Watching the Wheels Come Off (2 page)

T
he Grand Atlantic Hotel is ablaze with lights.

A howling wind rattles the windows and tears at the canvas banner over the entrance. Sixty-plus magicians in white ties and tails have assembled in the Residents’ Lounge. Mark, pale as a pillar of salt, stands before them.

‘He just didn’t come up… and the diver couldn’t locate him.’ His Adam’s apple seems to be wrestling with each emerging word, ‘Or… the trunk, either.’

‘Mystery. Big, big, big mystery.’ Lugosi is a passionate man. People are surprised to learn that Bela is, in fact, his real first name. His Hungarian mother named him after the star of
Dracula
, insisting he was the result of an enforced coupling with a vampire back in the old country. The performance he gives this evening is certainly on a par with his namesake. His shoulders rise above his ears as he flings his arms up to illustrate his disbelief. He could be singing an aria. Or describing the Virgin Mary ascending to Heaven.

‘Diver take key,’ he continues, ‘No trunk. Where trunk? Believe me, misters, Reg one great escapologist.’

His passion has no effect. The magicians’ perma-tanned faces remain frozen hard.

Mark tries to reassure them, ‘We have another diver going down at dawn.’

Eric Wand, receding hair flattened with mousse, bangs his hands on the arms of the lounge chair he occupies, rises and begins to pace up and down. Wand is president of the Magicians’ Brotherhood.

He finally speaks, ‘Disappearing acts like this, we could do without. Turpin was clearly a damned amateur. It’s a pity you didn’t heed our warning, Mr Miles. We deal in illusions, and reality just isn’t our bag. A publicity stunt of this nature, especially when it goes wrong …’

Mark whimpers, ‘
Wrong
is too strong a word, Eric. I will admit there was a glitch –’

‘GLITCH?’ Wand goes red in the face. ‘A man trapped overnight in a locked trunk at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean is
not
a glitch, Mr Miles.’

‘We still have key,’ Lugosi interrupts, desperate to reassure.

‘Shut up, Bela,’ snaps Mark. ‘Gentlemen, Reg Turpin is a great showman. Publicity is like oxygen to him. You can rest assured that Reg is not fishmeal. Reg is not in the belly of a shark, or the arms of an octopus. Right now he’s probably giving his girlfriend one in a hotel up the esplanade.’

The ice is broken with a sprinkle of laughter.

Mark beams, hoping to see doves appear from pockets, rabbits from top hats, cigarettes transformed into glasses of water and endless lines of flags pulled from sleeves. No such luck.

Wand impales him with a knife-thrower’s eyes. ‘Let me remind you, Mr Miles, that Turpin is
not
a member of the Brotherhood. His stunt was not, in any way, part of our conference. As press officer, I insist you issue a statement to that effect, right?’

‘Right.’

Opposite the Grand Atlantic Hotel is a seafront shelter. From here William Snazell observes Mark and the magicians as their meeting comes to its untidy conclusion. Beside him sits a grim-faced giant of a man with a head that would excite even the most mundane anthropologist. Snazell can hardly bear to look at him.

‘Put the fear of God into him.’

‘Can’t do better than that, Mr Snazell.’ He stands and the detective can’t help but look up in awe. Hare, his surname alone serving for identification purposes, lopes across the esplanade, climbs the broad fan of steps and swings through the revolving door.

The foyer of the Grand Atlantic has an air of elegant mouldiness. As does Arthur Springer, the hotel’s owner, nervously pacing the worn carpet. Springer, known to his friends as ‘Ace’, is reputed to be a much-decorated
ex-fighter
pilot. But nobody knows in which war; all wars having merged over the decades into one continuous stream of conflict.

Ace’s fatal character flaw is revealed by his nose, which
is a blistering red. By way of confirmation, he clutches a large glass of brandy. Hare suddenly looms before his oyster eyes; oysters delicately tinged with cayenne pepper.

‘Where can I find a Mr Mark Miles?’

