Read Online Watching the Wheels Come Off by Mike Hodges - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Hodges
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words are necessary, madam. Self-restraint is a virtue I much admire. Goodnight to you.’
Harvey shuffles off, then stops to wag his finger at his crotch, muttering: ‘Down boy!’
Alice waits for him to round the corner, before gratefully closing her door.
* * *
Ursula and Mark are perched back-to-back on either side of the bed. No clean break here. Instead a multiple fracture of pain, misery and anger.
Ursula breaks the silence. ‘You got an erection.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I saw it with my own eyes, bulging in your trousers while you were at the spy-hole.’
‘It was my handkerchief.’
He pulls it out of his pocket.
‘That’s not what I saw. It was a hard-on. And it didn’t have me in mind.’
‘Bollocks.’
Ursula faces him, triumphant. ‘So you admit it?’
‘No way.’
‘We didn’t come here to make love. We came so you
could ogle Temple’s assistant. You bastard, you wanted to humiliate me.’
‘Don’t talk bilge, Ursula.’
‘Why, of all the rooms in this dump, did you choose the one opposite hers?’
‘For Christ’s sake, all I want from her is some information on the student who vanished from Temple’s course in London. Don’t you understand? I need that reward.’
Ursula stands up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out of range.’
She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. He stretches out on the bed, closing his eyes. As sleep overtakes him, he hears the muffled sound of Ursula urinating. Later, much later, this sound would feature in one of his dreams.
* * *
A shaft of dawn sunlight, harsh as a laser, hits his eyes. They open in confusion. He feels the empty space beside him, then remembers what happened.
Ursula has made sure of that.
She’s used a blood-red lipstick to sign off. An erect penis, beautifully drawn, runs the length of the dressing-table mirror. Mark sits up in astonishment, only to find his reflected image has the penis going in one ear and coming out the other. On his forehead, Ursula has placed numerous lipstick kisses.
‘Bitch!’
He rolls off the bed and opens the curtains. Men’s dinner suits, elegant and sexy at night, in daylight look tired andtatty; much like Count Dracula. Mark tries ineffectively to brush out the creases with his hand. Only then does he notice that Ursula has left the room door wide open, leaving him a clear view of Alice Honey’s boots.
The corridor is deserted. He crosses to Room 13 and listens.
Silence.
Picking up one of the boots he rubs it sensually against his cheek. His distorted image, reflected in the patent leather, appears to be whispering to itself. ‘Only you can get me off the hook, Alice baby. Then you can ride me bareback into the sunset.’ He replaces the boot, sighs and returns to his room, shutting the door.
ten
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 theName 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,
Harvey shuffles off, then stops to wag his finger at his crotch, muttering: ‘Down boy!’
Alice waits for him to round the corner, before gratefully closing her door.
* * *
Ursula and Mark are perched back-to-back on either side of the bed. No clean break here. Instead a multiple fracture of pain, misery and anger.
Ursula breaks the silence. ‘You got an erection.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I saw it with my own eyes, bulging in your trousers while you were at the spy-hole.’
‘It was my handkerchief.’
He pulls it out of his pocket.
‘That’s not what I saw. It was a hard-on. And it didn’t have me in mind.’
‘Bollocks.’
Ursula faces him, triumphant. ‘So you admit it?’
‘No way.’
‘We didn’t come here to make love. We came so you
could ogle Temple’s assistant. You bastard, you wanted to humiliate me.’
‘Don’t talk bilge, Ursula.’
‘Why, of all the rooms in this dump, did you choose the one opposite hers?’
‘For Christ’s sake, all I want from her is some information on the student who vanished from Temple’s course in London. Don’t you understand? I need that reward.’
Ursula stands up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out of range.’
She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. He stretches out on the bed, closing his eyes. As sleep overtakes him, he hears the muffled sound of Ursula urinating. Later, much later, this sound would feature in one of his dreams.
* * *
A shaft of dawn sunlight, harsh as a laser, hits his eyes. They open in confusion. He feels the empty space beside him, then remembers what happened.
Ursula has made sure of that.
She’s used a blood-red lipstick to sign off. An erect penis, beautifully drawn, runs the length of the dressing-table mirror. Mark sits up in astonishment, only to find his reflected image has the penis going in one ear and coming out the other. On his forehead, Ursula has placed numerous lipstick kisses.
‘Bitch!’
He rolls off the bed and opens the curtains. Men’s dinner suits, elegant and sexy at night, in daylight look tired andtatty; much like Count Dracula. Mark tries ineffectively to brush out the creases with his hand. Only then does he notice that Ursula has left the room door wide open, leaving him a clear view of Alice Honey’s boots.
The corridor is deserted. He crosses to Room 13 and listens.
Silence.
Picking up one of the boots he rubs it sensually against his cheek. His distorted image, reflected in the patent leather, appears to be whispering to itself. ‘Only you can get me off the hook, Alice baby. Then you can ride me bareback into the sunset.’ He replaces the boot, sighs and returns to his room, shutting the door.
ten
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 theName 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,
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