by Guy N Smith
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Jeff s heart flipped as Ann hove into view, wearing her official overall and supervisor’s motif: a childish urge to announce to the whole company that she was his girl. Hold on, she isn’t, you’ve only had one date so far. Please God she hasn’t come to turn me down on tonight.
‘Ah, Mr Dolman,’ she was consulting her notepad, ‘how are you enjoying the food?’
‘Food’s okay,’ a humourless smile, ‘it’s the rest of the place that stinks!’
‘I see. Well, I’m only concerned with the catering.’ Ann’s voice was suddenly cold. She, also, had taken a dislike to this man. ‘Oh, hang on, here’s the waitress now.’ She turned in her chair, reached out to relieve the girl of a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. ‘Let me help you, Susie. Is yours the roast, Mr Dolman?’
‘It is,’ he answered gruffly, watched Ann put his plate down in front of him. ‘Christ, I’ve never seen a place where they try to put the working man down as much as here. Get the toffs in with their money and hide the workers from them.’
‘I’m afraid that’s no concern of mine.’ Ann was already sliding out of her seat, a meaningful glance towards Jeff Beebee. ‘But you’re satisfied with the food, though, Mr Dolman?’
‘You’ll soon be hearing from me if I’m not, sweetheart.’ He spoke with his mouth full, a grunt that was supposed to be a disillusioned laugh.
What a rude bugger, Jeff thought. The other had deliberately sent Ann packing, a born troublemaker. A militant, doubtless. Jeff concentrated on his food, he wasn’t going to have his holiday spoiled by the likes of David Dolman.
It was 11.30 by the time Ann arrived at the Late Night Chophouse. She looked harassed, glancing about her as though she might spot Dolman eating in here.
‘What a bloody dinner companion!’ Jeff squeezed her hand. ‘He did his best to wind me up the moment he sat down, and because I wasn’t having any he didn’t speak for the rest of the meal. Mind you, I’d rather it that way, but I haven’t got to sit by him for the rest of the holiday, have I?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve already had him moved,’ she smiled at him. ‘He is well known, by the way, outside the camp. An anti-everything bloke, been in trouble with the police on more than one occasion.’
‘You have files on guests?’
‘No, but reputations follow people around.’ She glanced away. ‘By the way … I think it would be better if we weren’t seen together in public after tonight.’
‘Oh?’ An unexpected bodyblow. ‘Your lover been complaining?’
‘Don’t say that, please, Jeff.’ Her eyes were misty. ‘I promise you I haven’t had anything to do with the man I was having an affair with. Except that he’s my boss and that could make life difficult for me.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He dug into his pork chop, it seemed tasteless. ‘Don’t be afraid to give me the brush-off if that’s how it is.’
‘Oh, it’s not like that, I promise you,’ There was an appealing honesty in her expression. ‘I don’t want to see him again socially but I do want to keep my job. For the time being, at any rate.’
‘Fair enough, I wouldn’t expect you to chuck your job in just because you’ve met a feller on holiday. If that’s how it is, then it’s fine by me. I got some more wine in today, by the way.’
‘And I’m looking forward to it.’ She seemed to shrug off whatever had been bothering her. ‘Work has been getting me down lately, I don’t mind admitting it.’
They were on their second glass of wine, carefree laughter seeming to dispel Ann’s earlier mood of disquiet. Outside, the funfair was in full swing and if you listened carefully you could hear two bingo callers vying in their attempts to be heard above the din. People hurried to and fro past the chalets, holidaymakers making the most of every minute available to them. A place of gaiety and laughter, a cardboard world of artificial entertainment. And yet, Jeff thought, there was an underlying disquiet, something his senses had picked up but he was unable to put his finger on it. In a way Ann Stackhouse was the focal point; she had hinted yesterday that this was no place for him, something was definitely worrying her deep down.
‘When’s the camp close down?’ He kissed her and thought that this was no time for making small talk.
‘September the twenty-fifth, a week earlier this year. Why?’
