Watching the Wheels Come Off (6 page)

S
unday 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.

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.’

Mark shows willing, nodding thoughtfully, stroking a brow furrowed in concentration, forcing his eyes to blaze with fervour at each of her revelations. He desperately tries not to look at her sumptuous, blood-red lips, fearing he might get engulfed in a ferment of erotic thoughts about what they could do to him.

Alice continues, as relentless as a dentist’s drill. ‘Dr Temple can tell you what you must do and
be
, in order to deserve confidence, obedience, co-operation, respect.’ Then, seeming to reach a state of almost unbearable ecstasy, she stops.

Mark mumbles pathetically. ‘He really
is
somebody.’

Her button nose crinkles with dismay. ‘Somebody?’

‘Somebody
special
.’

‘
Extra
-special.’

‘
Extra
-extra-special. A colossus.’ Mark nods gravely as if agreeing with himself in his final assessment of Dr Herman Temple. ‘Yes, definitely a colossus. When does he get here?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

‘So you travel ahead of him and prepare the way? Like John the Baptist?’

That pleases Alice. She looks over his shoulder, prompting him to turn.

The waitress is back. ‘Harvey wants a word with you, Mr Miles.’

‘Tell him to come to my office later.’

‘He says it’s either a word with you now…’ adding ominously: ‘…or a word with Mr Springer.’

Miles stands, and stutters. ‘Oh! I see. In that case I had –’

The waitress interrupts. ‘He said you’d understand what he meant.’

Her eyes suddenly drop to below his waist and then widen in astonishment. The crotch of his trousers resembles a bell tent. He drops sharply back into his seat and checks if Alice has noticed. She
has
, but he needn’t have worried. Alice likes to arouse men.

‘Boy, do you need Herman.’

Her cute smile is suddenly switched off as she looks beyond him and gasps. Her pale hands shoot to her pale face in horror, just like a silent movie star.

Mark turns to find Harvey peering through one of the waiter windows. He looks even more grotesque than usual as its green-tinted glass lends his head, framed in an oval, the appearance of a particularly unpleasant toad.

Alice hurries from the Dining Room, followed by Mark.

‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful but I’m not at all convinced this place is a suitable venue for the Institute.’ She stops in her tracks, to let Mark catch up, then continues. ‘It’s full of weird people. You sure it’s not being used as a funny farm?’

‘No way.’ Mark tries to make light of it. ‘The handbooks give it three stars, two crossed forks, a bidet, but
no
padded cells.’

Alice doesn’t laugh at the humour. She moves off at speed for the elevator.

Mark joins her there, determined to gain entry to her room … and maybe even the lady herself. He’d been considerably encouraged by her reaction to his hard-on.

‘Alice, has Dr Temple written any textbooks on how to scientifically –’

She cuts him off. ‘Herman’s seminal work is
Power Over People: Secret Techniques Revealed
. You wanna buy a copy?’

‘Could I?’

‘Follow me.’

A chambermaid parks her trolley outside Room 13.

According to the clipboard she consults, it’s occupied.

She then notices that the door to Room 12, supposedly unoccupied, is wide open, and in she goes. A howl of delight emerges, ahead of the maid herself, now calling to her colleague working further along the same corridor.

‘Mildred! The phantom fornicator has struck again!’

Around the corner from the same corridor, the hotel’s ancient elevator comes to a bumpy halt. Alice exits, with Mark tagging behind. She’s humming like a dynamo.

‘Say, for example, you went to the same university as a business colleague and your degree was better than his, yet when it came to promotion
he
gets it and you don’t.’

Mark nods his head and mutters. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Too right, it’s too bad. And when the company president throws a party, who heads the invitation list?’

Mark doesn’t reply. A commotion outside Room 12 has caught his attention. He curses himself for not removing the graffiti from the mirror. No wonder the chambermaids are rolling from wall to wall, holding their sides, and screaming with laughter. When they see Alice approaching, they go immediately quiet and disappear into the room.

Alice ignores their stifled laughter as she unlocks her door.

‘Did you hear me, Mark? Who heads the invitation list?’

‘
He
does.’

Mark also listens to the excited chamber maids whispering to each other, followed by subdued snorts. He
can’t help marvelling at the unintentional comedy routine being played between the maids and Alice, who seems blissfully unaware of the dialogue originating from Room 12.

‘That’s one big prick!’

‘Right,’ intones Alice. ‘And so
he
heads the invitation list, not you.’

‘What balls!’ comes from Room 12.

‘That’s when you ask yourself what
he’s
got that you haven’t?’

‘He’s rigged like a horse!’

A final explosion of bawdy guffaws reaches Mark as he gratefully escapes into Alice’s room.

The sitting area is filled with files, charts, posters, books, all carrying the image of Herman Temple. As Alice bends to pick up a copy of the great man’s seminal book, Mark catches a glimpse of naked thigh above a white stocking.

He visibly starts to shake.

‘This book will make even your wildest dreams come true,’ says Alice, unaware of the effect she is having on the mad-eyed Mark.

‘Oh, good,’ he mumbles.

Alice holds up the book with a reverence usually accorded the Holy Bible and fixes him with eyes full of spiritual promise. Not surprisingly, he interprets this look as of more secular nature than spiritual. Even the book’s
title –
Power
Over
People
– seems to endorse this impression. She riffles through the opening pages: ‘There’s a chapter here on “How to Unleash a Fantastic Reservoir of Mental Force”.’

Mark moves beside her, ostensibly to share in Dr Temple’s wisdom. In reality it allows his right hand to hover close to her arse; what she herself would call her
butt
. Moving along the corridor, he’d been driven almost crazy while watching her from behind. Not just by her perfect butt but by her shapely legs, feet, ankles, her bobbing hair; each part of her seemed to obsess him separately. It was time he brought them altogether in one glorious coupling.

Alice’s enthusiasm bubbles on as she finds the next chapter: ‘This one is crucial. It reveals “How to Turn that Incredible Force into Action”.’

Each chapter title seems to Mark like a green light to seduction. His eager hand moves closer to her arse. Alice turns more pages: ‘Here’s another chapter: “Special Techniques on How to Get Started”.’

His hand lands gently on its destination.

‘“How to…”’ She looks sharply at Mark, snapping: ‘Take your hand off my derrière right now.’