Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

the booking,’ he said. ‘It was for two nights.’ There was an odd emphasis on the word nights; the band exchanged glances, but nobody pressed the point.

  ‘That sounds right,’ said Ben.

  ‘Good. Well your suite is ready, I’ll have a robot get your bags.’

  ‘We haven’t got any,’ said Keys admitted. There was a pause and the robots looked at Ben, suddenly realising the human wouldn’t have any changes of clothes. The man, spotting the exchange, shrugged. ‘Quick departure, was it?’

  ‘Somewhat,’ said Ben. ‘I didn’t have time to pack any luggage.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The man nodded. ‘You’re with Tony alright. Don’t worry – we’ll get you some luggage.’ He turned to a bulky robot which was standing menacingly by a rubber plant. ‘Hey, Bertil,’ he called. ‘You wanna show these guests to 23?’

  Bertil rolled over, his castors squeaking slightly as he crossed the polished linoleum floor. ‘Come with me,’ he said in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a threat. Then he rolled off toward a pair of double doors opposite the entrance. The band, having no alternative, followed.

  Beyond the doors, the corridor was, if anything, even murkier than reception. The few rays of light brave enough to venture through the tinted glass stopped mere inches in. A pale spot of sunlight coming from an unseen window was the only beacon ahead of them.

  ‘Classy joint,’ said Riff grimly.

  They walked, rolled and floated on in silence. After several yards they passed an alcove. As they did so, a light flickered on above them, illuminating a trio of cheap-looking robots. ‘Welcome to the Hotel Grande,’ they squeaked in slightly discordant harmony.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ben.

  Bertil looked at him. ‘No point talking to them,’ he said gruffly. ‘They’re just programmed to say that when people come in.’

  The porter continued to lead them down the corridor, past an opening into a courtyard. A few feminine robots were reclining to one side, each wearing evening dresses that were cut to reveal the curves of their artificially smooth breasts. Ben found himself staring involuntarily, but he blushed and turned away when one of the robots caught his gaze and smiled. They passed through another set of doors and past another trio of robots, who chorused at them as they went by. A few yards beyond them, Bertil took a key and unlocked a door to his left.

  ‘This is your suite,’ he told them, handing Ben the keycard. ‘If you want anything sent up, dial reception.’

  ‘Actually, I could do with a drink,’ said Ben.

  ‘Could you now?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have a wine list at all?’

  Bertil’s mechanical eyebrows flexed into a frown. ‘Wine?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you know, fermented grape-’

  ‘I know what wine is…’

  ‘So do you-?’

  ‘Afraid not. We haven’t had any in for years. Drinks list is in the room.’

  ‘And if we want something that’s not on the list?’

  ‘Don’t.’ The robot turned and rolled away down the corridor. As he passed the alcove, the robot trio greeted him. He harrumphed and continued without pause. The band watched him go.

  ‘Pleasant fellow,’ said Vid.

  Ben sighed and looked at the peeling wallpaper beside him. ‘Is it me or is there something a little weird about this place?’

  ‘Like the whole place needs burying somewhere with a cross in it,’ said Riff.

  Ben pushed at the door to their suite and stood watching as it swung slowly back. The sight caused their collective jaws to drop - except for Vid, whose eyes spun in lazy circles.

  The room was large and square with several doors set into its soft, pink walls. The only items of furniture in evidence were a low table, a fridge and what looked like a large furry rug in the centre of the room. Probably the oddest thing, however, was the ceiling, which seemed to have been tiled entirely with mirrored glass.

  ‘Well that explains that,’ said Keys.

  ‘Explains what?’ said Ben.

  ‘The way they emphasised nights in our booking arrangements. I think these rooms normally have an hourly rate.’

  ‘Why would they have that?’ said Vid.

  ‘Well, you know… it’s one of those places where people just… come and go.’ As if in agreement, the words ‘Welcome to the Hotel Grande’ filtered through the walls from the corridor beyond.

  ‘That’s not going to get irritating,’ said Riff despondently.

  Ben frowned at the wall. ‘That’s a bit thin,’ he said. ‘You can’t get much privacy.’

  ‘Some people like that kind of thing,’ said Keys. ‘Makes them feel like they’re putting on a show.’