‘I just wondered … what your plans were then?’
‘Back to my flat in Cambridge, I guess,’ she answered. ‘A winter in the firm’s offices.’
‘I didn’t realise the Paradise Camp had their head office in Cambridge. My brochure stated a London address. At least, that was where I sent my cheque.’
‘I don’t work specifically for the camp.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I’m with the catering company.’ And as if to stop him asking any more questions she moved her lips on to his, opened her mouth slightly in an invitation to his tongue to push inside.
He felt her shuddering against him, squirming back down on to the utility sofa and pulling him with her. Again it was an invitation, at least he thought so. But Ann was different. Which was stupid, he had set her up on a pedestal, apart from other girls. They were man and woman in the throes of a passionate embrace but still he was afraid to make the first move in case it ruined everything. A dilemma which she settled for him when her hand pushed its way between their crushed bodies and found him.
‘We’d have more room in the bedroom,’ he whispered, and nibbled the lobe of her ear.
She offered no resistance as he slid off the couch, helped her up and led her through to the adjoining room. Two trembling and eager people who did not give a damn right now what else went on in the Paradise Holiday Camp.
Chapter Seven
The Donkey Derby on the main recreation field was always a weekly success. The area was packed on both sides of the racecourse, stewards having to keep straying children back and warn careless parents repeatedly. All part of the atmosphere because it was difficult enough to encourage the twelve animals to complete the course. A blazer-clad official usually managed it by secreting a carrot in his pocket; a ritual which the donkeys had learned over the weeks.
The commentator occupied the platform of a six metre high rostrum half-way along the track. Total chaos everywhere, donkeys refusing to stand, trying to break free of their juvenile jockeys when they recognised the man who carried the carrot and having to be restrained.
Without the lengthy build-up the race would have been an unprecedented flop. The commentator was chalking the odds up on a blackboard, announcing them in his booming voice for the benefit of those who were short-sighted or too far away. 50p was the maximum bet and the camp bookmaker in his straw boater had been announcing for the last quarter of an hour that the betting was about to close. It would only close when there were no more customers.
There were six runners and it was a foregone conclusion that Benjamin III would be the winner today. Benjamin won it once a month, shared the honours in rotation with J-J, Noddy and Joshua. As families rarely booked for more than a fortnight nobody had realised this, or if they did then they put their money on the favourite and were content with a 20p profit. The Derby contributed a major share of all the camp donkeys’ keep and there had never been any problems. The more chaos, the better.
Finally, the starting line was ready and a hush fell over the crowd. A flag was lowered, pistols had long been found to be detrimental to the race as most of the animals shied and tried to break in the opposite direction.
‘They’re off!’ The man aloft in his gaudy blazer had to work up a fever of excitement; children were kicking the flanks of their mounts, officials were tugging on the head collars. ‘Keep well back, please, any second they’re going to burst into full speed. Get that child off the racecourse! Thank you, madam. And Benjamin III, the favourite, is already in the lead by two lengths, with Hobbit close on his heels. We are in for the most thrilling race of the season, there’s no doubt about that!’
Benjamin III would have ended the r
ace there and then had not his minder deviously held him back under the guise of trying to keep him on course. Hobbit had lost interest and was having to be pushed from behind. Today, none of the animals seemed bothered about carrots.
‘Benjamin III is managing to hold his lead in spite of fierce competition from Hobbit. Muffin is now in third place. Oh, what a race we have today, ladies and gentlemen!’
The crowd were cheering, jostling for a view of the winning line. One of the rear beasts had managed to break free and was heading back the way it had come to a chorus of good-natured catcalls. The official holding on to Benjamin III glanced up at the platform, received an answering sign. Let him go, Charlie!
Benjamin III cantered on ahead, broke the tape. Hobbit followed him and came second. Third and fourth places were always a photo finish; it made for excitement, added realism to an otherwise shambles.
A section of the crowd were pushing their way towards the bookie’s stand, eager for their twenty-pence pieces, a free candy floss for the kids or half a bag of chips that would taste extra good. The thrill of winning.
