by Guy N Smith
The crowd applauded. It was a stunt and a well-done one at that. Slapstick comedy when you least expected it, a combination of a militant-capitalist take-off, the baddie and the goodie both ending up on stretchers.
‘So much for him!’ The lower security officer was already beginning to descend, taking his time because there was nothing to hurry for. Leave this berk to the First Aid chaps, pass the buck. ‘Let’s finish our tea and get down to the bank, Joe.’
Tim Morrison had been General Manager of the Paradise Holiday Camp since its formation. His generous expense account furnished a comfortable lifestyle within the camp itself, a wardrobe of expensively tailored fashion suits, cigars and a well-stocked cocktail cabinet in his impressive office, and a fortnightly visit to the hair-stylist to maintain regular perms for his ash-blonde hair. At 38 ambition was his driving force; he was a ladies’ man but he had so far dodged the snares of matrimony. One day, perhaps, when the Board had kept that hint of a promise to make him a director. Astute, efficient, he also knew how to bluff when he made the odd error, could always find a scapegoat when necessary. Popularity with camp staff was not a recipe for promotion and familiarity only bred contempt.
There were problems daily; you delegated them, checked up afterwards to ensure that they had been resolved. Keep the customers happy, build up a reputation. There was a framed photograph of himself in reception with the words ‘General Manager’ in gold lettering beneath it. ‘Be seen and be recognised’ was his private motto.
Routine problems were the responsibility of Administration; Tim made sure of that. He was in his office from 9.30 - 3.30 to dictate letters to his private secretary and take phone calls which nobody else thought they could handle. Outside ‘office hours’, he repeatedly reminded his staff, his job was to be out and about in the camp, a watchful eye to ensure that everything ticked over. A drink in the various bars was a necessity to observe bar efficiency and customer satisfaction.
But Tim Morrison’s worries, his nightmares, began when Professor Morton and his team of devious scientists had been installed within the camp with the outward blessing of the Board of Directors. Tim considered that his enforced signature upon an Official Secrets document was little short of an insult. He had demonstrated his diplomacy, his loyalty to the firm, from the outset. Yet they had insisted and he had had to go along with this crazy idea. If it was leaked then they would all be for the chop and probably the government would go down with the boat, too.
He lit a cigar, not for effect this time but because he needed the rich Havana tobacco to steady his nerves. His hands needed something to do or else he would be twisting his fingers and playing with them like a nervous schoolboy being carpeted by a stern headmaster. And when that headmaster was Professor Morton your guts threatened to throw up a lavish lunch.
‘This has got to be played right down,’ Morton spoke softly, chewed on the stem of his pipe and added to the thickening tobacco haze in the General Manager’s office. The door was closed, the only sound was the fast clicking of Claire’s typewriter in the adjoining office as she waded through the morning’s dictation. ‘A hiccup, no more.’
‘Two men have got hurt.’ Tim shifted his position in his chair once again. ‘A yellow coat and a guest. One or both of them is likely to kick up a rumpus about it.’
‘Dolman won’t. We’ll see to that, don’t worry.’
‘He’s one of your … guinea pigs?’
Morton’s eyes flickered behind his thick lenses, a mere hint of anger but it passed just as quickly as it had come. ‘Yes, one of our experiments. It seems that he is steeped in militancy and that overrides everything else in his system. We know that he has been spending some considerable time with one of your staff, your head groundsman, Arthur Smith.’
‘Smith’s a bloody pain and a lazy bastard to boot. I’ll sack him, get rid of him for you.’
‘No, no. We want him where we can keep an eye on him. Do no such thing. But Dolman will have to be … contained. I understand that he has suffered a sprained ankle and concussion. He must be returned to his chalet and …’
‘He’ll have to have medical aid. The hospital in town will have to check him over, perhaps keep him in overnight.’
‘He must not go to a hospital. We cannot afford to have him “checked over”. See to it that he is taken from your First Aid room back to his chalet. Instruct them to do it now before some fool calls an ambulance!’
