Watching the Wheels Come Off

by Mike Hodges

  ‘Oh yeah? Wise up, sweetheart: Biff’s a faggot. That’s why he hasn’t boffed you.’

  ‘How could he be a fag? He’s an ex-marine?’

  ‘Shit-loads of marines are fags. All those buddy-buddy macho guys are fags. Look at footballers, for instance. All that bending over with their butts stuck in the air, like baboons in tight silk pants, right in your face - what do you think they’re up to?’

  ‘You’re crazy, Loreen.’

  ‘And you’re dumb, Marjorie. Biff’s a fag name, just like Tab or Rock.’ She can see doubt spreading across the other girl’s face like poison. ‘Sweetheart, Rip told me he’s happy to fuck Biff’s butt when he can’t get no woman.’

  ‘Rip said that?’

  Loreen nods and looks out of the window. The convoy turns a corner and it seems they are suddenly on the edge of the world – tracking past white railings, weather shelters and an angry ocean crashing silently over an esplanade. Out of the other window Marjorie sees the Grand Atlantic Hotel looming out of the storm, grim and gothic, and she is suddenly afraid.

  * * *

  Alice Honey addresses the students, who are now all gathered in the hotel foyer.

  ‘None of Dr Temple’s thoughts go unrecorded.’

  Mark chips in, ‘Like Richard Nixon?’

  Alice ignores him. She’s already beginning to regret allowing him on this course. She continues: ‘There are tape machines in all his cars, notebooks at strategic points in all seven of his residences, with formica boards and grease pencils ready in every shower.’ She is irritated when some students giggle. ‘You’d all do well to emulate Dr Temple’s discipline. Ideas are like butterflies – pin them down immediately or they will flutter away.’

  She fixes them with a steely look. ‘At the end of each day, all Dr Temple’s tapes, notepads and formica boards are collected by his assistants and word-processed throughout the night. For posterity.’

  Her phone vibrates, then tinkles cheerily.

  She connects. ‘Thanks Biff. We’ll be right out.’

  Snapping the mobile shut, she holds up her hands to silence the chattering students. ‘Dr Temple’s cavalcade is approaching. We’ll now congregate on the steps to form a welcoming committee.’

  * * *

  Alice and the students wait under the canopy at the top of the hotel steps. As the convoy draws up, they start applauding. Biff is the first out, followed closely by Randy and Rip. It’s a well-oiled routine. They are in place even as Temple’s car reaches pole position, right below the flapping canvas banner.

  Biff opens the back door, while Randy and Rip both open umbrellas. The wind catches them, snaps their insides out and their well-oiled operation abruptly falters – as does the applause. The two ex-marines now have a fight on their hands. Watching anybody trying to tame an umbrella in a high wind always has comedic potential. Rip and Randy don’t disappoint. Up and down, in and out, grunts and groans, spokes in eyes and ears, they battle on, bursting to contain curses they dare not let out.

  Alice douses the laughter stuttering into life among the students with a look from hell. Biff, rain pouring from his crew cut down to his trainers, has to watch in horror as his two drenched assistants finally capitulate. All three then turn to look into the darkness of the limo’s interior.

  Temple does not physically emerge, only his voice.

  ‘“And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the Lord caused the sea to go back and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided.” Exodus 14.’

  His soft voice rises in tone. ‘Alice, are you there?’

  Alice grabs Mark’s raincoat from his hands and runs to the open door. A tubby little man appears, ducks under the sheltering coat and climbs slowly up the steps.

  Alice hisses at the stunned students: ‘Applaud, you assholes.’

  They respond, but it’s all a bit ragged.

  Dr Herman Temple pauses on the top step, turning as if to bless them.

  ‘It is I, Herman Temple. Be not afraid.’

  And he disappears inside the hotel.

  But Mark is afraid. Randy caught him smiling during his bout with the umbrella, and fixed him with a venomous look.

  The maggot sits up, ready for action.