The organizers had long learned the art of diminishing an anticlimax once the Derby was over. An announcement of other events due to take place elsewhere shortly, a run-down of the donkey winners several times. And if you went to the donkey field in about ten minutes you could have a ride on Benjamin III. Free, of course.
The commentator laid down his megaphone, slipped out of his blazer. It was bloody hot but it had gone well. His fear was that one of these days it wouldn’t, that there would be a rumpus, catcalls of ‘cheat’ and a bombardment of some of those soft apples which Jimmy at the fresh fruit stall gave away to the kids when the wasps plagued him too much. But today had been ace and that was all that mattered. He descended the steep wooden steps and headed for the tea stall.
Somebody else was climbing up on to the rostrum. People saw the wiry figure but ignored it even if it was not wearing camp uniform. Probably a maintenance man about to dissemble the structure. There were a lot of things in the camp you saw and ignored because it was none of your business. The man, whoever he was, had picked up the megaphone, lifted it up to his mouth.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, brethren, fellow workers.’
‘Christ Almighty, who the hell’s that?’ The Derby commentator was almost at the tea stall, turned back as the words reached him. Officials were staring in amazement, the dispersing crowd stopping to listen. Just in case it was a re-arrangement of bingo times or else something was being given away free.
‘Brothers, we are all gathered together in this camp because we are the so-called workers in this country. The exploited, down-trodden, slave-labour, call it what you will, for whilst the likes of you and I work, others grow rich and fat. And lazy. Even here. This place is supposed to be a place of recreation for the working classes, but just look about you. Look at the other end of the camp with its luxury chalets, its wine bars and restaurants. In complete contrast to the shabbiness of your own accommodation. Your ghetto. Even here you are being exploited. I ask you, are you going to stand for it? Haven’t you stood for enough already?’
‘Jeez, who’s that bum?’ a yellow-coated official asked. Colleagues glanced at him. Somebody had to intervene. But it had never happened before.
‘I’ll get him down.’ A tall man wearing the same yellow uniform but with a diagonal stripe on his sleeve pushed forward. ‘A bloody nutter!’
The crowd had turned back. People generally listened en masse, a gregarious trait. Silence except for the funfair which was too far away to drown the speaker’s voice. A gag, maybe. A spoof like the Donkey Derby, another form of entertainment.
The official broke into a fast trot. Where the hell were the camp’s security force? Probably drinking tea and counting the takings from the day trippers. This was their job. But they weren’t around so now it was his. He reached the bottom of the steps and looked up.
A little man with a sharp face but those features were twisted into fanaticism, the veins on his forehead standing out. It was certainly no joke.
‘Hey, feller, I think you’d better come down.’ It was meant to sound authoritative; instead, it sounded weak, a pathetic plea. But the man up on the platform never heard, he was launching into another fierce diatribe.
Oh, Christ, I’ve got to go up there! The yellow-clad man never had had a head for heights and he did not like trouble either. Whenever there was a fight in one of the bars there were always burly security men to be summoned on the radio. This afternoon he didn’t have a radio with him, there had never been trouble at the Derby before.
‘Hey, feller, you’d better come down!’ Louder this time but it still went unheard.
He began to mount the steps nervously, one at a time. Feeling each foothold before putting his weight down, forcing himself to look up. For Christ’s sake, don’t look down! It’s only twenty feet from top to bottom. Enough to break a limb. Or your neck. Shaddup, you stupid bum!
He paused, had an elevated view of the crowd through sweat-streaked eyes. They had come back, the majority of them had returned to listen to this bilge. Silly fuckers!
Almost at the top now. And nobody’s followed me in case I need help. Thanks a bundle, what the hell do I do now?
‘They’re insulting you, brothers, and ripping you off at the same time. And you’re going to take it lying down?’
‘Give it a rest, willya, pal?’ The official’s head and shoulders were above the platform. He could see the other’s legs, saw that he was knock-kneed, that his plimsolls were scuffed and torn. A bloody hobo, a loudmouth who was probably on drugs.
