Watching the Wheels Come Off

by Mike Hodges

  ‘Just tell him to piss off.’

  ‘And get to meet Wolfgang Amadeus next Tuesday? You’re not taking me seriously, sugar. This dude is big like King Kong, but not as lovable.’

  As they reach the Grand Atlantic Hotel, Mark rests her against the balustrade and gently pats her face.

  ‘You up for this?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Count to fifty, okay?

  ‘Okay.’

  He dances up the steps and peers inside. Behind the reception desk, at the end of the dimly lit foyer, he sees Harvey, the much discussed night porter. Mark quietly revolves the revolving door and moves in like a cat burglar.

  Ursula turns to face the wind, letting it sober her up. She has agreed to sleep with him and now tries to remember why. Her lips move as she starts to count.

  Much of her life is lived by rote.

  * * *

  The only sound is the ominous tick of the wall clock above Harvey’s head. His disfigured face of warts and weeping pustules wouldn’t be out of place in the horror comic that currently engrosses him. Nor would his hunched back.

  Nature has not been kind to Harvey.

  Mark skirts the edge of the foyer, unnoticed. He ducks below the reception desk and waits. Harvey turns a page of the comic to find that ‘the vampire, with the blood of his latest victim still dripping from his white dress shirt, has reached the graveyard just as dawn breaks.’ Mark’s timing couldn’t have been better. As the ‘vampire sinks into his coffin’ so Mark rises slowly into Harvey’s vision with a low moan. The night porter lifts off his stool with an awesome gasp, as Mark bangs the desk bell with his fist.

  ‘Dr Death checking in.’

  Even before Harvey’s heart is back on the beat, Mark grabs the comic from his trembling hands, riffling through its pages with evident disgust.

  ‘Studying for a Bachelor of Satanic Arts, Harvey?’

  Harvey is visibly shaking, barely able to get the words out.

  ‘You can’t stay here no more, Mr Mark. Sorry, but I got my orders.’

  ‘You snitched on me, didn’t you? What’s even more disgusting is that you did it in the staff latrine.’

  Mark spins the hotel register round to read it. There’s only one entry for that day: Alice Honey, Miami USA. She’s in Room 13.

  Harvey’s temporarily interrupted blood flow is back on course, along with his usual cringing manner.

  ‘How was I to know Mr Springer was in there?’

  ‘Because latrines are Springer’s natural habitat.’

  He turns in time to see Ursula slip from the revolving door and head into the Dining Room. Harvey, unaware of this pincer movement, is working himself into a lather, sweating and slightly foaming at the mouth.

  ‘Every sodding morning the chambermaids come to me complaining about some phantom fornicator haunting our many unoccupied bedrooms. It got to prey on my mind so bad, Mr Mark, I had to talk to somebody.’

  ‘I know what’s preying on your mind, Harvey.’

  Mark leans over the desk to a shelf underneath, lifting out a pile of soft-porn magazines.

  ‘There’s the cause of your troubled mind, Harvey. These semen-speckled pages have over-stimulated your imagination.’ He dumps them disdainfully on the desktop: ‘A mind marinated in sex. As dark and dirty as a porno flick-house.’

  He sweeps flamboyantly towards the entrance.

  ‘Adieu, Harvey. The phantom fornicator will never again grace the beds of this hotel. Good night to you, sir.’ He pauses at the door to the Dining Room, where Ursula waits in the darkness, and whispers to her: ‘Room 13.’

  She nods and goes over to the wall phone.

  Mark spins himself out into the night.

  * * *

  Harvey has abandoned his horror comic to ponder the intricacies of an orgiastic scene in one of the porn mags when the internal phone tinkles.

  ‘Reception.’ He listens for a moment. ‘I’m afraid the kitchen’s closed, madam. May I suggest a roll? Most guests compliment me on my salami special.’ He casts his eyes lustfully over the glossy pages clutched in his other hand. ‘Good choice, madam. Room 13? One salami special coming up, madam.’

  Replacing the receiver, he lets go a restrained yell of sexual bravura, while punching the air with his fist.

