Watching the Wheels Come Off (10 page)

T
uesday morning.

Rain and wind batter the esplanade. Staff at the Grand Atlantic struggle to hoist a banner announcing the ‘Personal Improvement Institute’ above the entrance. With each gust, the canvas billows like a spinnaker, then dips with a loud crack in an attempt to escape the hands grappling to hold it.

Mark, huddled under a raincoat and fedora, runs up the steps into the foyer. The plaster across his nose is the only sign of the horrors of yesterday. Refreshed, he knows that he now has the rather tricky business of placating Alice. He has rehearsed everything and runs through his plan while he is hanging his wet garments in the cloakroom.

One of the more unlikely night classes that Avril Springer attends is Floral Arrangement, and the result is there for all to see in the foyer. A huge display, fanned out like a peacock’s tail, sits on the sideboard alongside piles of leaflets for the numerous local theme parks. Mark waits for the right moment before removing a handful of blooms and rearranging others to fill the gap. So far so
good. He intends to present his bouquet discreetly at Alice’s door, make abject apologies and suggest they have breakfast together.

But fate intends otherwise.

He turns to find Alice descending the stairs, slowly, her face like a glacier. All hopes of a discreet reconciliation are dashed. It is to be a public performance: a kind of ballet. He runs to her with the flowers held out before him.

‘Alice, please forgive me.’

She sweeps around the final bend of the staircase, ignoring him and his bouquet. One delicate hand with pillarbox-red fingernails glides along the brass banister. One silver high-heeled slipper follows the other across the worn carpet leading to the foyer. Mark, still proffering the flowers follows her, pleading.

‘Alice, I made a terrible mistake. It was far too dark to read your body language.’

The hotel porters, having abandoned their efforts to fly the banner, at this moment return to the foyer. Drenched, miserable and still clutching the dripping canvas, they are to become the chorus in the drama unravelling before them. Mark has to raise his voice as Alice reaches the foyer and moves swiftly towards the Dining Room.

‘I honestly thought you wanted me to….’ He hesitates, trying to find the right word. He finds it: ‘…to
court
you.’ Desperately seeking some silver lining among the dark clouds, he sobs: ‘Thank God for Herman’s
Unique Instant Self-Defence System
. Without it there’s no telling what might have happened. It will haunt me
for the rest of my life, just thinking what might have happened.’

The chorus applauds as Alice sails into the Dining Room. Mark pursues her: ‘I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of flasher…’ He lowers his voice when he sees the room is full ‘…going around jerking off in public places, coating the world in semen, abusing, molesting…’ The guests, intent on gobbling up their breakfasts, pay little attention to his entrance. Most are hard of hearing, so he needn’t have bothered: ‘I’m just not like that.’

Alice reaches Table 13 and sits down.

Mark hovers, then decides he has no choice but to join her. She acts as if he hasn’t, picks up the menu and disappears behind it. The wind howls and the rain lashes against the large picture windows. Mark can see his face reflected in the one behind her. Drops of water running down the glass superimpose themselves on his cheeks like tears. It’s an image that provides extra motivation for his performance.

‘I want to prove myself to you, Alice. I’m going to take your advice. I’m going to enrol with the PII.’

Alice lowers the menu and studies him closely. His eyes are certainly shining with a new intensity. Little does she know that it’s five thousand pounds’ worth. He takes out five hundred of them and bangs the wad dramatically on the table.

‘My life savings this. I withdrew everything I have from the bank on my way here.’

Alice is suspicious. ‘Yesterday you tried to rape me, Mark.
Twice
.’

‘Alice, I tried to
make
you, not rape you. There is a difference.’

‘Not in my book, there isn’t. You must think we Americans are very gullible.’

‘Never.’

‘All that crap about Old Nick.’

For a split second he’s tempted to remind her of the donkey’s participation in their sexual encounter, but chooses instead a more gentlemanly course.

‘It’s pagan, like you said. You seemed to relish that.’

Alice blushes. ‘I’m not sure that we at the PII can help you.’

‘Sure you can. On the flyer it says the course turns men into gods.’

‘Hang on there, boy. We’re not talking
pagan
stuff here. We’re talking strictly Christian.’

‘Give me a break, Alice.’ Mark takes one of her hands in his: ‘I’m a wild stallion that needs breaking in. I want Herman to iron me out, flatten my pagan tendencies – make me
un
natural.’

Alice wavers.

Mark’s challenge is even more tempting when he adds: ‘“Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.” Luke 15:6.’

That clinches it. A biblical quote is always a good ploy with the citizens of God’s own country, and Mark knew it. Alice snaps up his enrolment fee.

‘We start Friday evening. Dr Temple will be arriving at 17.00 hours. All students will form a welcoming
committee on the steps of the hotel. I’ll leave a registration form for you in reception.’

Mark pours a glass of water and stands his bouquet in it. ‘You’re as fragrant as any flower, Alice.’

And he holds it up for her to smell.