The speaker, checked, turned and looked down and for the first time their eyes met. The yellow coat was aware of a dry mouth, a desire to scramble back down the ladder to the safety of terra firma. This guy was crazy, for sure, you only had to look at his eyes to realise that, the way they bulged in their sockets, stared fixedly. Forcibly switching his mind from his oration to the fact that there was an intruder upon his platform. The orbs glazed, cleared, blazed with a fanatical anger. ‘And what the fuck do you want, sonny?’
‘I … you’d better come down. We … need to dismantle the platform!’
‘Get down before I kick you down, you capitalist minion! They’ve sent one of their servants to prevent the truth being spoken. Bugger off!’
The other was in the act of retreating, had no wish to engage in a physical conflict at this height, but he was too late. He saw the foot driving at him, threw up a hand to protect his face, and in the same instant lost his balance. Falling even as the tattered sneaker smashed through his flimsy defence, caught him full in the face. He screamed, saw the ground below through a blur of pain, crashed through the vertigo barrier like in one of those dreams where you feel yourself falling downstairs but wake up before you hit the bottom. Except that on this occasion there was no waking. A crunching blow, then another, as his body bounced and slid, inverted and trying to grab the steps as he fell past them. Missing, gathering speed, aware that a deafening, mocking cheer had gone up. You bastards, you wouldn’t give a shit if I broke my neck!
Hitting the turf in a heap, rolling over, straightening out, tasting blood in his mouth and then an awareness of pain, not just from his face but from a leg which was twisted beneath him. Everything was darkening, a crimson-tinged haze, knowing he was going to faint, cringing because the crowd were jeering; baying like a pack of hounds which had finally run a wounded fox to earth.
The man up on the platform was speaking again, addressing his audience as though nothing untoward had happened. A slight interruption but it was over and done with. ‘You see, brothers, they fear the truth but I will not be silenced …’
Two grey-uniformed men appeared at a run, security helmets hastily strapped on at a jaunty angle, truncheons dangling from thongs at their waists. Camp Security was emblazoned on their tunics; there was trouble and it had to be stopped at once. Unprepared, because it was eight hours away from bar-closing time.
Official bouncers, Paradise police.
They hit the wooden steps at a run, felt them creak and bow beneath their combined weight, truncheons drawn now. Down below a couple of yellow coats were attending to their injured colleague, calling up the First Aid department on their radios. But the priority was to get that rabble-rouser.
‘Get back, you capitalist pigs!’ Dolman was at the top of the steps, unafraid and undeterred. Just angry at yet another interruption. The watching crowd was in full voice; they had not anticipated such live entertainment to follow a bland Donkey Derby. It was a spoof, of course, set up purposely. An outdoor circus, trained stunt men putting on a rough and tumble act. Maybe they were inviting audience participation. A few of the more daring closed in; it could be fun.
Dolman drove a kick, again aimed at a face just above the level of the rickety platform, the full weight of his lithe body behind it. He braced himself for the impact, combined it with a shriek of frustration and rage.
There was no impact; just as his toe was on the point of contact with a face half-hidden by a reinforced PVC visor, those features moved to one side. A deft flick from the neck, just enough to dodge the direct line of attack; deliberate, a trained defensive action, no hint of panic. Dolman’s leg swung up in an unintended arc, his roar of pain coinciding with a pulled groin muscle. Such was his swing that he was unable to check it, the damaged leg outstretched, the other going over on its ankle as his point of balance was suddenly shifted. His arms were flung forward, fingers grasping at space, a novice swimmer who had attempted a dive from the top springboard and decided to chicken out too late. Airborne, and falling clumsily. Mingled profanities, a heavy thud as he fell, hit the wide ladder halfway down, rolled and bumped all the way to the bottom. He thudded on to the springy turf within a yard of where a stretcher crew was already on its way to load up the first victim, and lay still. Sightless eyes stared skyward, the colour was fast draining from the ruddy face.
