged heavily against something. I slid through the gap. The bathroom was directly opposite the entrance, so close together neither door could open fully.
The room opened out to the right of the short corridor between entrance and toilet, but it didn’t open out much. There was one double bed squeezed between the walls with just enough space on either side to scuffle along sideways. The one window was covered by long, unwashed net curtains and when I investigated further, it turned out to be a glass door to a tragic, narrow balcony that looked down on a closed convenience store.
I set down my bag and sat on the end of the bed. It wasn’t the pleasant apartment I’d been staying in, but it was going to be okay, this room, probably, if I could remember not to slam the door against the bathroom each time.
Speaking of which, it had been a long time since I left behind my toilet in Koksijde. The bathroom door opened outwards, and despite all my best intentions it swung quickly and cracked against the front door. Inside it was tiny, with a toilet and sink squeezed awkwardly next to each other, and a shower bunched up so close to the rest that the configuration seemed implausible. I tried to open the shower cubicle’s door, and was unsurprised when it only got halfway before slamming against the cistern. Inside the shower, someone’s washbag balanced neatly over the showerhead. Was someone else here? I flushed cautiously.
There was a pair of trainers tucked under the foot of the bed when I stepped out of the bathroom, a pair I must have failed to notice when I’d walked in. I inspected the room, and noticed there was a bag tucked down on the left hand side, squeezed between the bed and the wall. Either me or this other person was using the wrong room. I opened the door again and leaned outside: Room 302. And so I went back down to the lobby and stood by the reception desk.
When I called Nikki, it went straight through to her voicemail. Xanox was still contributing to my problems.
“Hi Nikki, it’s Dom. There’s a problem with the rooms. If you could just give me a call back when you get this message.”
I got a return call straight away.
“Hi Dominic, we’ll be back in ten minutes so I’ll be able to fix your problem then. There should be some food in the restaurant if you want to get something to eat, and I’ll meet you in there?”
The signs led me to the far end of the lobby and through a set of double doors. This room was bright, with one long wall of windows looking out over a patio, and beyond to the beach. Along the far wall was a large buffet train put out by the team. The chefs should have been around here somewhere, but I hadn’t seen or heard another person. Underneath the first two metal lids were large bowls of salad, dense thickets of rocket. The next dish had olives and cheese. The next had pieces of bread.
Considering it had been seemingly abandoned all morning, the salad I picked at while I dipped my bread in its dressing was surprisingly crisp, peppered with chunks of rich cheese. The coffee machine was lit up, so I poured two cups on the double strength setting, taking a moment of pathetic joy at using a hotel coffee machine without having to queue. Fifteen minutes had passed by now. I pulled my book out of my bag and read it at the table while sipping at my coffee.
Every time I set my cup down it spilled a little more coffee onto the surface of the rickety garden table, with its hole in the middle for a parasol, surrounded by garden chairs. The patio was empty through the windows. It was pretty clear the outdoor furniture had been stored in the restaurant for the winter, though why they had chosen to do this was more of a conundrum and left me wondering what had happened to the restaurant’s real furniture.
The windows rattled with the wind, but there was no denying the view was special. Small distant waves crashed on an empty beach. On the horizon the sea stretched as far as I could see.
I was getting bored of my book, and the table’s wobble at every page turn, and the uncomfortable seats. It was getting on for forty-five minutes I’d been waiting when I heard the noise of cars and talking and doors opening. The dark lobby suddenly lit up, and I felt silly for not finding a light switch. The sound of cleats on the wooden floor echoed through the building like the sound of horses cantering. Voices rose and fell, some exhausted and some exhilarated, all speaking Flemish. A stream of cyclists walked past the open door to the restaurant and I stood up to meet them right when Nikki walked in.
“Dominic! We’re so excited to have you here.”
Beyond the double doors behind her, riders and staff chatted in the lobby. For a while longer separated from me, like waves crashing in the distance.
“I’m looking forward to riding with the team.”
“What do you think of the hotel?” She said. “It’s supposed to be closed for the winter, but the man who owns the local cycling cafe spoke to the owner and he’s letting us use it.”
“That’s really nice of him.”
“Have you eaten, Dominic?”
“I have, it was delicious.”
“Please excuse me a moment.”
She visited the buffet, pondering the contents of each metal container for an agonizingly long time, then dropped the salad tongs on the floor and gasped loudly at her mistake. She returned holding a plate with only a small amount of food, neatly arranged.
“In summer this place is very busy with German tourists. The hotel hires out bicycles and valets them when you return so you are always riding a clean bicycle.”
“So the owners are cycling fans?” I said. “Are they here?”
“Ah, this table is wobbling. Shall we move to that one?”
There was no more noise from emanating from the lobby. My chair creaked when I stood up and moved over to the new table. She poured herself a glass of water.
“The boys are going to have a massage and speak with Svein, our team director. They’ll be around later and we can get you introduced.”
“That will be nice.”
“Although you will meet them all tomorrow obviously,” she said. She got up and started to pour a coffee from the machine. “What bike size do you need?”
“A 52 please.”
“I’ll let Franck know,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I’ll bring a bag of kit to your room too. The other boys have theirs but I saved yours.”
“Ah, my room.” The opening I needed.
“Room 302. Did you find it alright?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“That’s good.” She said. She looked out across the windows. “I’ve never seen the water so far out.”
“It looks like somebody else is using it,” I said. “The room.”
“Yes, you’re sharing with Wes,” she said. “Have you met him before? Tall boy, nicest boy on the team.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“His uncle is Willem Hekking. Very good cyclist. You must know him.”
“Oh. But my room, there’s only one bed.”
“Room 302?”
“Yes, there’s only a double bed and somebody else’s things are in there.”
“Double beds?”
“One bed in the room.”
“Oh! Wes won the raffle, I forgot,” she said. She put her empty coffee cup on the table and stood up. “He got the single bedroom. Come to the lobby and we can fix this.”
When we stepped outside the dining room, the lobby was quiet again, as if all the commotion I heard never happened. With the lights on, the hotel seemed like a new place, more open and clean. Nikki gave me a look like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to do the next bit, then went behind the desk.
“Let’s see. 301, 302, 303,” she said. “No, I don’t think there’s another room.”
“What are all the other keys?”
“The boys are already using those rooms.”
“The other keys.”
“Oh,” she said. “We’re only allowed to use floor three, the rest aren’t made up.”
She started counting the keys again.
“Well,” I said, “Given the circumstances…”
“Just one moment, I’ll see what I can do,” she said. I watched her finish counting another time, with her saying riders’ names at each key. “No, there’s only 302.”
“Given the circumstances, maybe I could take a room on another floor.”
She came out from behind the counter. I heard doors opening and then closing down the corridor.
“I’m sure we can get you a new room, I just have to make a call to check.”
She started to tap a number in her phone, but Svein walked over to us both.
“You must be our new rider,” he said, shaking my hand. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, I’m sure you’re going to fit in just fine. I’ll let you have Nikki back in a moment, but I just need to speak with her for a few minutes.”
He put his wide forearms on the curve of the reception desk and leaned toward Nikki. She gestured that she’d be five minutes. I walked outside, through the beach-side doors, for want of something to do.
