Hungry Ghost Part 2

Written by Holly Wilcox Routledge

It was thirty minutes to eleven by the time Lydia, my front office manager, told us that we could start printing out our paperwork and prepare for the end-of-shift handover. It was finally quiet; there had been something going on near Esplanade that had drawn most of our guests out of the hotel for the afternoon and early evening. It had been about six o’clock when the first trickle of people started to make their way into the lobby, some choosing to go to the elevators, others going to the bar where their voices could be heard, echoing amongst the marbled walls, slowly going up and up until eight, when it looked like the vast majority of the people we had in-house had returned. Laughter and chatter boomed from the hotel’s bar and restaurant, heels clicked against the floors, tinny slips of music and audio floated over from where someone forgot to turn the volume down, so that at one point, if anyone came over to the desk, we almost had to shout at them to make sure they could hear us. 

It wasn’t like we would ever actually shout at a guest, however. It was hotel policy not to, regardless of whether or not they deserved it. The hotel was a luxury hotel, located neatly in the Marina Bay Sands area, only a short walk away from the Merlion and the harbour, and connected well to public transport. As such, it held itself tightly to the corporate standards for a luxury property. We had to address a guest by their first name exactly three times during the check-in process—and never any less, unless you wanted corporate sending you a tersely worded message asking why you were unable to provide a loyal guest with the service fitting our establishment. All the girls on staff had to wear chiffon scarves, done in such a way that the logo of the hotel could be visible to the guests over our computers; and the boys had to wear plain black ties, with a metal tie-pin depicting the logo placed exactly above the fourth button of their shirt, and if the pin was too far up, or too far down, or slightly wonky, you would know about it quickly. 

The hotel had a healthy rotation of around one hundred to one hundred thirty people per night on average, though the number dipped or swelled during certain times of the year. During busy periods, like the grand prix, or whenever big artists came through, we could easily be fully booked out, night after night, and then still have a steady turnover rate, with barely any time to breathe and let things relax; though, then again, with our location, that was unlikely. The building was constantly busy, with people always present, whether they were staying in-house, attending one of our three restaurants or two bars, or having high tea in the lobby. Energy lingered long after people left—in the lobby’s marbled floors, the carpeted lounge with its plush sofas, amongst the long hall that made up the biggest of the restaurants—until even the moments of stillness carried their own weight. 

Now, at least, there were a few stragglers lounging around on the sofas, cocktail glasses and beer bottles on the tables in front of them, voices low, and the last few members of the cleaning staff were carefully going over the lobby and lounge, vacuums strapped to their backs as they patrolled the room. A trolley containing cleaning equipment and supplies hung near where the lounge carpet ended and the white marble of the lobby floor began, the large yellow bag that contained dirty linen and other fabric items bulging. Everyone was getting ready to hand the hotel over for the night.

I’d spotted a dream wandering down the foyer staircase at around nine o’clock, sliding between people as they made their way up and down, before slipping away up the walls toward the ceiling. No doubt if I stuck my head over the desk and looked up to the ceiling, I’d find it there, clinging to one of the fan blades. Normally, I wouldn’t be seeing any dreams at all, given most hotels had the usual blessings and prayers performed each year to ensure everything was kept in order, but lately, I’d started to see one or two. Not a cause for alarm, certainly, but not a good look for a hotel providing luxury service. 

Then again, it was August. Maybe it was just this time of year. 

Next to me, the printer huffed to life and began to whirr out a pile of paperwork. Jac was leaning against the desk with a pen, a pile of paperclips and a sheaf of papers, her pen tip tracing over details. I eyed up the empty, open-air desk of the lobby and cracked my neck, rubbing a palm against the juncture where my neck and shoulders met. 

Jac winced. ‘Aiyah. That was damn loud.’ 

‘Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’ 

‘Ah. Sorry to hear.’ She turned to her computer, her face suddenly awash with blue. ‘Nightmares again?’ 

‘Yeah.’ It was easy to pass off the unease I had around this time of year as just dealing with nightmares every other night. Besides, I didn’t feel like blabbing about personal problems, ghostly or otherwise, to coworkers. ‘I think it must be something I eat before going to bed.’ 

She kissed her teeth and shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t eat anything before bed. Eat in the morning.’ 

‘I’ll see.’ I pulled up my account on the hotel’s operating software and clicked through to my reports for the shift. There hadn’t been many rebates or refunds issued that day, thankfully. At least the night team wasn’t going to need a detailed list of things to correct overnight. 

Jac looked up and scanned the lobby. ‘Quiet. Finally.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘At least it keeps us busy.’ 

‘Yeah, yeah. Do you know what was happening tonight?’ 

‘Eh. Something must be on at MBS.’ She looked back down to her screen. ‘Or people going to Gardens.’

‘People always go to the Gardens,’ I mumbled, and watched as the dozens of pages of my report popped up. I scrolled through. ‘Are you done with the printer?’ 