  ‘Right up, madam!’

  And hastens to the kitchen.

  As the night porter is swallowed by the swing doors, so the revolving one is activated. Mark and Ursula reappear in the foyer simultaneously. She takes his proffered arm and together they move regally towards the elegant staircase, pausing only for Mark to pluck a key from the unmanned desk.

  He chooses Room 12.

  * * *

  Outside Room 13, a pair of women’s patent-leather boots await the attention of the hotel bootblack. Tall and black, they are erotic even when unoccupied. Mark’s eyes flicker with suppressed excitement as he opens up the room opposite. Ursula enters first, leaving him to close the door, but not before he shoots another furtive glance at Alice Honey’s enticing footwear.

  * * *

  The décor in Room 12 embraces the colour range of an old potato, matching perfectly the dark mood of its occupants. Ursula lies on the bed, listless and fully clothed, angry with herself for being there. Mark, meanwhile, is furiously going through his pockets.

  ‘Shit! I could have sworn I had a packet somewhere in this jacket.’

  ‘That’s it, then. Not so much coitus interruptus as coitus non-startibus.’

  Mark stamps into the bathroom. ‘It’s always been the same with you.’

  In his top pocket he finds a small toothbrush, which he waters and rubs vigorously into the soap. He contemplates himself in the mirror and calls out to her. ‘I have a question.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Why won’t you go on the pill?’

  ‘Why won’t you have a vasectomy?’

  Mark starts to brush his teeth and instantly foams at the mouth. He pauses to wonder if this is the outer manifestation of the inner madman.

  Ursula calls from the bedroom. ‘Are you going to answer me?’

  He wipes the foam away with a towel. ‘I might want kids one day.’

  ‘But not by me?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘After ten years, you don’t know yet?’

  Mark doesn’t reply.

  The sound of knocking comes from the corridor. He darts to the door, putting his right eye to the security spy-hole. Harvey waits outside Room 13 with a sandwich on a silver salver. The night porter blinks in astonishment, as does Mark, when the door flies open to reveal Alice Honey in shimmering white satin. Tall and slim, perfect in every feature, her nightdress swirls lovingly about the soft curves of her body. The only blemish is the wrinkle of fear playing on her face once she sees Harvey.

  ‘Yes?’

  She manages to drag her eyes off his deformed features to the obscene salami roll he holds out to her.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘My salami special, madam.’

  Alice laughs nervously: ‘Is this some kind of sick joke or what? Is it Halloween here?’ Her eyes are now back on Harvey’s unfortunate face.

  ‘No, madam. What you see is resultant from shell-shock acquired during the Second World War. I answered the call from Sir Winston Churchill to take up arms and defend the world against the Nazi aggressor, and this physiog is what I got for my trouble.’

  He pushes past her into the room. ‘Will madam be taking it in bed?’

  Alice, thoroughly alarmed, doesn’t follow him into the room, preferring the safety of the corridor.

  ‘Listen, I didn’t order….’

  She stops when he reappears, wheezing.

  ‘I also got mustard gas in the lungs, madam.’

  ‘Mustard gas? I thought that was in the First World War?’

  ‘I was in the Catering Corps, madam.’

  He gyrates his pelvis in a most indecent manner. ‘Is there something else you migh
t need me for?’

  Alice opens her mouth to reply but can only shake her head.

  ‘No words are necessary, madam. Self-restraint is a virtue I much admire. Goodnight to you.’

  Harvey shuffles off, then stops to wag his finger at his crotch, muttering: ‘Down boy!’

  Alice waits for him to round the corner, before gratefully closing her door.

  * * *

  Ursula and Mark are perched back-to-back on either side of the bed. No clean break here. Instead a multiple fracture of pain, misery and anger.

  Ursula breaks the silence. ‘You got an erection.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes, bulging in your trousers while you were at the spy-hole.’

  ‘It was my handkerchief.’

  He pulls it out of his pocket.

