Watching the Wheels Come Off (15 page)

T
he economic viability of the Bengal Curry Palace is still a matter for conjecture. The theory about it filling up with drunks late at night is plainly wrong. Despite it being the only place in town serving food after midnight, there are still only two customers. That’s two less than the four waiters standing in line by the entrance to the kitchen, watching Herman and Alice picking suspiciously at their supposedly vegetarian dishes.

Herman was hungry when they left the Conference Centre and when Herman’s hungry, Herman has to eat then and there or Herman turns even meaner than he normally is. With instant gratification being the rock on which his country’s economy rests, Herman feels justifiably patriotic each time he bangs his spoon and pusher to demand food.

Alice had warned him against ordering in the hotel, but he had insisted on ringing for the night porter. Sight of Harvey’s face emerging from the darkened Resident’s Lounge, where he’d been sleeping, had immediately convinced Herman that they should look
elsewhere. It turned out that
elsewhere
was limited to one restaurant, and they are in it now. Every so often, Herman shakes his puzzled head slowly, sadly trying to grapple with this simple fact.

‘Jesus, in Vegas I could choose from a thousand different restaurants. Italian, French, Spanish, Polish, Cuban, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese – every cuisine in the world is represented there. All of them open twenty-four hours a day. And that’s in the middle of a goddamn desert. What’s with this country?’

Alice lifts the silver-plated lid to a recently arrived dish, bending forward to examine it. What she sees doesn’t please. ‘Waiter!’

The waiter at the head of the line peels off, while the others move up one place, leaving room at the tail for him when he returns. ‘Yes, madam.’

‘What’s that? It looks like meat.’

She pokes her fork into a square object occupying the centre of the dish. A red liquid oozes out. The waiter studies it for some time before coming to a conclusion. ‘No, madam, it’s beetroot.’

‘Beetroot?’

‘Curried beetroot. It’s a vegetable.’

‘I know it’s a vegetable.’

‘That’s right, madam. You ask for vegetable curry. Beetroot is a vegetable.’

‘I’ve never had curried beetroot before.’

‘It’s a speciality of the house, madam.’

The waiter retreats, taking his place at the back of the
line, leaving Alice spooning some of the murky mixture on to her plate.

‘I didn’t know you’d lived in Vegas, Herman. What were you doing there?’

‘Working in television.’

‘That must have been great. What as?’

‘A presenter. Daytime shows.’

‘Wow. Why’d you give it up?’

He studies Alice’s face before answering, hoping not to jog any memories. The sting that caught him with twelve hookers, standing in for the Apostles, had been headline news at the time.

‘I found the Vegas lifestyle too shallow, Alice. I needed to do something deeper.’ He fills his mouth with stuffed nan, chewing his way to their next exchange. ‘I never thanked you properly for taking care of things in London.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘It was best I didn’t stick around.’

She covers his hand with hers. ‘I understood. Anyway, it all went off as planned. It’s official now: Claudio Cross died in his bed in the hotel:
not
on the course. The police, the doctor, the relatives, they all bought it.’

‘And they took the body back to Italy?’

‘He was buried in Rome last week. A full requiem mass. His parents have an ice-cream parlour close to the Vatican and a lot of cardinals go there. They give a blessing and get a free Cornetto. Isn’t that cute?’

‘Smart, those Catholics, always have been. Jesus, I wouldn’t mind a piece of their operation.’ He sighs, then
plunges his spoon into the fried rice, after pouring a liquid not unlike axle fluid over it. Chomping hard, he shakes his head sadly, thinking not of Claudio Cross but of Sunday collections in Catholic churches around the world. All that
cash
. He drags his mind back to more pressing issues.

‘Alice, something’s come up that you should know about.’

‘Yes, Herman.’

‘A consortium of Vegas businessmen have approached me to run for political office.’

‘But that’s wonderful. What office exactly?’

Herman takes a furtive look at the waiters before whispering: ‘The highest.’

Alice catches her breath and he points his fork at her. ‘It’s important you say not a word of this to anyone.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

Her eyes betray the vertiginous giddiness that engulfs her. She looks deep into Herman’s drawn features and is suddenly concerned.

‘You look tired, Herman.’

‘I’m not sleeping too well.’

‘Would some Valium help?’

‘They’re addictive.’

‘Maybe you need more exercise? Try some press-ups before going to bed.’

Temple puts his hand over hers, and his eyes twinkle. ‘Only if you agree to make them more interesting.’

Alice’s blushes are saved behind her make-up. ‘You know I don’t like that kind of talk, Herman.’

‘Alice, I’m aching all over for you.’

‘And what’s the cure for that?’

He mouths the words silently, pathetically.

‘That’s right. A wedding in white,’ she counters.

He pleads: ‘But you know that’s not possible.’

‘Get a divorce, Herman. Until then it’s press-ups
without
me.’

Temple looks like a burst balloon.

His much-flaunted ‘Secret Techniques’ have abandoned him on the glacier face of life, leaving Alice unassailed.