  Pain is on the horizon.

  twenty-two

  When conferences began to replace communities, every seaside resort in the country built a centre for them. These centres, with the greedy fingerprints of local burghers all over them, were inevitably portentous, ugly and erected on a prime location where nobody could ignore them. Each conference centre contained as many bars as space would allow. These bars are clustered around halls the size of the one in Valhalla. Here, and in all the surrounding hotels, politicians and business people get to fuck with each other, both fiscally and physically, once every year. Conferences make the world go around or, more exactly, give the appearance of making it go around. Like carousels, things tend to end up pretty much where they started.

  The conference centre at the Grand Atlantic Hotel was built three decades earlier on land at the back of the original hotel. In a vain attempt to compete with the big resorts, it has since attracted only a trickle of conferences from the smaller trade associations. Its two halls have witnessed passionate discourse and extensive debates on weighty subjects ranging from fast-tanning sunbeds, thermo-plastic housings, nail extensions, drycleaning, wedding videos, drain clearance, corrective walking devices, automated garage doors; in fact all manner of services designed to make human life bearable.

  Both its halls open on to a communal area which houses a long bar, sofas and armchairs, toilets. Swing-doors open on to a long, windowless corridor that links the centre with the hotel itself. Alice leads the party of students from the foyer into this corridor. They automatically form a line, moving two-by-two into the narrow passage. She then turns to face them, marching backwards like a drum majorette, while chanting: ‘I want to be a leader. I want to be a leader.’

  The students join in enthusiastically: ‘I want to be a leader. I want to be a leader. I want to be a leader.’

  Mark is less enthusiastic.

  ‘Come on, Mark, don’t be a party-pooper,’ yells Alice. She’s in her element, her expression ecstatic, eyes glistening with excitement, the centre of everybody’s attention.

  ‘I want to be a leader.’

  ‘I want to be a leader.’

  Mark can’t believe he’s chanting with the rest. Joining in seemed the easy way out; easier than he expected, too. He’s tempted to break into a goose-step and throw up his right arm in the fascist salute, but restrains himself.

  Alice’s skirt swirls about her shapely legs as she pirouettes to face the swing-doors, bursting through them into the communal area of the Conference Centre.

  ‘I want to be a leader.’

  ‘I want to be a leader.’

  The chant swells as the students file past Alice, leaving her to close the doors and lock them. She has to yell to halt them.

  ‘Okay, everybody! Gather round.’

  She jumps on to the bar counter with the skill and agility of a professional dancer. Her mother encouraged her to learn tap-dance and the bar’s formica surface is tempting. She just can’t resist. Her high heels click tentatively, sound crisp and she’s off. This touching glimpse of a faded dream ends almost as soon at it begins. Twelve steps at most.

  Alice kills the applause.

  ‘This is where, in the next two days, your personalities will be taken apart and rebuilt. When you walk out of here on Sunday, you will be fully equipped to make your dreams come true.’ She points to a portable clothes rack on which dangle a line of plastic handbags. ‘Each of you take one of those bags and empty your pockets of all personal possessions – cell phones, watches, rings, lipsticks, cigarettes, lighters, everything. There’s a pouch in each one with a name card for you to fill in. Any questions?’

  A man in his mid-sixties, with a defeated face and thinning hair, speaks up. ‘What about cufflinks
and collar studs?’

  ‘What about cufflinks and collar studs?’

  ‘Do we take them off or not?’

  ‘Didn’t I say all personal possessions? And where’s your ID?’ The man takes a plastic name tag with a chain attached from his pocket, holding it up so she can read it. ‘Wally Straw. Well, Wally, the reason I gave you a name tag just now was so the instructors can identify you. Now hang it round your neck, like a good boy. And remove your cufflinks and collar stud. Okay?’ She extends her smile to the whole group: ‘We at PII want you to start the course with nothing – like when you were first born.’

  ‘So we can be born again?’

  The question is put by a young man shaped like a beach ball, short and obese, with a smooth, innocent face.

  Alice is pleased with both the question and the fact that his ID dangles from his neck. It shows that he’s been labelled for his life’s journey as Roger Buckle.

  ‘Right on, Roger.’

  Buckle is pleased that she’s pleased.