Springer points a shaky hand towards the Residents’ Lounge. With uncanny synchronicity one door opens and a white rabbit hops out. Haunted as he is by a fear of delirium tremens, his drinking arm begins to vibrate like a tuning fork whilst trying to guide the brandy into his expectant mouth. The arm misses, emptying the glass down his shirt front.

‘Shit.’

His nerve steadies when a magician immediately pursues the rabbit, pounces on it, and pops it into a voluminous inside pocket of the kind much beloved by his profession. Phalanxes of his colleagues now roll through the double doors into the foyer. Hare struggles against this tide towards his target.

Springer focuses with some difficulty on Eric Wand, now approaching among the flock of penguin suits.

‘One of your chaps missing, eh, Mr Wand?’

Initially Wand seems hypnotised by Springer’s nose; it’s like a map of veins leading only to cirrhosis of the liver.

The manager ploughs on, ‘Bad show.
Nil desperandum
. I remember during the war –’

Ward has had enough. ‘Turpin was
not
one of our chaps, Mr Springer.’ He clicks his heels sharply, turns and makes for the stairs. Springer sways as he regards the vanishing magician.

‘Must be a bloody Kraut. Damned fellow should be sawn in half.’

His attention is taken by angry shouts, and at first he can’t locate their source. Then his bleary eyes settle on the swing-doors of the Residents’ Lounge.

Hare is bellowing with rage.

‘You calling me a liar?’

His encounter with Mark Miles had started pleasantly enough. The big man had introduced himself as Reg Turpin’s brother-in-law. ‘So?’ was all Miles had replied but it was enough. The eruption was sudden and volcanic. Hare’s face and eyes turned into molten lava, his voice became louder than Vesuvius.

‘You fucking, septic turd. Lola – my beloved wife and Reg’s sister – is a very sick woman, and all you can give me is lip? She’s already in the grip of terrible angina and Reg’s demise will, as sure as night follows day, finish her off. Listen closely, you pile of vomit, if she crosses to the hereafter because of this, you, too, will soon be meeting the Grim Reaper. Get me? Now, what’s the update on Reg?’

‘Update?’

Mark has by now retreated behind the grand piano in the corner. His eyes dance in their sockets, as if trying to escape, only settling as his tongue comes to the rescue.

‘Reg was merely following in the steps of the late great
Harry Houdini. Harry performed the same amazing act in New York Harbour.’

‘With one big fucking difference: Harry Houdini escaped. Reg
didn’t
– at least, as far as we know. Did the diver find the trunk?’

‘No. We have another diver going down tomorrow, at first light.’

‘He’d better find that fucking trunk - or you’ll be as dead as the late and not-so-great Reg Turpin. You know the cunt borrowed off his sister to finance this fiasco?’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Five thousand pounds, to be precise.’

Mark is close to fainting. As he steadies himself against the grand piano, Hare bangs the support away from under the lid, so it crashes on to Mark’s hands. His scream hits top C with ease, and rises even higher as the big man puts his full weight on the lid.

‘You’re in deep shit, sonny boy.’

Hare eases the lid up, and then picks out a tune with his free hand. Mark is in no state to recognise ‘My Way’, but that’s what it is.

‘Reg told me he handed the money over to you.’

‘That’s not true.’

Mark’s not a quick learner.

Hare bangs the lid down and up, like a snapping crocodile. While Mark howls, he changes his one-finger exercise to perform a funeral march.

‘Well, I ain’t allowing my wife’s savings to be wasted on having her brother buried at sea.’

Mark foolishly tries to reason with him, ‘What about the cost of the trunk? It came from Harrods.’

Again the lid crashes down; again Mark gives any banshee a cause to be envious.

Hare is relentless. ‘You think I’m kidding, don’t you, cocksucker? You have just
three
days to return Reg to his sister. And if not Reg, then her five thousand pounds. Right?’

Mark manages to nod.

‘Three days, or you’ll be as dead as Mozart.’