  ‘That’s not what I saw. It was a hard-on. And it didn’t have me in mind.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Ursula faces him, triumphant. ‘So you admit it?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘We didn’t come here to make love. We came so you

  could ogle Temple’s assistant. You bastard, you wanted to humiliate me.’

  ‘Don’t talk bilge, Ursula.’

  ‘Why, of all the rooms in this dump, did you choose the one opposite hers?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, all I want from her is some information on the student who vanished from Temple’s course in London. Don’t you understand? I need that reward.’

  Ursula stands up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out of range.’

  She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. He stretches out on the bed, closing his eyes. As sleep overtakes him, he hears the muffled sound of Ursula urinating. Later, much later, this sound would feature in one of his dreams.

  * * *

  A shaft of dawn sunlight, harsh as a laser, hits his eyes. They open in confusion. He feels the empty space beside him, then remembers what happened.

  Ursula has made sure of that.

  She’s used a blood-red lipstick to sign off. An erect penis, beautifully drawn, runs the length of the dressing-table mirror. Mark sits up in astonishment, only to find his reflected image has the penis going in one ear and coming out the other. On his forehead, Ursula has placed numerous lipstick kisses.

  ‘Bitch!’

  He rolls off the bed and opens the curtains. Men’s dinner suits, elegant and sexy at night, in daylight look tired and tatty; much like Count Dracula. Mark tries ineffectively to brush out the creases with his hand. Only then does he notice that Ursula has left the room door wide open, leaving him a clear view of Alice Honey’s boots.

  The corridor is deserted. He crosses to Room 13 and listens.

  Silence.

  Picking up one of the boots he rubs it sensually against his cheek. His distorted image, reflected in the patent leather, appears to be whispering to itself. ‘Only you can get me off the hook, Alice baby. Then you can ride me bareback into the sunset.’ He replaces the boot, sighs and returns to his room, shutting the door.

  ten

  Sunday morning. Cold and cloudless.

  The Promised Land wallows gently on the horizon. Several small boats are already alongside and others are making their way towards it. Tiny figures move about the deck. Two divers roll off a rubber dinghy, with a splash, into the water. The search for Reg Turpin continues.

  Snazell lowers his binoculars.

  He then continues his walk along the esplanade, passing a class of obese men and women struggling to perform some simple exercises on the beach. Their sweat rains on to the sand. Dogs taking their owners for a walk are in abundance, running, barking, sniffing, hoovering the sand for smells.

  The weather shelters are occupied, mostly by the aged staring vacantly into the void. Other people avidly absorb the sensational and the sordid from the tabloid newspapers.

  All human life is here.

  By way of a purgative, a Salvation Army band thumps out hymns in front of the boarded-up amusement arcade. Snazell stops to watch as the major brings ‘How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds’ to a rousing conclusion. The detective’s lascivious eyes immediately lock on to a pretty young soldier who looks particularly enticing in her bonnet and pristine uniform, even when blowing spittle from her horn. The other band members lay down their instruments in preparation for the sermon.

  Waving his Bible angrily at the empty sky, the major raises his voice above the sound of the breaking waves.

  ‘Wake, Lord! Why are you asleep?’

  Snazell crosses himself and idly wonders whether the Lord ever takes sedatives. If the litany of horrors happening in the world is anything to go by, it would seem He’s asleep most of the time, if not all of it. Snazell crosses himself again and moves on to the weather shelter directly in front of the Grand Atlantic Hotel.

  The establishment is humming with activity.

  Through the picture windows, he can see the waiters laying the tables for lunch, even as a bin full of breakfast leftovers, crested by congealed fried eggs and undercooked bacon, is wheeled out of sight.

  Upstairs, along the dark corridors, chambermaids push loaded cleaning trolleys, moving slowly, like beasts of burden, from bedroom to bedroom. Each room is treated like the scene of a crime, all evidence of the recently departed occupant being meticulously traced and removed.