  Alice claps her hands. ‘Listen up, you all. From now on you do only what you’re told to do. Got that?’

  The group mumbles assent as one.

  ‘You won’t speak, eat, drink, smoke or leave the classes without permission. If nature calls, hold your hand up. Nobody goes to the bathroom without an instructor, okay?’

  Mark is impressed, even excited, by her authority. Her long, svelte legs stand firmly apart, up there on the bar, in a pose much favoured by magazines devoted to dominatrices.

  Alice continues the induction: ‘And if any of you witnesses another student breaking any of these rules, you must instantly report that student to one of our instructors. Got that?’

  The students look slyly at each other. Treachery, like joining in, is another easy direction to follow. But not for Wally Straw.

  ‘So you want us to become quislings?’

  Nobody recognises the word, including Alice, so she ignores him. ‘Failure to do so will only bring retribution on you all. Just do what you’re told and it’ll be a breeze.’ She snaps into a tap routine, singing out: ‘So let’s now get this show on the road. The guys will be in the Nelson Hall.’ She points to the double doors on her right: ‘And the girls will be in the Hamilton Hall over there.’

  There’s more excited applause as she jumps down from the bar.

  ‘We’ll get the guys underway first, girls, if that’s okay by you?’

  ‘Yes,’ the female students reply with one voice.

  The men wait sheepishly while Alice unlocks the door to their hall and moves on into the dark space beyond. She stops just inside, by a bank of light switches, allowing the students to pass her. Mark takes up the rear.

  ‘Close the door please, Mark.’

  He does just that, cutting off the shaft of light from entering the communal lounge. Letting the darkness sink in before she speaks, Alice says in a soft voice: ‘Be not afraid.’

  There’s a loud click and a spotlight is switched on. A pool of light hits a rough wooden crucifix over seven feet high, resting against the stage at the far end of the hall. There’s a collective gasp from the students.

  Another loud click and a spotlight reveals a large wire cage. Then another one finds a hangman’s noose dangling from the ceiling. A long pause is followed by several further spots coming simultaneously to life, highlighting a coffin placed directly in the middle of the hall.

  But the climax is yet to come.

  A strobe light backstage zaps a gold-plated, bejewelled monstrance standing on a pedestal, which gives off a spectacular display of shimmering colours. At its centre, in the transparent container which usually carries the consecrated host, is a portrait of Herman Temple.

  Alice’s soft voice follows in the wake of some tentative handclaps: ‘I repeat: be not afraid. The props you see before you are simply aids to help you on your journey to a new self.’

  A gangly young nerd with big, black framed, yello-wtinted spectacles looks up at the crucifix. ‘So just hang in there, fellas.’

  Nervous laughter ripples across a sea of uncertainty, only to be silenced by Alice. ‘Cut that out. What’s your name?’

  The nerd looks at his ID, as if to reassure himself: ‘Robin Moore’.

  ‘Okay, Robin, no more wisecracks, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Moore bites a thumbnail and turns red.

  ‘The course will start in fifteen minutes. Do any of you want to go to the Little Boys’ Room?’

  Nobody does.

  ‘Right. Just relax, then, while I go look after the girls. They have a parallel course which I myself conduct, so you won’t be seeing me until it’s all over. Good luck to you all.’

  Again the applause is less than enthusiastic.

  Mark waits for Alice by the door. ‘Will I be seeing you when it’s all over?’

  ‘Cut that out, Mark. Just forget what happened between us, okay?’

  ‘But nothing did happen.’ He tries a small smile. ‘Regrettably.’

  Alice hisses: ‘If you screw things up between me and Herman …’

  ‘You and Herman?’ Mark is stunned. ‘He’s a bit old –’

  ‘Fifty-one is not old.’ She’s livid.

  ‘Fifty-one?’ laughs Mark. ‘Are we talking age or waist measurement?’

  Alice leans right into his face. ‘I won’t forgive you for that.’

  She then slams the door and locks it. Mark turns to find his fellow students staring at him. They’ve witnessed his whispered exchange with Alice.