  Vid’s face registered concern. ‘How come you know so much about this kind of thing?

  Keys shrugged. ‘We work in a store that sells televisors and cable,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if we can’t operate a remote control.’

  Ben approached the table. The drinks list wasn’t in evidence, but there was an ice bucket on the table. Ben lifted the bottle, glanced at the label, then let go in disgust.

  ‘No good?’ said Vid.

  ‘Pink champagne,’ said Ben. He rummaged in the drawer under the desk. There was something that looked like a large lipstick, an anonymous cardboard packet and a suspiciously stained piece of card. The piece of card turned out to be the drinks list. Ben held it cautiously by the edges as he read.

  ‘Anything on it?’ said Keys.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m holding it like this.’

  ‘I mean anything to drink.’

  ‘Mostly designer beers. Looks like it’s just for sad businessmen.’

  Keys gestured expansively, something he could manage with rather more style than most people. ‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘Who do you think would normally stay in a place like this?’

  21

  The sun was setting by the time the group emerged from the hotel. Outside, the robots modifying the van were almost finished: one was fitting the last window, the other was painting some kind of complex swirl of colours on the bodywork. The confusion of colours gave an uncomfortable feeling of depth, making the band glad they would be inside the van looking out.

  Ben screwed up his nose at the smell of paint as he approached. ‘Why the paint job?’ he asked.

  The robot with the paint looked quickly at him and back to the work in hand.

  ‘We scratched the old paint job.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have gone for something simple? Like black, perhaps.’

  There was a shrug, although it could simply have been the robot adjusting his grip on the brush. Ben peered in the windows.

  ‘No seats, then,’ he said.

  ‘Tony said they weren’t a priority.’

  Ben observed the van critically. Colour aside, it certainly looked better than when they’d first been bundled into it. He would, however, have been happy to sacrifice a bit of scratched paintwork for somewhere comfortable to sit.

  His eye passed over the paintwork: if you stared long enough at it the eye started playing tricks. Swirls of, presumably random colour resolved into images. A particularly suggestive one caught his eye and he was about to bend down and examine it more closely when a ‘Hey’ from Vid distracted him. He only glanced away for a split second, but when he looked back the image had eluded him.

  The ‘Hey’ was returned in the usual leaden tones of Nutter. Ben turned from his inspection of the van to see the robot approaching with a gait that seemed somehow relaxed, although this could simply have been his keeping pace with their manager beside him. Tony was walking with his usual unhurried gait, creases in his newly-pressed suit shifting in and out of sharp relief as he moved.

  The smile on his face was equally well-pressed. ‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted them. ‘It is time we made our way to the concert hall. Don’t want to keep the audience waiting.’ He turned to the van and Ben thought he saw a momentary wince cross the man’s features. It was quickly dispelled. ‘Ev
erything done?’ he asked the service robots.

  ‘As requested,’ the painter confirmed.

  ‘Good,’ said Tony. ‘Then if everyone would care to climb aboard, we must away.’

  Sitting in the back of the van, the group watched as the streets passed by, the concrete and glass of city centre giving its reluctant way to the tired red brick of the dockside. Here the buildings were smaller, less monumental; they seemed squeezed together, each brightly coloured signboard vying for the attention like so many prostitutes round a bus station. These, however, were prostitutes who had seen better years: sagging window-frames and tarnished paints spoke of times that had become leaner. Boarded windows told of those who had succumbed to the struggle.

  Nestling amongst these grim relics was a building perhaps no more run-down than its neighbours, but somehow tawdrier. It had to all appearances once been a church, but its facings were obscured by generations of bill posters as if there had been an attempt to rebuild it in papier-mâché. Tony pulled the van round into a dark alley down one side and stopped.

  For a moment nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Eyes peered at the surroundings fixedly, but that was all.

  The moment passed. ‘Is this is?’ said Vid.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ said Tony.

  ‘It’s smaller than The Turret,’ said Vid. ‘I thought we were going up in the world.’

  ‘If you don’t want to play here you have only to say,’ said Tony, but his voice suggested anything but compliance and sympathy.

  ‘It doesn’t look so bad,’ said Ben.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I suppose we aren’t established outside of home yet.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So we’ll