by Mike Hodges
seven
The answering machine unwinds its snake of words as Mark moves to a corner cupboard to unhook a dinner suit from behind the door.
A silky female voice insinuates itself: ‘Hi, Mark. Broadway Entertainment Agency here. We have a client who wants to challenge the Guinness Book of Records for the longest time lying on a bed of nails. The record stands at seventy days, five hours, forty-three minutes. Do you have a suitable location for such an event? Obviously it has to be available to us for longer than the current record.’
The voice becomes even more seductive when it moves on to the subject of money: ‘Mark, this could be a very nice earner. We had an extremely successful long-running event with a “Buried Alive” contestant on Brighton pier. In the first week, fifty thousand punters paid a fiver each to look at him in his glass coffin. And the outlay was minimal: sand from a local builder’s yard, with one plastic tube for an air hole. He was in there for nearly six months. Apparently he never once went to the toilet,’ she laughs, ‘unless he did it between our party tours, nod-nod, wink-wink.’ She laughs again. ‘Punters like to contemplate the little mysteries of life, don’t they? Think about it, Mark. “Bed of Nails” could be even bigger than “Buried Alive”. If you’re interested, give us a bell.’
Mark has already donned his dinner suit before the next message starts: ‘Mum here. Are you there?’
She waits, breathing asthmatically. ‘Sorry to hear about your escape-artist person escaping like that. Someone said they saw a man walk out the sea further down the coast. Covered in tattoos he was. It was on the local news. People will try anything to get on telly.’
More painful breathing, then: ‘Will you be over tomorrow? It’s toad-in-the-hole. Your shirts are done.’
She wheezes noisily again before hanging up. The machine clunks to a halt but is immediately activated by a live call. Mark clips on his bow tie as he listens to the voice booming from the speaker: ‘Out of millions of numbers, you have been selected in the lottery of a lifetime. You are the lucky winner of five thousand pounds. All you have to do is pick up the phone and answer one simple question.’
William Snazell chuckles into the machine: ‘I know you’re there, Mr Miles. I’m speaking on a mobile. If you look out the window, I’ll wave to you.’
And he does just that when Mark surreptitiously parts the newly restored blind. He then pulls from an inside pocket a wad of money which he also waves: ‘Pick up the phone, Mr Miles, and all this could be yours.’
Mark lets the blind flick back into place and steps away from the window. The answering machine purrs harmlessly, but he circles it like it’s a cobra about to strike. Snazell appears to know exactly what’s happening in the office above him: ‘Pick it up. It won’t bite you. Remember your logo: Make your Mark with Miles? It’s up there, written in gold.’ He roars with laughter: ‘Go for gold, Mr Miles. Answer one simple question correctly and –’
Mark snatches the receiver from its cradle: ‘What’s the question?’
‘That’s more like it, Mr Miles. I like a good sport. In our security-conscious age we have, first of all, to ascertain that we are dealing with the right person. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘You are Mark Miles?’
‘I am.’
‘Well done.’
Mark waits. He can hear Snazell breathing.
‘Was that the question?’
‘Indeed it was. And you passed with flying colours. You want another one? What’s your mother’s maiden name?’
‘Maguffin.’
‘Correct. I now know you are the real McCoy and not the possessor of a stolen identity. So let’s get down to business. First let me in, Mr Miles.’
Again Snazell anticipates Mark’s reluctance: ‘Or we could talk down here in the street, but it looks as if it’s about to rain.’
Mark presses a buzzer: ‘Push the door.’
* * *
The dumpy silhouette appearing behind the frosted-glass door resembles Alfred Hitchcock, or so Mark thinks. When he opens it, Snazell is ready with a business card, while his beady eyes play over Mark’s face. It reads: William Snazell. Private Investigator.
Mark, assuming the man’s come on behalf of a disgruntled creditor, curses himself for letting him in. Bluff is now called for, he decides, as he snatches the card impatiently: ‘Let’s make this fast. I have to be somewhere in five minutes.’