With that Hare raises the lid and runs a finger the size of a courgette up the keys, executing a farewell glissando.

Mark slides to the floor. His tear-sodden eyes shift from his mangled fingers to Hare, just as he powers through the revolving door into the foyer. Only then does Mark feel safe enough to lose consciousness.

Snazell waits contentedly in the weather shelter for Hare to join him. An eventful previous night at the Journey’s End boarding house had unexpectedly allowed him to indulge his twin obsessions: big tits and Monopoly. These two stimuli had become paraphiliacally entwined at a very early age, thanks to the aunt who introduced him to the board game while always resting her pumpkin-sized breasts on the table as she pursued her imaginary property portfolio. Imagine his surprised delight when, after several ‘apéritifs’, Mrs Westby had produced the board and
suggested a game before going to bed. He’d won, easily, and his prize, as became increasingly evident with each throw of the dice, was the landlady herself. What a shame he was staying there for only one night. He interrupts his musing on seeing Hare leaving the Grand Atlantic Hotel.

The enormous man carries a hideous smile as he lopes towards him, ‘Softened him up nicely, Mr Snazell. He’s like putty now.’

‘And the fear of God?’

‘That as well. Left him vibrating like a Jew’s harp.’

‘We’re talking Old Testament God?’

‘Is there any other?’

Snazell stands up, satisfied. He rubs his hands and makes to leave.

‘Right, a cheque will be in the post to you by the end of the week.’

His departure, however, isn’t as imminent as he had hoped. Just then Hare lays a hand on his shoulder, making him keel to one side like a yacht in a heavy wind.

‘You said cash.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yes, cash. Cash in the hand.’

‘Did I?’

Snazell contemplates disputing this point with Hare. But, after a shifty assessment of the giant’s demeanour, he decides against it.

‘In that case we’ll have to find a cashpoint.’

This they do.

Snazell looks about furtively as he inserts his card into
the machine, and again before punching in the pin number.

‘Do you mind standing back a bit?’

‘Why? It’s not nicked is it?’ Hare looms over the podgy detective.

‘Piss off. This is my own perfectly valid card. You want your fee, don’t you?’

Hare grunts agreement.

‘Then step back three paces.’

Hare does as he’s told.

Even then, Snazell shields the screen with his raincoat while performing the transaction. His back suddenly tenses, ‘Bugger.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Wrong pin number.’

‘That happened last time.’

‘No, it didn’t. That was the wrong card.’

‘What number did you use?’

‘I’m not telling you. Never ever divulge your pin number.’

‘Try 4402.’

‘4402? That’s the number for my other card. How’d you know that?’

‘I’m a mind reader.’

‘Don’t give me that shit. You couldn’t read a sodding gas meter.’

Snazell simmers with indignation while he fumbles in his wallet and switches cards. Moments later he’s counting notes into Hare’s red-raw hand.

‘Twenty, forty, fifty. All right?’

‘That’s
fright
money. Fear of God costs sixty.’ ‘Sixty?’

Snazell reluctantly smacks another tenner into his palm.

‘What about my train fare?’

‘You said you were coming by coach.’

‘I changed me mind.’

‘What mind? Here’s another twenty.’

Hare adds the extra notes to the enormously fat wad he has produced.

Snazell eyes the wad enviously, ‘So size really does count?’

‘Yes.’ A simple answer to a profound question. ‘Will you need me back for a follow-up? Fear of God soon evaporates.’

‘We’ll see.’

The detective looks up into the big man’s empty eyes, and recognises irrefutable evidence for that awful Darwinian truth: a truth borne out by reality but too often ignored by those who think of themselves as civilised.

T
he double doors to the Residents’ Lounge part slowly. Mark’s smeared face peers into the deserted foyer. He slips silently across the worn carpet towards the front exit.

‘Got a minute, have you?’

Mark freezes, then turns to find Springer swaying in the door of his office.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you, dear fellow.’

‘I’m rather pressed for time, Ace.’