B
iff sits on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs and using a swagger stick to conduct the music coming over the speakers. A scratched version of ‘Rule Britannia’ comes to a rousing end. The final chorus amuses him enough to repeat it: ‘…
never, never, shall be slaves
.’ He laughs before jumping down.

‘You Brits used to have an empire that covered the fucking world. That’s when
you
were the turbo-assholes that shat on everybody else.’

‘So what the fuck happened?’ Randy screams.

‘You blew it, didn’t you?’ Rip screams.

Randy and Rip stride among the students, whacking their open palms with the swagger sticks. Their performance smacks of tired television shows about Nazi prison camps. Randy adopts the role of camp commandant with zeal, but with an embarrassing lack of comic talent. ‘Right, you swinehuntz! I zink ve can safely zay a fresh dynamic approach is needed.’

Rip and Biff join in: ‘Fresh dynamic ideas.’

‘And fresh dynamic leaders.’

Randy taps the heads of the nearest students with his stick. ‘Zat’s ver you swine comezin.’

The class look at each other in confusion.
Fresh and dynamic
? Even their credulity is being stretched. They are a sorry sight with their torn clothes, black eyes and
blood-spattered
faces.

Biff can’t help but laugh. ‘You are the crack corps needed to bring a fresh dynamic…’

A voice explodes from among the students at this preposterous claim. ‘Bullshit! Don’t insult us any more with this nonsense!’

The instructors freeze in utter astonishment. Biff is the first to come back to life: ‘Who the fuck was that?’

It’s Wally Straw again.

He’s had enough and is on his way to the door, yelling as he goes. ‘You’re right. It was us Brits who started this dumb rat race. And when we dropped the bloody baton, who picked up? You Yanks.’ He stops to point at the
open-mouthed
instructors: ‘And you’ve been running with it ever since. Now
you’re
the turbo-arseholes shitting over everybody.’

All three instructors reach him at the same time. They grab him as he reaches the door, throwing him back into the room. He trips over the cage with Buckle cowering inside.

‘Look at him!’ Straw rattles its bars violently. ‘Now tell me life isn’t a rat race. This stupid course has confirmed what I’ve always thought. All are goals are shit, the stuff of madness. Wealth creation, growth rates –’

The instructors catch him again. He struggles violently, twisting his head from side to side, foiling all attempts to clamp his mouth. ‘Ludicrous goals set by power-crazed politicians, bankers, teachers, management consultants, advertising agents…’ Randy grabs his hair, pulling back his head sharply but still not stopping the tirade. ‘They’ve harnessed us like slaves. We’re shackled with mortgages, overdrafts, debts as deep as the ocean. They’ve stolen our souls. That’s why we all feel so hollow –’

While Biff and Rip hold him Randy manages to stuff a handkerchief into his mouth, stemming this flow of unwanted words.

Biff quickly addresses the class. ‘Gentlemen, you don’t know this, but Wally here is a chronic alcoholic. Our token lush.’

Straw grunts and shakes his gagged head.

‘Wally knocks our goals because he can’t achieve them. He sneers at our ambitions because he can’t get it together any more. We’ve been here twelve hours and he’s already getting withdrawal symptoms. Poor Wally is hallucinating. Right?’

The class is numb and struck dumb, until Randy and Rip verbally whip them with another volley of abuse. ‘Right, sir!’ is their ragged reaction.

‘Right,’ repeats Biff. ‘But this is a good example of our methods working in top gear. What has emerged under stress is Wally’s paranoia. Right?’

‘Right, sir!’

‘He thinks he’s been harnessed like a slave. He thinks
he’s been trapped by everyone setting him the wrong goals. Right?’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Right. Wally has a persecution complex. And for us that means only one thing!’

Biff waits for the awful realisation to sink in.

Mark breaks the eerie silence: ‘Not the crucifix, sir?’

‘Yes, the crucifix!’

Mark looks around, expecting the class to finally revolt. Fat chance.

Randy and Rip raise their swagger sticks and scream: ‘The crucifix! Get the crucifix!’

The students obey, dragging the crucifix into the Ring, laying it out on the floor. A way is cleared as the traumatised Straw is led meekly to it. The instructors jeer as they insert his arms and legs into the metal clamps.

‘See how he likes it?’

‘Wally’s always wanted to be a martyr.’

‘Well, today is his big day.’

Mark can bear it no longer. ‘Biff, sir! You’ve got to stop this. I happen to know Wally has a serious heart condition.’

Biff raises his swagger stick to hit him, then stops. Mark is to be Herman’s meat. Instead, he strikes with words so close to his face that Mark can feel the man’s breath wafting the hairs in his nose.

‘You turd. You fucking douche-bag. You, Mark Miles, are a two-bit publicist,
not
a goddamn cardiologist. Right?’

‘Right, sir.’

‘So shut the fuck up.’

Mark backs off, helping the other students hoist the crucifix. In a scene as bizarre and perverse as any passion play, they struggle to lift the cross into its mount, while Wally moans and exhibits excruciating pain mingled with scorn for his tormentors. Randy looks up at him.