Snazell pushes past him into the room, scanning it quickly as he moves. He picks the baseball cap off the desk, examines it and tosses it disdainfully on to the anglepoise lamp. A headed notepad catches his eye. He picks it up and reads the heading: From the desk of Mark Miles. He chuckles: ‘I must say you seem to have picked up some very nasty transatlantic habits – including that ridiculous accent. Do you chew gum as well?’
‘What the fuck has…?’
As Mark’s words fizzle out, so the blood drains from his face. Snazell is holding a gun in one hand, while screwing a silencer into place with the other.
He smiles at Mark. ‘Talking of nasty transatlantic habits …’
Mark nearly chokes: ‘Is that for real?’
The detective takes a bead on the dartboard hanging above the sofa, and presses the trigger. He’s a surprisingly good shot: double top splinters before the board crashes to the floor.
‘Does that answer your question?’
The card in Mark’s hand is now shaking: ‘It says here you’re licensed. Is that to carry a gun?’
‘What gun?’
By the time Mark looks up again the gun’s back in the detective’s pocket. Snazell’s eyes are like ball-bearings.
‘A little joke, Mark. My way of letting off steam.’
There’s a neat hole in the wall where the bullet has lodged. Mark stares at it in bewilderment, then at the twisted dartboard. He attempts to speak, but only gurgles.
Snazell moves to a pegboard covered in adverts and newspaper cuttings. It constitutes a maze of pneumatic women, tired slogans and ludicrous claims to efficacy. Disgust clouds his face as he mutters to himself: ‘Lust… avarice… envy… all nurtured like monstrous babies breast-fed with lies and filth until they can crawl, walk and – worst of all – breed.’ His eyes finally settle on what he’s looking for: ‘What have we here?’
He unpins a flyer for Herman Temple’s course: ‘What do you actually know about these people?’
‘Not much.’
‘But you got them into the Grand Atlantic Hotel?’
‘I negotiated a package at off-season rates, that’s all.’
‘Why did they come to you?’
‘A friend had been on the course. They were looking for a hotel to relocate to, so he put us together, business-wise.’
‘What about Dr Herman P. Temple? Is he coming?’
‘’Course he is. Temple is the PII.’
‘You ever met him?’
‘No.’
‘You wouldn’t being lying, would you?’
‘Why should I lie?’
‘Because lying is your stock-in-trade. Also I was told you were the PII’s agent in the UK.’
‘Speaking of liars, who told you that?’
‘Never reveal a source, Mr Miles,’ he laughs. ‘Not even at gunpoint.’
He pegs the flyer back on the board, then turns and fixes Mark with his piggy eyes. The idea that eyes are the windows of the soul is bullshit and Snazell knows it. Even so, when Mark doesn’t bat either eyelid, the detective appears satisfied.
‘It seems I made a mistake, then. Sorry to have bothered you.’
With that he speeds for the door.
Mark explodes: ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You barge into my office, give a lethal demonstration of ballistic darts…’ He races after him into the corridor: ‘…insult me, dish up a sermon, and then just fuck off…’
Mark turns the colour of chalk when Snazell abruptly stops at the head of the stairs, then spins around with the gun back in his hand. He strokes his bulbo
us nose with its barrel.
‘Carbolic soap, Mr Miles, I recommend it for your mouth. Lest we ever meet again, I’ll have you remember that I’m a practising member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We Mormons don’t like profane language.’ Another awful smile settles on his flaccid features as he adds, ‘Polygamy aside, a Mormon’s mind is as pure as spring water.’
He continues down the stairs.
‘Snazell,’ Mark yells after him. ‘I’m not fucking interested in your religion, place of birth, age or inside-leg measurement. What was that guff about a prize? Five thousand pounds, wasn’t it?’
The detective stops in his tracks, then retraces them.
‘I wondered when you’d get around to that. It was actually a reward for information. Information I now know you haven’t got.’
‘What information?’