Tim Morrison’s hand shook visibly as he lifted the receiver, dialled a double digit. A curt command which he hoped covered up a quaver in his voice and he dropped the receiver back on to its cradle. ‘Done’, he was sweating, ‘even if they do think I’m crazy. They were just about to call the hospital. Donnachie will have to go to hospital, though, he’s got a broken leg.’ And for Christ’s sake we’ll never get away with trying to hide that.
‘That’s fair enough,’ Morton permitted himself a faint smile of satisfaction, ‘but we have to keep him happy. Double his compensation, and send him home for the rest of the season on full pay. He won’t ask questions.’
‘Somebody will, though.’
‘Naturally, but the answer’s simple. Dolman had been drinking, he climbed up on to the platform and then fell off. Goodness, you get drunks fighting somewhere on the camp most nights. This happened to be just a little more spectacular. We’ll let the drug wear off him, he won’t remember a thing, and if he asks questions we’ll tell him precisely that. He’s very lucky the police weren’t called to arrest him for disorderly behaviour and charge him with GBH. He’s got a reputation as a troublemaker, has been in trouble with the law more than once and he’ll be only too glad of the let-off, you mark my words.’
Tim Morrison sighed with relief. The professor had come up with the answers. This time. It was the next time which worried the General Manager and there would always be that risk as long as these scientists were around.
‘Drink?’ He nodded towards the cocktail cabinet in the corner. Because I’ve never needed one more than I do right now.
‘Why not?’ Morton smiled, relaxed visibly. ‘I’ll have a small scotch, please. As a matter of fact there is something I’ve got to talk to you about. Do you happen to have your accommodation file handy?’
‘Claire can get it for us,’ Morrison buzzed the intercom, ‘anybody in particular you want to know about?’
‘Yes,’ the professor’s expression hardened perceptibly, ‘if you’ve any information on a guy named Beebee, that we don’t have, it would be much appreciated.’
Chapter Eight
The daytime hours had become long ones for Jeff Beebee. He had lost the ability to relax, had become tense and on edge. In a way he was wishing his holiday away in stages; be done with the day and bring on the night. For suddenly Ann Stackhouse was dominating his every thought, he could not wait for darkness when she would slip into his chalet like some clandestine mistress.
He lay on the camp’s small rocky beach, basked in the hot sunshine, oblivious of the squeals of children around him, the steady wash of the tide on the shingle. The memories of last night were still strong with him, the way they had made love again and again, until in the end Ann had agreed to stay the night. And when the music from the radio alarm awakened them, they embraced and made love again. He was afraid that it might be just an erotic dream from which he would awake, an erection the only reality which was left to him.
From now onwards the days would be an interlude, a time to rest and prepare himself for the nights of passion. It could have been an exhilarating thought, savouring the experience of falling in love all over again. Gemma’s door had closed, Ann’s had opened for him. Like it was meant to happen, so swiftly that there was no time for heartaches in between. Paradise at Paradise, a holiday which neither of them wanted to end. Yet in the background there was a niggling worry, the feeling that all was not well. Ann was hiding something from him, there was no doubt about that. He almost convinced himself that she wasn’t two-timing him. Okay, she
had a problem, she had been having an affair with her boss and she wanted to end it but did not wish to throw up her job. That was fair enough. But he sensed it went deeper than that. Which was why those beautiful erotic thoughts were tortured with doubt, the fear that it might all be over tonight. And that would break him as Gemma never could have done.
He rolled over, glanced at his watch. 1.35. There was just time for lunch at the restaurant, he would be a latecomer for the final sitting. No, he didn’t want to go there; he wasn’t hungry for a start. He planned to order a takeaway meal for tonight, have it ready for when Ann arrived at his chalet. And another couple of bottles of Blue Nun, her favourite. It was the next best thing to taking her down to the Chophouse.
He didn’t want to stay on the beach any longer, he was too restless. There were a dozen and one things he could do: the chairlift back from the beach to the camp, an hour in the indoor swimming pool, the funfair, a game of pool or table tennis if he could find a partner. None of which appealed.
