the ottoman motel

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Simon and his parents arrive in the small town of Reception and check in to the Ottoman Motel. Then, while Simon is asleep, his parents disappear. The Ottoman Motel is not only an intriguing character-based mystery, but a moving study of fear and loss.

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Simon was in charge of the room keys. His father had presented them as they got back into the car, like some sort of apology. It was always something like this. A dollar coin here, an extended bedtime there. Little gestures that meant nothing to Simon, but a lot, apparently, to his parents. He examined the keys. Two of them, identical, hung off a carved wooden keyring shaped like a turtle. The turtle was surprisingly lifelike. Even the eyes seemed real.

The car rounded the corner, going all the way around the large building that housed the Ottoman. At the other side, it turned into a pub, with a locked double-door, long glass windows, a small verandah. A thin driveway ran up beside it, with a Vacancy sign beckoning them in. The motel was a horseshoe of repeated door-ways surrounding an empty, pot-holed bitumen carpark.

Simon’s mother sighed. ‘This is—’‘This is why they don’t have a website,’ said Simon’s father.

‘Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves, though.’ He parked the car and they got out.

Simon stared at all the identical windows. The sky reflected back at him in repeated blushes of pink and orange.

‘Still in charge of that key, Simon?’Simon said nothing. He held up the key between thumb and

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forefinger, letting the turtle swing in the air.‘Room eight. You can open the door if you like.’Simon slumped up onto the concrete landing. It was lit feebly

by a stripe of naked bulbs: one bulb, Simon worked out, for every four doors. He found their room and slid the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and the room let out a smell a bit like lavender. It reminded him immediately of the sachets of dried flowers his grandma used to keep in every drawer in her house. Potpourri. Nothing had its real smell, even there.

Simon heard his parents rolling their cases across the concrete. He glanced back at them and his heart stuttered. For a second, something was very wrong. He knew it was just the strange light playing tricks, but for one moment his parents became different people. The shadows on their faces inverted; the familiar shapes of their expressions disappeared. It echoed a deep fear that played on him in silent moments, in dreams: that his parents were strangers, that nothing was real.

‘Flick the light on can you, Simon?’ His mother waved her hand at him.

Simon shook out the mirage from his head, felt inside the door for the light switch. He found it, and the room lit up in banana yellow. Like any hotel room he could have imagined: a double and a single bed, a desk, a small TV. The forgettable painting on the wall. Simon went in and sat on the single bed, a crumbly feeling. His parents brought their bags in, took inventory of the room.

‘Okay,’ said his mother. ‘Okay.’‘Bit Norman Bates,’ said his father, nodding at the painting.

Simon didn’t know what this meant, probably some artist who liked to paint landscapes with cows.

‘How long are we staying here?’ he said.‘Don’t know,’ said Simon’s father. ‘As long as we need to.’

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‘Not long,’ said his mother. ‘Hopefully not too long.’Simon nodded. He had guessed his grandma was sick, but his

parents wouldn’t tell him anything else. Something serious, to make them come down here. After not mentioning her for nearly five years. Sometimes he forgot he had a grandma.

His mother lay out on the double bed, her long hair bunching up behind her head, her shoes already slipped from her feet. ‘God,’ she said quietly. ‘This is all—’ She said nothing else, just held the back of her wrists up to her eyes.

Simon’s father left the bags by the door and sat down on the bed. ‘We don’t have to see her until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We can have a rest, go for a walk. Something.’

Simon’s mother held uneven breaths. ‘I’m already—this room—’ She shook her fingers at the ceiling.

Simon looked up, saw nothing but the sharp spikes of knobbly paint. One of their old houses had the same paintwork. Stalactites or stalagmites, Simon couldn’t remember which. He knew his mother didn’t like closed-in spaces. She was worse when she was working too much, worse still if she didn’t get to the gym. She’d push furniture to the edges of the room. As far as Simon knew, she’d never lived anywhere but big cities.

‘What about that lake?’ said Simon’s father. ‘The Magpie? We could go and see the sunset.’

Simon’s mother nodded. ‘The sunset.’Simon watched the closed curtains. The sun was an orange

presence behind them.‘Okay,’ said his father. ‘Let’s go and have a look at this lake. I

can take the camera. If it’s as nice as Jack said it was, we can get some pics for the calendar.’

Simon grimaced. The Christmas Calendar. Every year, his parents would put one together as a gift to send to friends and clients. A series of sentimental family portraits taken with a

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self-timer, the three of them rushing together in front of random backdrops. Simon always imagined his family as a set of opposing magnets: you had to throw them together quickly before they repelled apart.

His father opened a bag to search for the camera.His mother rolled over on the bed. She stretched out her arms.

‘Simon,’ she said, ‘are you coming to the lake?’Simon shook his head. He knew his mother had already

guessed he didn’t want to go.‘Of course you’re coming, Simon,’ said his father. ‘Remember

what we talked about?’He shook his head again. His father had attempted a conversa-

tion that morning while his mother was upstairs getting ready. It had still been dark outside, somehow making the new house even more huge. Words like support and difficult and complicated. His father’s cheeks had been so red. Each morning, scrubbed almost raw above the line of his beard.

‘Leave him,’ said Simon’s mother. ‘We won’t be too long.’‘By himself?’‘He’ll be fine. Won’t you, Simon.’Simon nodded. ‘I’ll watch TV,’ he said.His father shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, but you could be missing

something wonderful.’Simon’s mother got up from the bed. ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘He’s

old enough.’ She leaned in and kissed Simon’s forehead, leaving a cold moist place in the shape of her lips.

‘See you soon, champ.’ Simon’s father held his camera aloft by its strap, like a fisherman with his catch.

‘We’ll take the key,’ said his mother. ‘Don’t answer if anyone knocks.’

‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘Enjoy the water.’ He heard the lock snib. He walked over to one of the bags and found a book he’d been

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reading. Then, instead of going back to the bed, he pulled open the curtains. He watched his parents walk to their car, hand in hand, watched them get in, drive away. He switched off the lights and stood there for a while, trying to catch the day losing light. Knowing it wouldn’t get dark until he stopped watching.

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