‘You asked for it, Wally, and you got it. That’s what happens in a world driven by
consumer
choice. You get what you want – isn’t that right, Wally?’ Straw closes his eyes, shaking his head vigorously. This really pisses Randy off. ‘You still think you’re so fucking superior, don’t you, Wally?’ He plucks the gag from Straw’s mouth. ‘Well, let’s hear from you. What car do you drive, Wally-boy?’

Straw, floating in a painful ecstasy, can only whisper: ‘I don’t have a car.’

Randy turns in triumph to the class. ‘Wally-boy doesn’t have a car, how about that? Jesus, Wally, I drive a customised Cadillac. Cost me two hundred thousand dollars. Still think you’re better than me, Mr Lush? Mr Drunk?’

Straw doesn’t answer. There’s no need to. Instead he smiles at Randy, knowing that it’s harder for a rich man to get into the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. And the more Randy expands on his personal wealth, so exponentially does Wally’s state of spiritual rapture grow.

‘How much investment capital, do you have, Wally?’

‘None.’

Again Randy is triumphant. ‘Zilch! Wally has zilch. Well, I’m worth near on half a million dollars, dickhead. Still think you’re better than me, me,
me
?’ Straw patently
does, and is about to say so when Randy jams the gag back into his mouth. ‘Okay Wally, you stay up there till you’re more like the rest of us mortals.’ He goes right up close. ‘Listen to me, buddy boy, your ambition has gone fucking AWOL: Absent With Out Leave! Go find it. Find that get-up-and-go spirit you was born with, boy. Come back down to earth, get your hands dirty, get your nose stuck in the trough.’

Mark thinks he’s hallucinating. So the path to the top
was
heading to Calvary after all? He shuts his eyes tightly, then opens them again wide. Straw is
still
hanging from the cross. He hasn’t ascended into Heaven; not yet.

The class sways with exhaustion. Wally’s crucifixion has taken them to a new level of madness which will, like all the previous levels they’ve reached, soon become the norm. The course has ‘unscrewed their heads’ just like Temple said.

There’s a loud knock on the door.

Biff runs to unlock it, revealing Temple with Alice holding him steady. His complexion is a septic green, not unlike the curried pea puree they’d ordered just two hours ago. Specks of vomit adorn his silk tie.

‘Jesus, Herman, what happened?’ asks Biff.

‘An Indian meal detonated inside him,’ says Alice.

‘What you have, boss? Curried suicide bomber?’

Temple is not amused. He’s short on humour, period. His shifty eyes shift beyond Biff to Buckle in the cage and to the kitchen slop congealed on his back like a gangrenous tattoo. His green complexion turns greener,
marbled by the straining red veins in his face as he fights to control the next rush of spew.

Biff has a past that includes incidents of ‘friendly fire’, especially against superior officers. It’s a habit that dies hard. He beckons to the assembled class, standing
goggle-eyed
at seeing their leader’s charisma so badly tarnished. ‘See here, everybody, Dr Temple has the shits. Montezuma is having his revenge on Herman for eating Indian instead of Mexican.’

He puts a buddy-buddy arm around his boss and winks at Alice. ‘The only thing poor Herman will be embracing for the rest of the night is a shapely latrine bowl.’ Alice reddens as the class titters. ‘Before he leaves us, though, you can be sure he wants to say something – he always does. Let’s have a big hand for Herman.’

Rip and Randy leap into action, driving the weary students into a frenzy of applause. Mark notices Alice’s eyes on him and joins in, if only to impress. After all, she has Temple’s ear and one day may have the rest of him.

Temple takes one step into the room and sees Wally Straw hanging in there like the Son of God. A crucifixion is not what his bowels want right now. He staggers and Alice has to hold him up while he speaks. ‘Everything we are doing
to
you, we are really doing
for
you. It’s out of love. Love of freedom. Love of democracy and the individual.’ Again he fights back the bile. ‘It may not seem like that right now, but it will when you pass to the Other Side. Then, and only then, will you fully understand the truth in what I’m saying.’

All three instructors shout in unison and thus ignite the students with fresh zealotry. Even Mark jumps in the air, shouting loudly, hoping Alice will notice him. She smiles but not at him. Temple raises his hand and silence falls like a guillotine. The students fix him with the glazed eyes of the indoctrinated.

‘God bless you. Good luck and good night. It’s going to be a long one for all of you.’

‘Good night, Herman,’ shouts the whole company.

Herman and Alice dispense a few gracious waves, then exit.

As soon as the door clicks shut Biff is there with the key, yelling, ‘Right, everybody into the Ring!’

The students jump to it, falling over themselves in their new-found enthusiasm. Some even seem to relish having the next deviant line of attack revealed, especially those who have already passed to the Other Side. Those who haven’t yet had that honour regard the empty hangman’s rope and unoccupied coffin with apprehension.

‘You didn’t mean a word of that shit you just gave Herman, did you? You were just kissing ass, weren’t you? You lying, hypocritical motherfuckers, you want to kiss ass, right?’

Biff rarely smiles but he does now.

‘Then kiss each other’s. Drop your pants!’

And they do.