‘Yeah.’ She pulled out her paperwork and began sifting through it. ‘Go ahead.’ 

There was only one printer to be shared out at the front desk at the moment; there were two for the four computers we had stationed across the desk, but the second was down and it was taking forever to get IT to come in and organise it. 

I clicked through my report tab, opening up the correct links and editing the parameters to make sure I had all the information required to make sure the report matched up to my shift, selected print, and waited for the printer to whirr into action. There was already a small list of things I was going to have to go through with the night manager regarding guest experiences for the day, and I didn’t want to go any further than what I had to. The majority of the time, staying longer than I had to after my shift ended was a neutral feeling, bordering on irritating. I clocked in, did my work, and then left when my designated hours were up. But when it came to August, staying on longer only pissed me off, and every extended conversation I was forced to have with my coworkers only served to annoy me further until I was snapping my replies and practically gnashing my teeth to get out. 

As far as I was concerned, all I would be doing was delaying the inevitable. Why bother sticking around, trying to gossip and chat with people I would be seeing the next day and the rest of the week? There was nothing to be done on nights like these. It wasn’t like I did anything after work either—all I had to look forward to was dinner, maybe a drama, and then sleep. Over the years, I’d tried all sorts of tricks so that I could sleep through the nights without ever returning back to that place, but it never worked. There was zero point. 

It was never their fault, of course, and I knew, sulkily in the back of my head, that they had no idea what was going on. I knew they didn’t deserve how sharp I became with them, or how direct I was with what needed to change over the shifts to provide better service, but I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. It was better to keep coworkers at an arms length. 

There was the soft whisper of paper sliding on top of paper, before the machine whirring slowed, gave a last huff, and came to an end. I reached down to grab the reports before giving them a look-over. 

Jac said, ‘You doing anything after work?’ 

‘Nope.’ I eyeballed the negative postings. ‘I’m going home.’ 

‘Where do you live again?’ 

‘Near Chinatown.’

‘Ahhh. Expensive, issit?’ 

‘Yeah.’ I flipped through to the third-party payments. ‘Sometimes.’ 

‘Is that why you work all your hours?’ 

‘Sure,’ I said, only just paying attention to what she was saying. Her tone buzzed just beneath her words, but I couldn’t be bothered to try and investigate it. 

Jac tutted, but when she spoke, it sounded like she was smiling. ‘You must get a good paycheck for that.’ 

‘I do indeed.’ I stapled the report together and gave a quick look through the desk drawer.

‘Do you send it back home?’ 

‘Nah. I keep it all for myself.’ I shut the desk drawer and turned to go straight into the back office before Jac could ask me anything else. Or, rather, before she could ask me the inevitable question that always followed whenever it was implied that you sent pay back home. 

Prabhat was already leaning against the duty manager’s desk when I walked into the back office. He held a plastic bottle of coffee, nodding to something Lydia was saying as she stood in the doorway to her own office. The bottle was glistening with condensation, droplets running over the back of his hands, and he kept having to hold it with one hand so that he could dry the other on the knees of his work trousers. It was strange to see him this early, in uniform no less. 

Lydia caught sight of me with my paperwork and straightened up. ‘Paperwork?’ 

‘Yes, ma’am.’ I walked over to hand it to her before sitting down on the edge of the desk. 

‘Any rebates or negative postings?’ She asked as she flipped through the pages, pulling a pen out from behind her ear. 

‘None for today.’ 

‘Good job,’ she murmured, eyes darting across the page, her pen tip trailing behind. ‘It was busy this afternoon, you did well handling everything.’ 

‘Thank you. It’s going to be busy for the rest of the week, I think.’

‘Because of the school holidays?’ she asked, signing something at the bottom of one of the pages. 

‘Yes. I don’t think anything else will be going on this week beyond that. The next big concert is going to be happening in early September,’ I said. 

‘Do you know who?’ 

‘It’s a K-pop group. A girl band,’ Prabhat said, tossing the bottle between his hands. ‘My girlfriend wants to go.’ 

‘Huh, I see,’ Lydia said, sounding like she wasn’t paying any attention. She signed down at the bottom of the page she was looking at, then another, then flipped the final page over. ‘Alright. Done. Put this away for the night, team.’ 

The file organiser where we dropped our financial reports was nailed to the wall near the communications desk, just below the CCTV monitors, and was brimming with paperwork for everyone who had been on shift for the day. I could make out multiple third-party payment forms held together with paperclips, Lydia’s signature a ghostly scribble through the pages, and dropped my paperwork in. 

‘Hey.’ A tap came at my elbow, and a sheaf of papers wafted up out of the corner of my vision. ‘Can you put mine in there too?’ 

‘Okay,’ I said, without even looking at the voice’s owner, plucking the paperwork out of a hand and dropping it into the organiser. ‘No reversals today?’ 