Snazell smirks with the satisfaction of a fisherman about to land a big fish: ‘A client of mine, a rich and – how can I put it? – mature lady had her husband attend one of Temple’s courses last month. He, the husband, is somewhat younger than my client, and has proved not too successful at running her numerous business enterprises. Even so, I’m told he came top of the class there, and Temple awarded him a prize. An onyx and marble mantel clock with a battery-operated pendulum. Next morning, I’m told, he checked out of the hotel along with the all other students. Trouble is that neither he, nor the onyx and marble mantel clock, have been seen since. They never arrived back at Nirvana Nous, which is the name of my client’s home on the grassy outskirts of Guildford.’
He stops there as if that was the end of his tale.
‘So?’ Mark feels irritated.
‘So my client is now offering five thousand pounds for any information as to his whereabouts.’
The synapses in Mark’s brain are abruptly fired up. Fearful images of his fate at the hands of Reg Turpin’s giant brother-in-law bang about with the velocity of a squash ball, but suddenly a possible escape route opens up for him.
‘Five thousand pounds?’
‘You heard me right.’
Exactly the sum Mark needs. He chuckles with relief.
‘Five big ones? Is the husband worth it?’
‘He’s a Capricorn and very good in bed, so I’m told. It appears the two facts are unrelated, for which I’m deeply grateful, being a Pisces myself.’
Groundbait successfully dropped, Snazell pirouettes and starts down the stairs.
‘Walk in. Dance out,’ he quips finally. For such a podgy man he’s amazingly light on his feet.
* * *
Mark is on the phone.
‘Rodney, I got to see you – tonight! Can you come to the Starlight?’
His facial muscles twitch anxiously as Rodney drones on, till he interrupts him. ‘Rodney, I can’t explain on the phone. If I could, I would.’ Mark looks at the ceiling in frustration, as if seeking inspiration in the cobwebs. ‘I’ll tell you why, Rodney. Ever since I once ordered a Russian Linguaphone kit, MI5 have kept a tap on my line.’ He then screams into the receiver, with conviction: ‘The Cold War’s over, arseholes! May your ears fill up with shit!’
His neck bulges with fury, causing the clip-on bow tie to pop off into a congealed cup of coffee.
‘Fuck!’
He fishes it out while listening to Rodney’s responses, before again interrupting: ‘Trust me, Rod, there’s a lot of dosh at stake here.’
The droning voice starts up again. Furious swivelling of the eyes heralds a final explosion from Mark, ‘Fucking dreary cow! You should never have married her. Tell her it’s Scottish dancing night, all knobbly knees and limp dicks. That should put her off.’
He rolls an ink blotter over the sodden bow tie, lowers his voice to a whisper and tries a new tack, ‘Rod, Rod, listen to me. Lots of beautiful bimbos go there on Saturday nights. I’ll fix you up, promise – get you laid on the Crazy Golf course. Nothing quite like fucking on top of Buckingham Palace.’ Clipping the bow tie into place, he waits for the bait to be swallowed.
‘Great. I’ll leave a pass for you at the stage door.’
eight
The cast-iron pier creaks with age. Its rusted joints shift painfully under the swell of an incoming tide. A gloomy domed building squats above the waves at the far end.
The Starlight Ballroom.
Even the flickering neon sign above the entrance is dim. Music filtered down by the walls to just the ubiquitous drum machine, seemingly the true heartbeat of our civilisation, seeps out on to the deserted, rain-saturated deck.
Inside it’s far from gloomy, for the decaying structure has been covered in a multitude of garish paints and twinkling coloured lights. Buzzing like a beehive, the place is already packed. Here the young can collectively escape their lifeless lives via booze and drugs. Oblivion beckons them.
On stage are the Solomon Brothers, five glistening young white boys trying to be black. Dressed in lurid pink suits, green top-pocket handkerchiefs and powder-blue shoes they move in unison.
One step forward.
One step back.
Turn.
Soft young faces with frozen smiles. Mechanical toys with shrill voices. Even the lyrics of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours’ carry a certain ironic twist.
Draped across the proscenium arch hangs a painted banner: ‘The Mark Miles Talent Contest’. The impresario himself hovers nervously in the wings. Beside him is the boys’ mother, Mrs Solomon, a fleshy lady of major proportions.