Avril is waiting for him in the foyer. She’s been watching him and Alice through the waiters’ window in the kitchen door. Its tinted glass captures her mood exactly, with a bold wash of bilious green.

‘Trying to get your leg over that American filly?’

‘How dare you suggest such a thing. My relationship with Miss Honey is purely professional. I’m here to liaise with the Personal Improvement Institute, and make sure their stay here is a happy and successful one. Don’t forget I was personally responsible for bringing their business to your hotel.’

Mark dances on past her, making for the cloakroom. She follows. He grabs his hat and coat, but she blocks his exit.

‘You ponce! What’s this, then?’ She grabs his crotch. ‘A stick of rock?’

‘Avril, has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a
one-track
mind?’

‘Often. Will I see you later at school?’

‘Your insatiable lust for knowledge is admirable. What’s it tonight?’

‘Art History.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Oral French.’

‘That sounds more promising. Tomorrow it is.’

She moves closer, whispering in his ear: ‘What about now?

Mark is horrified: ‘Out of the question. I’ve got to be in court at ten.’

‘A paternity suit?’

‘That’s not funny. It’s Reg Turpin’s inquest.’

Behind her he sees Ace sway out of his office into the foyer, clutching his first brandy of the day.

‘Cool it. Your beloved husband has just appeared on the horizon, giving another brilliant impersonation of W.C. Fields.’ Mark then calls out ‘Morning, Ace’ and dances past both Avril and the bemused Ace.

‘Must fly.’

On the esplanade, wind and rain crash and howl against the weather shelter as if some demonic force is trying to get at Mark. He has Ursula on his mobile.

‘But it’s urgent, sugar.’

He listens, impatiently tapping the window.

‘You have to believe me, it’s a matter of life… let me finish… and death.’

She interrupts again.

‘Whose do you think?
My
death.’ He’s having difficulty bottling up his frustration. ‘I’ve never ever said that before.
Please, Urse, you’re the only person I can trust.’

Ursula still resists.

‘I know… I know… only this time I
really
need help. Why not come to the court? I’ll buy you lunch.’

He smiles into the mobile.

‘Sure, baby. Bring the kids.’

T
wenty prim little girls in green school uniforms line up to cross the road. Ten pairs of clasped hands are checked by Ursula before she leads them on to the zebra crossing. Cars wait impatiently until the last pair of pink legs reach the safety of the pavement opposite, before the vehicles roar on their way. Exhaust fumes belching over such young, unblemished flesh seems somehow more nauseating than usual: a harbinger of the decay and pollution awaiting them in later life.

Ursula puts a finger to her lips and the girlish chatter dies away as they file into the public gallery. Jack Dickenson, Ralph Wilder and some of the other hacks who witnessed Turpin’s disappearing act are already sitting there. Below, in the court itself, the inquest is already under way.

The coroner is a hefty woman in her late fifties. Dressed in a tweed suit and tie, and with severely cropped hair, she dominates the proceedings. Mark is surprised to see a wedding ring in place and during the duller moments of the court’s bureaucratic procedure, fantasises about her
marital relationship. He can see her saddling her spouse, mounting him, crop in hand, and spurring him on to a painfully pleasurable ejaculation.

Right now things are far from dull, all the same.

Bela Lugosi, bound in a chain, stands in for the late escapologist, while Mark himself illuminates the coroner on the events of that fateful morning. The coroner watches intently as Mark snaps a padlock into place.

‘And you say the escapologist expands his torso as the chain is put on?’

‘That’s correct.’ Mark isn’t sure how to address her, adding: ‘Madam.’

‘He then relaxes it, when attempting to escape?’

‘Right. That way the chain is loosened and the artist can wriggle out of it.’

‘Hopefully.’ The coroner’s smile is thin.

‘Hopefully,’ groans Lugosi to himself.

‘Mr Miles, this is not necessarily relevant to the case in hand, but is there a special kind of chain that escapologists use?’

Mark meets the glint of excitement in her eyes with a look as discreet as a freemason’s handshake. They understand each other.

‘No, it’s one you can get it in any decent ironmongers. And you can choose any gauge you want, from
heav-yduty
links to small ones, depending on individual taste.’

‘Thank you for that. Presumably the canvas hood you have there goes over his head?’

Mark picks the sack off the table beside him.

‘It does, indeed. Incidentally the hood is just a potato sack, which you can get from any reputable greengrocer.’

‘But not with the Stars and Stripes on one side and the Union Jack on the other?’

‘No, that was my idea as we’d hoped to take the act to America. The dual image represents the special relationship that exists between our two countries.’

‘I must say escapology seems the perfect metaphor for that curious relationship, though I fear it’s always us British wearing the hood. Would you oblige, Mr Miles?’

Mark pulls the hood over Lugosi’s head.

‘Thank you. Now, Mr Lugosi, please show us what happens next?’

Lugosi doesn’t move.

Mark pats his shoulder, shouting, ‘Off you go, Bela.’

Lugosi grunts, shudders, writhes, wriggles, then staggers. A table covered by court papers is sent flying. He drops to the floor and continues his contortions there. The coroner’s attention is immediately transfixed in a mixture of horrified bemusement and intense agitation bordering on sexual arousal.