  Wally Straw speaks for them all. ‘So we have a quisling in our midst.’

  Now they all know what that word means.

  twenty-three

  Snazell sits in a corner of the lounge bar. His eyes should be on the buxom woman sitting with him, but they aren’t. Instead they’re watching the three men at the bar, Biff, Rip and Randy. All three look like they’ve stepped from the pages of an American comic: heads of weathered wood, tall as trees and just as thick. Their raucous laughter even drowns out the storm outside.

  Sandra Westby, last seen as landlady of the Journey’s End boarding house, is the buxom woman in question. Not surprisingly she’s miffed not to have Snazell’s undivided attention.

  ‘As you were saying?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘About being a Mormon.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. Was I telling you about Brigham Young?’

  ‘The one with thirty children and two hundred grandchildren?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Snazell warms to his subject: ‘He said that the only men who become gods, or even the sons of gods, are those who enter into polygamy.’

  ‘Clever sod. What a ruse, humping for Jesus.’

  Another burst of coarse laughter forces her to look around at the three men. Her distaste is evident as she quickly turns back.

  ‘That’s one place I have no desire to visit.’

  ‘America?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Not even Florida?’

  ‘Especially Florida. Friends of mine left Miami airport in a rented car and have never been seen since. It was their first time in America.’ She sighs and her wondrous bosom heaves as she adds: ‘And their last. What a holiday they had, poor loves. Only been there an hour before they were being fed to the crocs in those Everglades swamps. Anyway, that’s what I think happened to them.’ Another sigh. ‘Sad. They were vegetarians, too, both of them. Can you believe that? Well, I’ll never end up as croc food, I can tell you.’

  Again Snazell’s attention wanders back to the bar. Loreen and Marjorie have joined the three instructors. Sandra Westby, really irritated now, again turns to see what has taken precedence over herself in his attention. The party at the bar raise their bottles of beer in a toast, prompting her to say: ‘In my day only babies drank from bottles.’

  Snazell doesn’t react. He’s so engrossed in the scene across the room, he doesn’t even notice Sandra furiously gathering up her handbag and coat. ‘Wel
l, I’ll be off. Next time you ask a lady to join you for a drink, I suggest you brush up on your manners. I can only say I’m glad you’re no longer staying at my place.’ She scans the dowdy lounge. ‘In fact, this dump is far more suitable for someone as sleazy as you.’

  Snazell watches as she sweeps out, her robust thighs fighting to find space inside her tight skirt. He laments her departure, muttering: ‘Brief but beautiful.’

  Calling the waiter, he signs the bill and leaves. He crosses the foyer and wearily climbs the stairs. As he reaches the top, Alice emerges from the Conference Centre. Biff, his arm around Marjorie, spots her crossing the foyer towards the bar.

  ‘Here comes Herman’s little prick-teaser.’

  Rip turns to look, groaning. ‘Shit! The gooks must be in already.’

  Randy, watching Alice, grunts. ‘I’d sure like to get it up her.’

  ‘And risk frostbite?’

  They’re still laughing raucously when she enters the lounge bar, unfazed and smiling. Alice likes nothing better than to feel the voltage rise as she enters a room full of boys. That is power. This is ‘leadership dynamics’ at full voltage. She approaches the bar. Only then does Loreen recognise her.

  ‘Alice? Alice Humperdinck, as I live and breathe. What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Alice tries not to believe her eyes.

  Her maggot eliminated Loreen years ago, and for good reasons. She and Loreen crewed many long-haul flights together, wheeled their wheelies across many a concourse, and shared many a hotel suite. All this was years before the creation of Alice Honey, the makeover that stands before them.

  Alice eyes Loreen coldly. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t place you.’

  Loreen sings to her. ‘Hump-hump-hump-a-dick! You must remember that?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Alice Humperdinck?’ says Randy, savouring the name.

  ‘Or Alice Honey? Who cares.’ Rip bangs the bar: ‘What’ll you have, Alice?’

  ‘I don’t drink alcohol – as you well know, Rip.’

  ‘Try a Virgin Mary? That’ll hit the spot,’ says Randy.