Mark consults the replica Rolex, fat as a shackle on his wrist. ‘Is it important?’

‘The Grand Atlantic pays a not inconsiderable retainer for your services, Mark. Is that
important
enough?’

Every inch of wall space in Springer’s office is crammed with war photographs, framed medals, ribbons and battle maps. Every conflict is represented: World War II, Malaya,
Korea, even Vietnam. On closer inspection, the observer will notice that Ace himself is not featured in any, although his image is sprinkled among them in the form of snaps taken at his numerous weddings, holidays abroad, staff outings, or posing with the glazed stars of summer shows and Christmas pantomimes. In each he is holding a drink; in none is he wearing a uniform. The source of his nickname remains a mystery.

‘Bad show, dear fellow, losing a client like that.’

He is already fixing himself another large brandy when Mark enters the office, closing the door behind him.

‘Born in a trunk is one thing;
dying
in one is another. Hope you haven’t any lousy publicity stunts lined up for those peculiar American people arriving tomorrow.’

‘No.’

‘What do they do, exactly?’ Springer eyes him suspiciously.

‘Management training, high-powered stuff. Lots of charts, graphs, objectives, forecasting, marketing, feasibility studies. All to do with investment planning.’

‘What’s it called again?’

‘The PII. The Personal Improvement Institute.’

‘Jesus, who’d believe it? An
institute
for personal improvement?’ Springer shakes his head incredulously.

‘So what exactly do they teach? Greed, ruthlessness… dishonesty? Odd how most vices are now considered to be an
improvement
. And who better to teach us than our American cousins.’

He looms up close to Miles, close enough for brandy
fumes to practically sear his face. ‘You’re too young to remember the GIs in the war. Overpaid, oversexed and over here; that’s what we used to say about them, and now it seems the same can be said about
you
.’ He sinks his brandy in one, then lurches for a refill: ‘Aside from that damned ridiculous accent you put on, it turns out that you have something else in common with the Yanks. Like them you’re cunt-struck. That’s if Harvey’s not given to exaggeration.’

‘Harvey?’

Mark knows what’s coming. He turns away as casually as he can, suddenly finding a new interest in the photos on the wall. Winston Churchill, phallic cigar clamped in his mouth, gives him the V-for-Victory sign.

‘Yes, Harvey. That leprous night porter of mine was shooting his mouth off in the staff latrine this morning, not knowing I was squatting in a stall trying to bring a spell of constipation to a happy conclusion. He went on at length to one of our Polish waiters about your nocturnal exploits in the numerous empty bedrooms of my humble hostelry, old chap.’

The phone on the desk starts to ring. Springer eyes it malevolently until it stops.

‘It seems your carnal activities have even extended, on several occasions, to our communal rooms, including the Hertz rental office. I trust the name of that particular location didn’t put the young lady off?’

Again the phone rings. Springer lifts the receiver an inch, then lets it drop back into its cradle, entailing
silence. ‘Gave me a whole new insight into
public
relations, dear boy.’

Mark leans closer to the photograph, as if he found some deep significance in Churchill’s two raised fingers, before muttering: ‘Harvey has a twisted imagination. Every night alone at his desk, listening to the groans of the central heating, or Atlantic storms howling like werewolves trying to break in, it’s not surprising he’s mentally sick. You should have got rid of him years ago.’

Springer shivers and his head shudders violently, as if trying to shake all thoughts of the deformed night porter from his mind.

‘I have quite enough staff problems without trying to find another night porter. Harvey does a good job.’

‘He frightens the guests.’

‘That can be an advantage. It encourages them to be in bed before he comes on duty.’

‘Then your bar receipts dip.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘No room service happens at night, why? Because the guests can’t face opening their doors to Harvey. Some ask him to leave the tray outside the room, but he insists on having the bill signed. Then they complain of having nightmares. I’ve heard them talking about it over breakfast.’

Springer looks puzzled. ‘When were you ever here for breakfast?’

