Beauties and the Beast by Eric Scott

men’s room.”
    Winter looked round. “They said the door to the right.”
    â€œThat is correct,” said Thornton. “It’s the men’s room.”
    Winter pushed past Thornton and opened the door. He peered inside and then gave Thornton a pitying look. “Do you lie just for the sake of it?” he asked. He pushed the door wide open and marched through. Wondering, Thornton followed.
    His mouth gaped when he walked inside, for the antiseptic men’s room was no longer there. It had been replaced by a warm and friendly Green Room. The walls were painted a gentle hue of blue-grey with woodwork done in golden orange. There were comfortable arm chairs, a hot food bar that steamed delicious odours, a refrigerated table of cold cuts, from venison to smoked salmon and caviar. The salad and fruit bar were straight out of a five star hotel. There was also an impressive wine rack and several white plastic tables and chairs. There was an archway behind the hot food bar that led off to who knows where and inset into the wall a strangely out of place antique oak door, pitted with worm holes. The lock was darkened brass and a huge key protruded from it.
    Billy was staring at his surroundings. “Jesus,” he said finally. “What about this, man?” He walked round touching things. “I mean, it’s cool, man. But, it’s wrong. You know what I mean? It’s new.
    â€œThis place, it’s shiny, like it was made today, but the rest of the place - mouldy, dirty, dark, and cold. They just don’t mix, man.” He moved to the door and was studying it as Thornton tried to come to terms with what was happening.
    â€œI don’t understand,” he muttered. “I just left this room, and it was a men’s room I tell you.”
    â€œI know you’ve got a low mind,” said Billy, “but this ain’t no men’s room; a gentlemen’s room maybe. Was it dark when you came in? Perhaps you came in here in the dark and went through the big door there.”
    â€œNo,” Thornton shook his head. “I pushed open the door the same as you did.” He went to the door. It was the same white painted flat surface. “I came in and, this was a men’s room. Am I going insane?”
    Billy had moved on to the hot food bar. He sniffed and was suddenly starving. The sight of crinkly, brown-skinned barbecued chicken made his mouth water. He grabbed at a plate and pulled a complete chicken onto it. Then, with his stomach groaning, he sped to a table. He sat and tore off a leg. The meat was succulent, juicy and filled with flavour. It snatched a memory from his subconscious.
    Sunday in the summer, lazy days, warm winds and the windows open. His father, benign and belching up the gas created by his lunchtime ale was ready to carve the roast. The chicken was not frozen in a plastic bag; it was no washed-out battery bird, but straight from the farm on the outskirts of the village.
    â€œGod did I use to live in a village?” The mellowness was replaced by a world rushing by.
    Thornton gave up trying to work out this time warp, this extra dimension. The sight of Billy, almost Neanderthal in tearing the meat from the bones of the chicken, and the tantalising mix of aromas that emanated from the bar drove his own gastric juices crazy.
    He moved to bar and inspected it closely. Oysters! Gleaming fresh, with the smell of the sea still on them, cracked ice, barely melting. Then, through the smells one began to separate, the raw spicy aroma of jambalaya, the Creole stew of fish and crustaceans. He followed his nose and there it sat, steaming, dark, and red-brown. Pink-fleshed prawns and lobster pieces floated simmering on the surface. It was the most perfect dish he’d seen outside of New Orleans.
    He grabbed a bowl and then greedily ladled the mixture into it. His hands were trembling and his mouth salivating as he carried it to table as far away from