Mark whispers into her large red ear: ‘Train them yourself?’
‘With their father.’
She points at the small bespectacled man standing in the wings opposite. Sporting a pinstripe suit, polished shoes and a pencil moustache, he could be a dodgy car dealer or, in fact, dodgy anything. Engrossed in simulating the routine being performed on stage, he appears to be winding up his clockwork offspring as if by the application of sheer willpower. The lyrics emerging from their cherubic mouths grow more incongruous with every mechanical movement.
Mark watches Mr Solomon’s bizarre performance closely. Struggling to bottle up his own laughter, he can’t resist popping one more question at the wife, ‘Is he a professional choreographer?’
‘No,’ she shakes her head emphatically. ‘A behavioural psychologist.’
‘Are you serious?
‘Of course, I am.’
On stage the boys are winding things up with their final chorus. Shooting a glance at their mother, Mark wonders if he, too, hasn’t just been deliberately wound up. A loud burst of applause breaks the spell. The act dances off, just as he dances on.
‘That was the sensational Solomon Brothers.’
A rowdy gang of tattooed bikers drown him out, chanting for an encore. Mark unhooks the microphone in a futile attempt to ride the swell of drunken shouting.
‘Once again –’
But the chant still grows, as others join in. In desperation, Mark looks sideways into the wings, where Mr Solomon is handing out chocolate bars to his boys.
‘Have you got an encore, boys? Or is that it?’
The whole family, including Mrs Solomon who has rushed over to join them, shake their heads in unison. Their mouths are already covered in brown goo.
‘Nooooo!’
Mark turns back to the chanting crowd. ‘That is it, folks. The Solomon Brothers have to go. It’s way past their bedtime. Say nighty night, everybody!’
Everybody obliges – but amid a roar of booing. Mr Solomon momentarily looks like he’s going to be sick. Instead he makes an obscene gesture at Mark, before leading his troop off towards the stage door – leaving Mark feeling convinced that Mrs Solomon had, indeed, wound him up. Giving him the finger is hardly appropriate behaviour for a behavioural psychologist.
Mrs Solomon, now pink with fury, repeats the gesture, but with two fingers instead of one. Not to be outdone, Mark gives her the full fist three times. This, in full view of the audience, detonates a roar of raucous
approval, thereby disturbing the dust in every corner and crevice of the old building. The audience, already morphed into a rabble, is now close to becoming a mob.
Mark cracks the microphone’s cable like a lion tamer, yelling: ‘Once again the Starlight is proud to present this month’s Mark Miles Speciality Act.’
Cheering breaks out as two plump girls, bursting from fishnet stockings and sparkling tutus, wheel trolleys – each carrying a barrel of lager – on to the stage. A third girl follows with a trolley of rattling pint mugs.
Waiting for the cheers to subside, Mark scans the audience and is taken aback when he sees Snazell taking a seat in the circle. The detective gives him a cheery wave, before spotting, several rows away, a woman so buxom she could have stepped from a seaside postcard. He rapidly changes direction, anxious to grab the vacant seat beside her.
Mark recovers his composure, bringing the microphone as close to his mouth as an ice-cream cornet: ‘So, yobs and yobettes, please give a big hand to this month’s Speciality Act: the one and only… Cyril Hammond’
A sallow man, gangly as a giraffe and dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo appears from the wings.
‘Tonight, right now, Cyril will try for a place in the Guinness Book of Records. Tell us about it, Cyril.’
‘I want to beat a record listed in Chapter Eleven, “Human Achievements”.’
‘That’s very commendable. Which human achievement in particular?’
‘I will attempt to drink more than 20.79 litres of lager in just sixty minutes.’
‘Wow! 20.79 litres in sixty minutes? So, Cyril, you have this fantastic ability for swallowing things?’
‘I do, Mark.’ Cyril modestly studies his dazzling patent-leather shoes: ‘In fact, I think millions of people around the world have a similar ability to swallow things and simply don’t realise it.’
Mark tries not to look at Snazell, now seated next to the pneumatic lady, but he can’t help himself. The detective blows him a kiss.