Mark bites his lip, as the answer slowly dawns on Springer.

‘Ah, so after fornicating here on the premises, you’re damn well fortifying yourself at my expense?’

Mark doesn’t reply. He calmly moves to another photograph, sees his reflection in the glass and bares his teeth, relishing their gleaming whiteness.

Springer snaps in response, raising his voice. ‘Don’t want to sack you, old fellow, as you do a good enough job publicising this place. Even so I won’t have you copulating…’

It could have been a stage cue.

The door flies open to reveal the voluptuous Avril Springer. Her green silk dress has transformed her bodily undulations into rolling hills of lush pasture, with a soft valley starting at her pelvis and running down her torso to meet the darkness of her black stockings. Avril had been the hotel barmaid until she landed Ace some five years ago.

‘Why aren’t you answering the bloody phone?’ Her eyes burn into her husband’s back as he seeks refuge in the drinks cabinet. ‘Temple’s assistant turned up, out the bloody blue – no bloody warning. Her name’s Alice Honey but sweet she is not. She’s up in the Empire Suite right now, bitching about everything. You can bloody go and deal with her.’

‘’Course, I will, my precious.’

Springer sinks his brandy and pats his pockets to locate a choice of mouth sprays.

Avril looks around in alarm. ‘Where’s Winston?’

She opens the door again, to reveal a blue-rinsed
miniature poodle. It trots in, crosses the room, jumps on to the swing chair behind Ace’s desk, and there surveys the scene like he was boss – which he is.

Avril pins Mark with her eyes. ‘And a lot of stuff was delivered this morning for this course of yours. What’s a wire cage got to do with personal improvement?’

‘Wire cage?’ Mark shows surprise.

‘A bloody big one at that. And a crucifix.’

Springer, busy spraying his mouth with a peppermint odour, nearly chokes. ‘A crucifix?’

‘High enough for Christ himself. Alice bloody Honey has had it all parked in the conference centre. And you know what, she wanted the phone number of a local funeral director. What’s that all about, Mark?’

‘How would I know?’

A glint enters Springer’s oyster eyes. ‘Sounds damned kinky to me. Never been the same since Vietnam, the Yanks.’

Mark tickles the poodle’s ear while his gaze pans up Avril’s body until he reaches her eyes. She feeds him a fleeting smile and a confirming nod.

‘He likes his chest rubbed.’

Mark shifts his hand. ‘Like this?’

‘It makes him wag his tail.’

The pampered animal enjoys being the centre of their attention, attracting, as it does, both overweening love from Avril and acid hatred from Ace. They watch and wait, but his tail remains stubbornly stationary.

‘Try lower down.’

Mark slides his hand closer to Winston’s back legs. Sure
enough his tail starts to move vigorously. But so does his penis, which shoots into a long, lean erection.

Avril glows with spite. ‘Envious, Ace?’

‘Good God.’ Springer looks away, blushing.

Avril laughs. ‘I’m off to my Life Class. Feed Winston, will you? There’s turkey left over from lunch. But don’t give him any stuffing.’

She shoots Mark a last knowing look and leaves. Her entrance and exit were like a passing tornado, albeit a brief one.

The two men regard Winston in silence. Mark lifts a paw to study the animal’s green nail varnish. ‘He’s going mouldy.’

‘Just look at him,’ says Ace. There are now tears in his rheumy old eyes. ‘The last of the Springer line.’

‘
You
should worry. Some people have children.’

Sadness is the human equivalent of wet rot. It even almost has a smell. Springer sniffs and smiles bleakly at the ridiculous, blue-rinsed creature occupying his chair.

‘Damned strange to think they used to be hunting dogs.’ He laughs. ‘But then we used to be hunters.’ His shaking hand manages to grip the door knob: ‘I’m to the Empire Suite, dear boy. Meant to change that name years ago. What an irony having an American now staying in it.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘As I was saying, Mark, leave room
service
to us, there’s a good fellow.’

The door closes quietly behind him.