When five rough sleepers receive a mysterious, personalised invite to a luxury Scottish hotel, The Black Griffin, they each have no idea who has sent it or how they were found. Despite the offer of free food, luxurious accommodation, and full use of the leisure facilities, they all suspect sinister motives. Not all of them have rosy pasts.
The Black Griifin Hotel is luxury personified, and the rough sleepers who make it to Aberdeenshire are soon glad they went. Sumptuous surroundings, fabulous food and luxury accommodation. And alcohol. Plenty of it.
What could possibly go wrong?
Greg is in a temporary rut and is drifting west along the South Coast, waiting for an opportunity to prove himself. He deals weed, nothing harder, and everyone knows weed is okay. Squatting in a house share in Brighton, Greg makes enemies fast and stays nowhere for long.
Stuart lost his fiancée, home, and life because of his gambling habit. He is a highly skilled carpenter who secretly sleeps at a house he is helping renovate. So, how does an invite get posted there when no one knows about it? He's a big guy with a huge heart and readily acknowledges his problems are self-made. He has five months to pay £10k of debt and works night and day to raise the sum.
Harrison was born to wasters, sponging loafers who leach the benefits system of everything they can. He had a job, but they took all his money in rent and living expenses, forcing him to leave. Six years on, Harrison survives on his wits and natural-born snooping abilities.
Dominic is searching for his sister, Georgia. She ran away from their abusive parents and was last seen in Whitby. Working punishing hours at a dodgy carwash, Dominic will not rest until he finds her. He sleeps rough to save money and cares little for his well-being. All that matters is finding his sister.
Luca has been on the streets for seven years and is resigned to spending the rest of his days homeless. Unable to read, and duped into taking the blame for an aggravated robbery, Luca's only salvation is a Wetherspoons waitress who keeps an eye on him. Despite his abysmal past and wretched future, he has an innocent heart and a sweet nature.
Chapter 1
Stuart
Southend
Stuart knew the letter was for him, even though it wasn't his house. He didn't know how he knew it, he just did. Call it morbid intuition. The only people who knew where he worked were his boss and two colleagues, who were strictly business acquaintances. They had no idea he was crashing in the back bedroom when they left after work. He stood in the hallway and stared at the simple white envelope, warm sunshine beaming through the landing window. The arrival of spring was a godsend. Winter had been grim, a slow crawl through an endless dark chill. He glanced at his watch, a cheap Casio digital. 6.50 am. It was too early for the post to arrive. He plucked the letter from the floor. There was no address, no stamp. That made it worse.
Mr Stuart Davies
Nice writing. Stuart was sure he had never seen the style before. His hand trembled, and he fought the urge to yank open the door and search the streets for whoever might have delivered it. At six foot two inches tall and with a lithe frame packed with muscle, not many people in his life had been brave enough to square up to him, even though many had told him he had a kind face. Trusting eyes. A gentle nature. On the outside, tough. Yet fear was his constant shadow. Fear of being found squatting and losing his job. Fear of running out of money. Fear that however low he might be now, the bottom was still well down in the dark hell below. Fear of friends and family discovering how pathetic his life had become. Both his parents were poorly, they didn't need to be worrying about him, too. The envelope weighed virtually nothing. He doubted it contained more than a couple of sheets of paper, yet still he dreaded opening it. A simple piece of paper had the power to destroy. You owe us money. You are due in court. You need to be checked for cancer. Of course, the letter couldn't be anything like that because no one was supposed to know he was staying at the house, but it couldn't be good news because, in Stuart's experience, good news only ever happened to other people. He continued to stand motionless in the hallway. The lounge to his right was stripped to its essentials and was home to several toolboxes, tubs of wall filler, paint pots and a foldable workbench. Whitewashed walls were a blank canvas, ready for the next incumbent to mark their personality through colour, texture and tone. Letter in hand, Stuart grabbed his coat from the newel post and slipped quietly through the front door.
Twenty minutes later, he sat in McDonald's drinking a sweet flat white, his breakfast bun still in its wrapper on the table beside his phone. He'd woken hungry enough to eat five buns, but now his empty stomach churned with acid. Food would have to wait, though he had to stay nourished. The last thing he needed was illness to get the better of him. His work was physical. Alan, the boss, was a decent bloke compared to some, but the straight-talking Geordie wanted plenty of effort for the meagre wage he paid. Stuart worked twice as hard as the other two on-site, Mick, the plumber and Dave, the sparky, and neither did anything near a full day's work. Stuart did what he was told when he was told. Filling, painting, tiling, fixing, clearing up after the other two, and for nine hours of grind he received sixty quid cash-in-hand. Criminal exploitation, but so much better than nothing.