  Outside the Conference Centre, the magicians gather for their final bonding session. A notice posted on a blackboard announces today’s subject: ‘The Philosophy of Conjuring: Illusion as Reality.’ No longer in their penguin suits, they look as lost as fleeced sheep. The magic has literally vanished – just like Reg Turpin. Reg’s sensational disappearance has made it to the front page of every tabloid, and there’s much talk among the magicians of firing Mark Miles, preferably from a cannon.

  In the lounge, those armchairs in prime positions, meaning those with a view of the sea, are already occupied by the older residents. Among them is the blind and near-deaf Humphrey Cox. Every morning, without fail, his wife reads aloud to him, usually from his favourite book, Alice in Wonderland.

  Her voice now booms across the big room and out into the foyer.

  ‘“In another moment down went Alice after it; never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.”’

  * * *

  The door to Room 12 eases open.

  Mark’s head peers out.

  He notes that Alice Honey’s boots have gone. Cursing himself for having fallen asleep again, he scampers for the fire-exit stairs. At the bottom he moves cautiously through the kitchens into the Dining Room.

  A shimmering expanse of flat white tablecloths and pirouetting napkins, sparkling glass and silverware lies between him and the front entrance. Alice Honey suddenly appears from the foyer. They look at each other across the room.

  ‘Breakfast?’ she says.

  Mark blinks as if checking out a mirage. His mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish before he manages to speak.

  ‘Mark Miles of Mark Miles Intercontinental. You must be Alice Honey of the Personal Improvement Institute. We spoke on the phone, several times.’

  ‘Well, I never. I thought you were a waiter.’

  Mark looks down sheepishly at his tuxedo.

  ‘On my way to a wedding. A Jewish wedding. My accountant’s.’

  ‘A white one, I hope. I love white weddings. Do you have time to join me?’

  ‘I think they may have stopped serving, but let me see what I can do.’

  Mark retreats into the kitchen.

  Alice sits down at a table. She’s wearing a sailor-suit jacket with pleated white skirt and white stockings. Alice likes crisp uniforms. Before joining the Personal Improvement Institute, she worked successively as an air hostess, masseuse and dental hygienist. Each of these occupations found her in tight, shapely uniforms that framed her perfectly. The effect this had on men was difficult to ignore, and profoundly influenced her approach to them.
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  * * *

  Mark has managed to find a breakfast menu as well as a selection of breads in a basket. He now sits with her, seemingly spellbound by those cupid lips currently engulfing the crescent of a croissant. She meanwhile studies the menu.

  ‘Are you going to have something?’

  ‘A coffee will do me.’ He changes his mind: ‘No, a tea.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a coffee.’

  ‘A tea, you mean?’

  ‘Sorry, a tea.’

  ‘Not even a fruit juice?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Lust has invaded his faculties. His cock is yet again running the show. ‘No… I’ll have a grapefruit juice. And that’s it.’

  She looks at him, dewy-eyed.

  ‘All we need is a waiter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Unable to drag his eyes off her, it takes time for him to realise that she’s waiting for him to act. Alice expects men to summon waiters. He calls out loudly: ‘Service.’ And, somewhat to his surprise, a waitress appears immediately.

  ‘Did you call?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘You’re too early for lunch and too late for breakfast.’ Taken aback by her bluntness, Mark reddens. He feels Alice’s eyes focused on him: ‘We’ll see about that. Get me the manager.’

  The waitress retreats into the kitchen.

  Alice, noting his behaviour, continues to study him closely. Under such scrutiny, he could be one of Pavlov’s dogs. She comes to a conclusion.

  ‘Tell me, Mark, do you see yourself as successful?’

  ‘Yes, moderately.’

  Alice shakes her head sadly. ‘A word we never use.’

  ‘We don’t?’

  ‘When I first saw you standing over there,’ she points at the swing doors heading into the kitchen, ‘I saw a follower, not a leader.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘You should enrol immediately with the PII.’

  ‘I should?’

  ‘Dr Temple can teach you scientifically how to invite and delegate responsibility. How to get people to carry out your orders and instructions willingly. How to handle men and women who make mistakes, who stall, who offer alibis.’