‘It has no bearing on this particular case, but are there any women escapologists, Mr Miles?’

‘There was one in the north-east, some years ago. I believe she gave it up to become a belly dancer.’

‘Really?’

The coroner can’t seem take her eyes off the contortions being executed before her. Ursula and her pupils stare, too, open-mouthed. The hacks snigger. Wilder takes a
surreptitious slug from a hip flask, before passing it back to Dickenson. The chain grinds and rattles as Lugosi rolls from one side of the open area of the court to the other.

‘Mr Miles, can you inform us as to why anyone should want to indulge in such contortions?’

‘Reg always claimed it was his only form of self-expression.’

‘Really?’ She shakes her head, obviously puzzled by the links in this chain of thinking. ‘I’m not sure Mr Lugosi would go along with that.’

She looks down as he tumbles past her again. Sweat exudes from Lugosi’s every pore; he flaps weakly like a tired fish just landed. With one superhuman lurch, he disappears under a substantial table stacked with files.

A court clerk stands up to whisper in the coroner’s ear.  They then both look at the wall clock. Its hands rest at one. She picks up her gavel.

‘I have to confess it still escapes me why anyone should want to perform such curious acts. That said, it occurs to me that maybe they wouldn’t if so many of us didn’t want to watch them.’

She brings down the gavel with a bang.

‘We’ll break for lunch now. Please be back in one hour.’

T
he Corner Café may not seem an imaginative name, but it is an accurate one. Situated in the same block as the Coroner’s Court, it has a sandwich-board on the pavement offering breakfast and lunch at prices so low they beggar belief. They must barely cover the cost of the ingredients. Any doubts as to their quality are confirmed by the burger now placed in front of Mark. It looks regurgitated rather than cooked.

He sits at a table with Ursula. The gaggle of chattering girls surrounding them have chosen more wisely, sticking to biscuits rather than any of the cooked fare. Mark has to raise his voice above the din.

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Claud something?’ Ursula is more concerned with the chocolate stains appearing on some of the girls’ pristine uniforms. ‘Charlotte, come here.’

‘Not
Claud
! Claudio! Claudio Cross! Ursula, please pay attention.’

‘Look what you’ve done, Charlotte.’ She points at the
dark brown stain. ‘Go and ask the waitress for some water. And wipe your mouth, too.’ Charlotte looks directly at Mark, pokes out her little pink tongue and runs it along her lips. The rim of chocolate is wiped clean. Mark watches, wide-eyed, alarmed at her precocity and his own reaction to it. Something is badly out of kilter today: he’d even started to fancy the coroner.

‘Ursula, it’s really important. If I should disappear while I’m doing the course, you must go straight to the police.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because Claudio Cross hasn’t been seen since he went on the one run in London, that’s why. And that’s why you
have
to remember his name.’

‘You said he disappeared after the course was over?’

‘That’s what
they
say. But I think he died during it, and they’re covering up. Remember how Rodney and Susan Cole clammed up as soon as I started asking them awkward questions?’

‘You’re just being paranoid. Even if Claud what’s-
his-name
did die, why should they cover it up?’

‘Because a student popping his clogs during one of their courses is not a good selling point. Especially during a course on personal improvement. Ending up dead cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered an
improvement
. And Claud what’s-his-name is not Claud anything. He’s Claudio Cross.’

Mark relishes the burger in his hands before taking a bite. Almost immediately his chewing goes into slow motion, allowing his face time to register acute nausea,
before retching and dropping it like it was depleted uranium.

Ursula remains unconvinced: ‘Okay smart-arse, so what have they done with his body?’

Mark pokes the lethal-looking bun on his plate. ‘Maybe he’s being served up somewhere as a beefburger.’

The girls hear this and make gagging noises. Ursula is furious.

‘Don’t be revolting.’ She finishes her coffee. ‘I don’t want anything to do with this.’

‘Ursula, I need you.’

‘You don’t need anybody, Mark.’ She stands up. ‘I don’t think I want to see you again. Ever.’

‘Ursula, please.’

‘No, I’ve had enough. Besides I’ve met somebody else.’

Mark registers, in quick succession, surprise, uncertainty, distress and finally incredulity.

‘A man?’

‘Yes. I thought I’d try one for a change.’

Charlotte returns with a damp cloth.

‘We’ll do that back at school. We’re going now. Girls!’

Surprised to see tears in Mark’s eyes Ursula plants a condescending kiss on his forehead. ‘It’s none of my business, but I’d stay well clear of that course of theirs.’ She shoots him a smile for old times’ sake. ‘Despite your obvious need for personal improvement.’

‘I need the money.’

He picks up the evil-looking burger. ‘Jesus, it couldn’t be more dangerous than this.’

He thinks about taking another bite but decides against it. Instead, he watches Ursula walk out of his life. The waitress moves in to clear the table.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, penicillin.’

It was then that he remembered Lugosi.