Hotelier gets more than he bargained for when he peeks through the keyhole

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I stood outside Room 856, held the silver tray aloft in my left hand and knocked quietly on the door.  There was a pregnant pause of one or two seconds, before an elderly gentleman greeted me expectantly. “Room service,” I announced. The man eyed the tall glass of warm milk on the tray and beckoned me into the room. “I know it’s late,” he started, “but my wife is not sleeping well.” “It’s all part of the service, sir,” I replied.  I placed the silver tray down on an antique oak sideboard, picked up the glass of milk and set it down on the bedside table next to an ageing woman, who looked up at me smiling. “Thank you,” she whispered, softly. “You’re welcome, madam,” I replied. Bidding my farewell, I made my way along the red-carpeted eighth floor corridor of the resplendent hotel towards the lift, the silver tray tucked neatly under my arm.  This was my second week as night porter at the hotel, the hours were long and hard to endure, but I needed the money to help fund my university course.  The job was anti-social too, but again, it allowed me to catch up on my studies, indulge in a little surfing of the net and listen to music; all things I had found little time to do of late.  I was also saving myself a small fortune by not being out all hours, drinking with my mates, even if they were on the verge of disowning me.  OK, so I was often called upon at two o’clock in the morning by guests pestering me for hot glasses of milk, but it was also good to stretch the legs every once in a while. Suddenly I heard the sound of laughter, followed by a loud cracking…


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