He stood up, began to walk slowly back up the beach, picked his way carefully across the pebbles until he reached the sand. The miniature steam railway followed the coastline through the dunes, its three open carriages packed to capacity, leaving a queue behind to await its return. He wasn’t in the mood for waiting and, anyway, he was in no hurry to go anywhere. Just walking, following the steel lines, ready to leap to safety if he heard the hoot of the engine on its return trip.
Daytime lovers sought the privacy of the undergrowth, teenagers necking; he envied them, they had an uncomplicated life, they could be together all day and all night as well. No secrets, no mysteries. No, he didn’t envy them, he decided, because none of those guys had Ann Stackhouse. He was the lucky one; it would all work out in the end.
He reached the headland and struck away from the coast, headed towards the big boating lake with its mysterious tree-covered island in the middle. Mallard and diving ducks swam unconcernedly in spite of the rowing boats, a large flock of Canada geese grazed the rough grass between the lake and the first line of double chalets. People picnicked, threw crusts for the geese who came to collect them with outstretched necks, hissing warningly in case it was a trick. They tolerated humans, they didn’t trust them, took what they had to offer and kept their distance.
Jeff could hear the noise of the fairground in the distance, saw the big wheel turning slowly, the racing roller coaster with its cars of shrieking holidaymakers who got their kicks from having their guts churned up. Ann was right, this wasn’t his scene but he wouldn’t have swapped it for the Bahamas right now. The unlikeliest holiday had turned into the most exciting one of his life.
He got to thinking what he was going to do when his fortnight was up. He had to go back to work, there was no question of that; Major Briggs’ extension wouldn’t wait and neither would a host of smaller jobs. Ann would be staying on; perhaps he could start taking weekends off, drive up here on Friday evenings and stay over until Sunday. For two months, anyway, until the camp closed down. He began trying to work out whether Cambridge was in easy driving distance of his home after that.
Amusement arcades weren’t his scene either, machines loaded against you to rob you of your money, in 2p and 10p coins so that you didn’t miss them until it was too late. Some folks got addicted to the fruit machines, squandered their pay packets each week in the one-armed bandit at the local. Hooked on them like a drug. Jeff found the various games boring, they didn’t pay out enough to warrant the stake, anyway.
He found himself studying the guy standing just inside the entrance to the main arcade. Sombrero pulled low to cast a shadow over the mean features, a thick drooping moustache failing to hide the cruel leer of the stretched thin lips. Leather waistcoat pulled back so that the right arm rested easily on the holstered .45 revolver. An arrogant posture, legs apart, body leaning slightly forward. But it was the eyes that caught your attention, steely blue chips sunk into the plastic sockets so that no matter where you stood they were always searching you out. Challenging you.
And if you didn’t recognise him then the placard over his own roped-off cubicle informed you that he was THE GUNFIGHTER. ‘Try your speed against his’ in smaller lettering, and fixed to a stanchion was another replica handgun with a coin slot beneath it. A small boy ran up, tugged the weapon free of its holster without inserting a coin and a neon sign flickered on to inform him that he was a ‘cheat’. The boy pushed the gun back into place and ran off as though he was afraid of retribution. Nobody else, it appeared, was interested in taking up the challenge.
Jeff Beebee found himself facing the hard-bitten lifelike effigy. The hand in the pocket of his jeans toyed with a 10p coin, he fidgeted with it, filing his thumbnail on the serrated edge. Skill, in a way, no prize to win. Whether you beat this feller to the draw or not, you lost your money which, at least, was honest. An electronic weapon, no missile. More realistic than an air pistol. He shrugged, dropped his coin into the slot and the gunfighter’s head jerked up.
‘When I say “draw”, hombre, draw. Or else get outta town!’ A worn-out taped threat in pseudo-American tones crackled out of a hidden speaker. Jeff tensed, gripped the butt of the pistol on the post, stared back into those hateful eyes and found himself wondering what Ann’s lover looked like. The boss, scarred and grey, ruthless, taking what he wanted. Sex-appeal because he was old and tough, and, above all, successful. Feller, I hate you and I’m gonna blast you!
‘Draw!’