‘No. The phone was ringing constantly this afternoon, I didn’t get the chance to go over any payments or requests like that.’ 

Prabhat groaned from behind us. ‘More work for me, huh?’ 

‘It’s only because Aiping likes you so much,’ I said dryly, looking down at Aiping’s flushed face, the ruffled, frizzy-looking hair. ‘She wants to make sure you have something to do on shift tonight, so that you won’t be so bored.’ 

Aiping ran a hand through her hair—probably for the nth time that night—and sighed, visibly deflating in her chair. ‘No, lah. It was too damn busy this shift. There were so many requests for room service.’ 

‘There’ll probably be even more overnight, then.’ I leaned back against the communications desk and looked up to the CCTV and the empty lobby that appeared, captured in electronic squares. ‘Have fun, Prabhat.’

‘Don’t remind me. What else is there for handover?’ 

I pulled out my phone and started to go through the list I’d made in my note-writing app. ‘We had several complaints regarding AC and fans in rooms, as well as phone connection issues. Everyone knows that maintenance has already left for the night and they’ll be coming in tomorrow morning at six, so make sure when Hasim comes in he knows there’s six rooms he has to see first.’ 

‘Which ones?’ 

‘I’ll give you a list, I have a few other rooms to give you as well, but they’re not for maintenance issues.’ I looked down at the notes. ‘We had last-minute requests for cots and rollaway beds for the next three nights for four different rooms, so if anyone makes any requests tomorrow morning and they’re on a new booking and don’t have anything down in the requests—’ 

‘Let them know it’s subject to availability.’ Prabhat nodded. ‘Anything else?’ 

‘Not from me. Aiping, if you have anything, let him know. I’m gonna ask Jac. 

Aiping nodded and turned, launching into a list of requests and issues she’d had on her end. 

Jac was half going over her paperwork, half eyeing up the lobby as I walked out onto the front desk. 

‘We’re doing handover. You got anything for Prabhat?’ 

‘No. Did you tell him about the cots?’ 

‘Yes.’ I eyed up her paperwork stash. ‘Don’t forget to drop your paperwork in the folder for night audit.’ 

‘Will do.’ She snapped up her collection. She seemed closed off compared to before, her actions quick. I couldn’t tell if my previous comment had hurt her that much, or if she was just in a rush to go home. 

Either way, I turned back into the back office, where Prabhat seemed to be anticipating my return, judging by the way his eyes sharply turned onto me the second I stepped in, even as he was facing Aiping. 

He gave me a nod and then turned to face me. ‘Evening, boss,’ he said, unscrewing the cap of the coffee. ‘You got the list of rooms?’

‘Oh, yeah. Sure. One sec.’ I picked a piece of scrap paper out from the printer and started writing the numbers down. ‘How is it outside?’

He took a sip. ‘Busy. How are you getting home?’ 

‘MRT.’ 

‘Wah lao eh, it’ll be damn busy there.’ He set the coffee on the DM desk and slid into the seat. ‘Where do you live again?’ 

‘Near Chinatown.’ I side-stepped Aiping, who suddenly got up to make her way towards the corridor that led towards the back-of-house stairs, phone in hand. She was probably going to call her boyfriend to pick her up. ‘My housemate works near there.’ 

‘She can’t drive you?’ 

‘She doesn’t have a car.’ 

‘Do you have a car?’ 

‘Nope.’ I dropped the room list in front of him. ‘And I can’t drive anyways.’ 

He shook his head again and kissed his teeth. ‘Kids these days.’

At least she was going to be out of the house. She worked nights, stuck to her own routine, with her own friends and goals and idealisations. Occasionally, we intersected on days off, but nothing more than a nod across the kitchen, or small talk about the weather. It was just the way I had wanted it to be for the last two years whilst I worked here in Singapore. 

‘Sure. Anything else you need from me?’ 

He picked up the rooming list and eyed it up. ‘If that’s all I don’t think so. You covered everything in the handover, didn’t you?’ 

Well, alright then. There was no point sticking around if I could go. They certainly weren’t going to give me anything else to do when I was due to clock out, and this place didn’t do overtime. Hell, it didn’t even do it by the hour. 

‘Awesome,’ I said, going to where my water bottle was tucked away near the boxes of pens, and snatched it up. ‘Have a good shift.’ 

I headed straight down to the back of house stairs, not even bothering to check if any of them were following after me. 

The night air was cool as I walked out of the staff entrance, tugging my rucksack over my shoulders. Surprisingly so—I had been expecting a brick wall of humidity the second I exited the air-conditioned premises. A few members of the kitchen team milled near the staff exit, smoking as the end-of-day procedures in the restaurant continued, the main lights of the restaurant flooding out over them and switching off one by one, until all you could see were dark figures flitting amongst the large windows like moths.