by Mike Hodges
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.
five
The 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, bi
tching 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.
six
Snazell is back in the seafront shelter. His beady eyes flicker as the match ignites and meets his pipe. Swearing, he snuffs the flame as Mark dances down the steps of the Grand Atlantic and sets up a brisk pace along the esplanade.
Snazell follows, pipe smoke rising in rings as he puffs along in pursuit. His quarry, after turning several corners, reaches a Victorian school building. Evenings see it used for adult education. Light spills into the darkness from its high classroom windows.
Mark vanishes inside.
Snazell slides into a shop entrance to watch and wait. Behind him, on metal stands of varying heights, is a bizarre display of women’s hats: boater and bonnet, cloche and pillbox, veils and paper flowers: all in salmon pink. The reflection of his battered trilby, faded and stained, sits among them like a fly on a blancmange.
* * *
Mark runs up the stairs to the second floor and then along a labyrinth of corridors. Sounds emanate from language lessons, media studies, classes on embroidery, philosophy, cookery, every conceivable form of human improvement.
He stops by a glass door, surreptitiously peering in. A cadaverous old wino poses naked on a plinth, hands resting on his hairy thighs, cock dangling unconcerned between them.
Six budding Rembrandts attend to their easels, one of them being Avril Springer. He catches her attention and moves on. Minutes later she excuses herself from the class.
* * *
Dark.
Deserted.
Mark unlocks the door to the school laboratory. Some light falls from the corridor outside, across the workbenches littered with test tubes and Bunsen burners. He waits inside.
Avril eventually enters.
It’s a well-oiled routine, Mark having duplicated the lab key some years before. They cross in silence to the storeroom. Its shelves are lined with biological specimens: locusts, frogs, snails, snakes, worms. Also jars of chemicals. Containers of acid.
A street lamp shines into the room, allowing them to examine the lust in each other’s eyes before their mouths clamp together in the moist fusion of a succubus.
Mark’s hands run from the contours of her arse, up her back, around her shoulders down to her breasts. Avril’s unzips his fly, fondles in his underpants until she finds his penis.
He groans.
She groans, too, as his hand lifts her dress, on its way past her suspenders to her knickers. A minimum of foreplay is needed for the successful, if brief, coupling; as is the case with most animals.
Avril bites his ear then whispers: ‘That’s my problem done.’ Taking his head in hands as strong as a vice, she locks her gaze on to his eyes: ‘Now what’s yours?’
‘I haven’t got a problem.’
‘Liar. There’s no such thing as a free fuck. Especially not with you.’
Mark raises his voice: ‘How can you say that?’
‘Easily. Is it money again?’
‘Money? That’s all you ever think about.’
‘If you want me to keep you as my toyboy, you’ll have to up your work load.’
She takes his balls in her hand: ‘Come on, Fido, stand up and beg.’
Mark groans again, but his cock refuses to respond.
‘Our relationship is dead.’
‘Not again.’
‘It’s based on lust, not love.’
She kisses him violently, plunging her tongue into his gasping mouth. Like some marine creature, it takes its time to explore every recess there. Unaware that his head is rammed up against a grass snake embalmed in a jar, Mark manages to free his mouth in order to expand his theory on the male’s baser instincts.
‘Don’t you understand lust is transitory? When I come, I am, in reality, already gone. Now, that’s not fair on you. That’s exploiting you as a sex object. Avril, you must learn to understand men.’
And so the ante is raised.
Her painted nails flick his testicles, firing up his penis and quickly demolishing his theory of sexual exploitation; ironically by means of a substantial erection.
‘Oh, my God,’ he moans.
‘God’s got nothing to do with it.’
The jar with the preserved snake rattles seismically as he pulls her on to him. Hands locked on to her thighs, he thrusts back and forth with the precision of a piston engine. Then, a millisecond before the moment of sexual detonation, he murmurs in her ear.
‘Five thousand pounds, that’s my problem.’
Avril shudders with the force of an earthquake; spasms ripple across the landscape of her body. Her eyes shoot open with the ecstasy of someone lost eternally in the jungle of the senses, hopefully. Her mouth, however, remains rooted in the ugly compost of reality, screaming loud enough for all the adult education courses, including Life Drawing, to hear.
‘Five fuc
king thou!’
* * *
The battered alarm clock goes off, rattling against the wino’s callused feet. Time to capture his ‘life’ in charcoal, pencil or pastel is now on hold for ten minutes. The old man breaks his pose, flips his testicles to one side, crosses his legs and lights a fag.
It’s all very Bohemian.
Avril’s flushed face appears at the door. The surface of her dress, green silk now crinkled and stained, displays more originality and spontaneity than any of the artistic efforts sitting on the easels in that classroom.
She returns to her seat and studies her own effort. The fact that it bears no relation whatsoever to reality puzzles her. She can see the old man clearly, every wart and busted vein, but she can’t comprehend the skill needed to capture it on paper.
The model drops his fag end into a cup of cold tea and resets the alarm clock for another half hour. Moving his frail frame into a new position, he eventually settles with his bony arse directed right into their faces.
Undaunted, Avril confronts a fresh white sheet in her drawing pad and picks up a stick of charcoal. She stands, studies the stark boniness of the old man’s posterior, then applies her first bold but inaccurate line.
Sex for Avril had started standing up – up against an alley wall. She has liked it that way ever since. For her, unadulterated lust has such purity, no tentacles of attachment. It amuses her when men think they are using her, when all the time she is using them.
Mark’s periodic attempts to exchange his sperm for money have given their couplings an added piquancy, but this evening it was of an unusually high intensity. He had pleaded with her, saying his life was at risk. She had looked into his furtive eyes, as weak and spent as his dick, and smiled.
She now studies the charcoal blackening the very fingers that so recently played with Mark’s sexual organ, then looks at the old model and sees clearly into the future. She finds it looks eternally sexy. She realises that she knows all there is to know about men – young, old and every age in between.
* * *
Snazell trails Mark back to Providence House, and then slips into the same shop entrance as if it was an old jacket. He lights his pipe while watching Mark’s office window on the third floor. His quarry soon appears, in silhouette, to drop the blind. It falls on to his head.