Jeff snatched at his gun, tugged it clear. A sudden, illogical moment of panic; it was the other or himself, whoever fired first would live. A boyish cowboy fantasy, a single-shot cap gun and if you didn’t have any caps you yelled ‘bang!’ He squeezed the trigger, saw the flashing light come on above the jerky figure which now had its own pistol at hip-level.
MISS.
‘Too bad, hombre. Now, try again or else get outta town.’ The recording was grating, slurring. Maybe the gunfighter had been drinking.
Jeff holstered his revolver, kept his hand on the butt. The light went out again. He was tense and trembling. You stupid, childish berk! A quick glance around him. Nobody was watching, everybody else in the arcade was obsessed with losing their money on the machines.
‘Draw!’
Jeff took his time, slid the weapon smoothly out of its pseudo-leather holster. The gunfighter wasn’t as fast as he had at first supposed. The mechanism of the other’s draw was jerky, this was one game you were meant to win because you didn’t get your money back anyway. Jeff brought his gun up deliberately, took a bead on the centre of his target’s chest. He held his breath, squeezed, was aware of a slight ‘zap’ this time.
The figure jerked, there was a kind of grunt like it had got the wind, a hiccup as the head fell forward, the gun arm dropping to its side. Dead on its feet. Bull’s-eye!
HIT. The neon changed to green, then went out. The gunman’s .45 was back in its holster, he had straightened back up into that zombie-like pose, only the painted blue eyes seeing everything around him, looking for another challenger. Ann’s ex-lover, her boss, shot through the heart. Sadistic fantasy fun, well worth the 10p if you thought of it that way.
Jeff put the pistol back, glanced around him again, and started because there was a girl standing just inside the door watching him intently. Small and dark, scruffy jeans with a blouse that was both dirty and ripped. Their eyes met for a second and he found himself nodding with embarrassment. I’m just a big kid, really, I play cowboys and indians back home in my spare time. Jeez, it was just something to do to relieve the boredom, better than fruit machines or space invaders. That was my girl’s ex-boyfriend I just shot. God, he felt a bloody fool.
She was still watching him. He dropped his gaze, found it drawn irresistibly back to her. She looked a right slag, the kind of girl you found hanging round the bus station after dark, half-hidden in the shadows and asking you if you’d got a light when you walked quickly past her. Somebody had roughed her up, by the look of her. Her l
eft eye was badly bruised and swollen, and her lower lip was split. Poor kid, it’s none of my business, she’s probably had a row with her boyfriend. Set the gunfighter up again, sweetheart, and take it out on him. It does wonders for you, I can vouch for it.
Christ, it was stuffy in here, made him feel heady. What a waste of a blazing hot afternoon. He walked quickly towards the swing doors.
‘Excuse me!’
Her voice was surprisingly cultured, there was even poise in the way she moved out into his path, put a hand-rolled cigarette to her lips, strands of tobacco hanging loosely from the creased paper. He pulled up, sensed embarrassment again.
‘Excuse me, you don’t happen to have a light, do you?’
‘Sure.’ He found himself delving in his pockets until he located the cylindrical throw-away lighter trying to hide in a pile of loose change. Holding it out, flicking it for her. Now he saw her features close up, a girl who was truly beautiful, or would have been if somebody hadn’t roughed her up. The damaged eye was nearly closed, the lip had not long stopped bleeding, there was a faint smear of blood on her chin.
‘Thanks.’ She drew hard on the cigarette, took the smoke right down into her lungs. ‘I suppose you couldn’t help me, could you?’
Jeff Beebee felt himself tensing, glancing guiltily to right and left, fearing for a moment that Ann might be in here. He dropped the lighter back into his pocket, looked down at the floor. ‘It depends.’ On a lot of things. I’m not getting involved.
‘There’s a tea bar next door.’ She had moved close to him. ‘Perhaps we could talk there.’
He should just have walked away, quickened his step and lost himself among the crowd around the souvenir shops down this long street. Instead he allowed his companion to fall into step with him and now they were seated at a corner table in the cramped snack bar with mugs of tea. The way holiday romances begin, he stared into the thick brown liquid and wondered how he was going to get out of this one. You can always get up and walk out. Later, let’s hear her story first.
