Free Watching the Wheels Come Off by Mike Hodges

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 ofConjuring: 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 Honeysuddenly 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