THE BEACH AT THE
HOLIDAY INN
THE HOLIDAY INN was a seven-storey tower, its terraced bar overlooking a circular swimming pool whose waters lapped a crescent of sandy beach. Umbrellas and sun loungers furnished the beach, and an even-tempered and ultraviolet-free light played over the scene. All this was deep inside the Metro-Centre, in a district dominated by its hotels, cafés and emporia filled with sporting goods. A visitor to the Holiday Inn, or to the nearby Novotel and Ramada Inn, could imagine that this was part of a leisure complex in a suburb of Tokyo or Shanghai.
I ordered a glass of wine from a waitress dressed like a tennis instructor and gazed over the deserted beach with its immaculate sand and rows of waiting sun loungers. The wave machine had been turned to its lowest setting, and a vaguely gastric swell, like a suppressed vomit reflex, flowed across the colourized water.
Already I wondered why Julia Goodwin had chosen this rendezvous in the mall where my father had met his death. I watched her approach the terrace, half an hour late, throwing her gum into the sluggish surf. Her hospital identification tag hung from the lapel of her jacket, and she had loosened her hair, a thick black cloud like the smokescreen of a nervous destroyer. She spoke to the waitress as if addressing a subnormal patient, and ordered a tonic water with two dashes of Angostura.
‘Comfortable?’ I asked when she sat herself at the terrace table. ‘Why are we meeting here?’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘This is kitsch with a strychnine chaser. It’s where my father was shot.’
Surprised by my sharp tone, she sat forward and lifted the hair from her eyes. ‘Look, I thought we ought to see it together. In a way, it explains why your father died. I didn’t mean to upset you. What do you think of the beach?’
‘Better than Acapulco. I’m getting a tan already.’
‘As good as the real thing?’
‘It’s not meant to be the real thing.’ I decided to calm her, and shaped my mouth into the kind of easy smile favoured by David Cruise. ‘It’s all part of a good-natured joke. Everyone knows that.’
‘Do they? I hope you’re right. These days even reality has to look artificial.’
‘Maybe. My father was real, hit by a very real bullet. Why do you say the Metro-Centre can explain his death?’
She sipped her tonic and Angostura, letting the points of effervescence bead on her eyelashes. She was still wary, unsure of me and my motives for seeing her. ‘Richard, think about it for a moment. People come in here looking for something worthwhile. What do they find? Everything is invented, all the emotions, all the reasons for living. It’s an imaginary world, created by people like you. A madman walks in with a gun and thinks he’s in a shooting gallery. Perhaps he is, inside his head.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘Why not start shooting? There are plenty of targets, and no one looks as if they’d mind all that much.’ She stopped suddenly and sat back. ‘Christ . . . what bullshit. Do you believe a word of that?’
‘No.’ Won over, I ordered another round from the waitress. ‘But you hate the Metro-Centre.’
‘It’s not just this ghastly place. All these retail parks are the same. Rootless people drifting about. The only time they touch reality is when they fall ill and come to see me. Educated, well nourished, kind to their children . . .’
‘But savages?’
‘Not all, no.’ She reached up with both hands and gathered her hair together. She pinned it inside a rubber band that had probably secured a patient’s medical file, and then moved my wineglass out of the way so that she could speak more forcefully. ‘There’s a new kind of human being who’s appeared on the scene. These are people who behave in strange ways and should know better.’
‘Casualty doctors?’
‘Doctors, lawyers, police officers, bank managers . . . they get funny ideas in their heads. Some of them start thinking logically.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Thinking logically? Out here it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. It can lead intelligent people to do things they shouldn’t, like acting rationally and for the public good. Take it from me. Anywhere near the M25 is dangerous.’
‘Why don’t you leave?’
‘I will. First, there are things that need sorting out. I got myself involved in something rather foolish that I wasn’t really bargaining for . . .’
She stared at a wave advancing towards us. Exposed to the light, her face was pale but surprisingly strong, marked by tremors of doubt like those of an actress unable to understand her lines. When she saw me watching her she reached up to loosen her hair, but I held her wrists and pressed them to the table until she controlled herself.
‘Julia . . . take it easy.’
‘Right. I’ll join Médecins Sans Frontières. Go to somewhere in the third world where the beaches still smell of dead fish. I might even do some good.’
‘You’re doing good here,’ I told her. ‘Try believing in yourself.’
‘Impossible. Besides, the A&E thing is self-inflicted. Drunks, car crashes, brawling, fist fights. There’s a huge amount of street violence. People don’t know it, but they’re bored out of their minds. Sport is the big giveaway. Wherever sport plays a big part in people’s lives you can be sure they’re bored witless and just waiting to break up the furniture.’
‘You’ll have to move. Just one problem: wherever you go you’ll find nothing except a new kind of boredom.’
‘That sounds fun. We could go together. You invent the reality and afterwards I’ll put on the Band-Aids.’
I liked her, and was glad that she seemed to enjoy the banter. But she withdrew from me as soon as I tried to hold her eyes, watching the waves rather than face up to whatever she was concealing.
The terrace around us had filled with evening drinkers. Groups of middle-aged men and women, almost all wearing St George’s shirts, stood, glasses in hand, smoking and patting their midriffs. They spilled onto the pedestrian piazza outside the hotel entrance. The embroidered badges on their shirts showed that they were members of a Metro-Centre supporters’ club. They were loud but self-controlled, hailing new arrivals with friendly cheers.
‘Football supporters?’ I said to Julia Goodwin. ‘They seem amiable enough.’
‘Are you sure? I dare say I’ll be seeing some of them at A&E tonight.’
‘The match started at seven—they’ve missed the first half.’
‘These are not the sort of supporters who go to matches. They’re here for the punch-up.’
‘Hooligans?’
‘Definitely not. They’re well organized, practically local militias. Take a good look, and then keep out of their way.’
The drinkers downed their beers and left the terrace, forming into paunchy platoons each led by a marshal. They moved off to a chorus of ironic cheers, a woman member breaking ranks to dart into a nearby deli. But their marching was brisk and in step, and I guessed that Julia had arranged to meet me at the Holiday Inn so that I would get a glimpse of a darker side of Brooklands.
She pretended to fiddle with her handbag as smoke drifted across us from a dozen ashtrays. She knew what my next question would be, since she had made a point of giving me the local newspaper. A slow confession was emerging, as sluggish as the simulated wave.
‘Julia . . . before I forget. You testified at the magistrates’ court.’
‘I did, yes. So?’
‘Why, exactly?’
‘It was the public-spirited thing to do. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Probably. Did you really see Duncan Christie there? At the time you heard the shots?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How far away was he?’
‘God knows. Ten or fifteen feet. I saw him clearly.’