Despite the warm day and his seat by the window, he felt the ice in his bones. Sleeping on the floor, fully clothed with only a blanket over him, the chill of night was ever-present. It had been a moment of inspiration when, one morning, Alan had told him he was taking Mick and Dave out for a liquid lunch to celebrate Mick's birthday. Alan had left the keys to the house on the kitchen counter, and an hour later Stuart had returned from town with a shiny silver copy of the front door key. Since then he'd had somewhere to stay, avoiding sleeping rough outside over the bitter cold months of February and March. April had been only marginally better. Since Saturday, there had been hot water, so he'd enjoyed a decent body wash. His spare clothes, two thick shirts and a pair of black jeans were tucked away behind the garden shed in a thick plastic bag, along with his toothbrush and razor. Unfortunately, Alan had mentioned that the job was ending soon, another two weeks, tops. Stuart cupped his hands around his coffee, the heat more precious than the contents, and tried not to think about what would come next. Alan was already flitting between the renovation in Southend and a new build in Stevenage. Maybe there would be a few weeks between finishing the job and someone moving in? Stuart hoped so. Of course, he'd have to dodge the neighbours, and any lights were a no-no, but it was a small price to pay for relative warmth and safety.
The envelope. It felt heavy now, snug against his chest. Stuart dug it out from his coat pocket and fumbled it open, suddenly aware of the other diners around him. Had someone been following him around? He couldn't think of one good reason why anyone would. Yes, there was Barry, but they had an agreement, and there were still five months to go before he had to honour the deal. This wasn't Barry's style, anyhow. So, who on this Earth would want to write to him? He'd spoken to his parents for a couple of minutes just yesterday. I'm fine, Dad. I'm working and doing okay. Not exactly a lie. Others had it far worse. As carefully as Stuart looked, none of the other diners seemed interested in him. They were primarily tradesmen grabbing something to eat before hitting the road. A couple of school kids slurped their cokes through straws as they shared YouTube videos. A middle-aged fellow read a newspaper with a pile of empty shopping bags on the seat beside him. No one appeared to give two fucks if he was there or not. Finally, Stuart scanned the envelope's contents.
Mr Stuart Davies
I am delighted to invite you to a three-night stay at the luxurious Black Griffin Hotel.
Check-in Date: 12th May Check-out Date: 15th May
Hotel Information: Black Griffin Hotel, Nr Newburgh, Aberdeenshire
Additional Notes: You will have access to all the hotel's amenities, including the restaurants, spa, pool and fitness centre, completely free of charge. Our concierge team will be available to assist you with any special requests. You may not bring a guest and this invite is non-transferable. Enclosed is a digital train ticket for your convenience. A car will be waiting at Perth on your arrival. All return journeys will also be paid.
I very much look forward to seeing you. PB
Stuart reread the note then checked the envelope for the promised train ticket, and sure enough, it was there, dated as promised for May 12th from Southend Victoria to Perth railway station. Stuart sipped his coffee, the pop tune playing in the background fading to nothing, the noisy restaurant suddenly melting away as his stomach continued to spin. At least it wasn't bad news. It wasn't from a solicitor, thank goodness. He slipped the invite and train ticket back into the envelope, put it on the table, and slowly unwrapped his breakfast bun. He took small bites, though he could have devoured it instantly, and realised May 12th was only days away. He grabbed his old Samsung phone, fully juiced from last night, and joined the restaurant's free WIFI, then punched in the Black Griffin Hotel, Aberdeenshire, and followed the link to the official website. A hero banner revealed an impressive building nestled deep in lush countryside, and for the next five minutes he browsed through the pictures and associated blurb. Spa facilities, a swimming pool, a golf course, water activities on the adjacent loch, luxury rooms, a renowned chef and a top-rated restaurant - it all looked crazy expensive. Surely someone was playing a practical joke on him? Yes, that was it, Mick or Dave, it had to be one of them, and it would also explain how the sender knew he was working at the house. Those two were always kidding around with each other, full of playful banter, but they hadn't bothered with him so far. Was this their way of accepting him into their clique? He finished his muffin, wiped his fingers on a serviette, and fished the digital train ticket back out of the envelope. For a joke, it was highly elaborate, it certainly looked like the real thing and included a QR code, but these days, anything was possible to fake on the internet. Stuart sighed, glanced at his watch, and tried to remove all thoughts of swimming pools and luxury beds from his mind. He had a kitchen and downstairs closet to tile and a back garden to clear. Still, he secured the envelope and its contents carefully inside the chest pocket of his coat. As he hurried back to the house he was pretending not to stay in, he thought about the mouth-watering picture of the salmon salsa verde en croute he'd seen on the Black Griffin's website a few moments ago. Yes, definitely a joke.