Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown (40 page)

"
What was that all about?
"
George asked when she got back.

"
I made a phone call, just in case we can
'
t get out of here. I booked us a room at the Palace Hotel.
"

"
Us?
"

"
Yes, us. You and me.
Together. We got the last room, or so they told me.
"

Catherine looked at George and giggled.

"
You can sleep on the floor, if you would feel more comfortable.
Relax, we
'
ll figure something out.
"

George didn
'
t know what he was feeling. As wonderful a prospect as it may be to spend the night with Catherine, he hadn
'
t felt so apprehensive since a girl he liked at school invited him to a dance.

"
George, don
'
t worry about it, okay?
You
'
ll be fine. We
'
re not Punch and Judy. Nobody is going to get hurt. We
'
ll have a couple of drinks, a nice dinner. And we
'
ll go back to
London
in the morning. It
'
s no big deal.
"

She started laughing.

"
What
'
s so funny?
"

"
You are. Jeezus, George, I don
'
t normally have this much trouble having a sleepover.
"

The hotel clerk looked at them as if there had been a mistake.

"
What name is the reservation under?
"
he asked, George thought a little testily.

"
Brown,
"
said Jones.

"
Jones,
"
said Brown.

They both answered at the same time.

"
I see,
"
the clerk said.
"
Mr. and Mrs. Jones is it, or perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Brown? Just the one night, is it? I have a room with twin beds and a sea view…
"

By this time, Catherine had heard enough. She smiled sweetly at the desk clerk and raised her voice slightly for the benefit of the people queuing behind.

"
We want a double bed. And a mirrored ceiling.
"

"
I beg your pardon, madam,
"
the clerk said, now visibly flustered.

"
Mirrors,
"
said Catherine.
"
We need a double bed
and
a mirrored ceiling.
"

George suddenly saw the absurdity of it. This was fun. A day at the seaside with someone he loved, ending in an improbable adventure.

"
Darling!
"
he suddenly interrupted her, taking her arm.
"
Did you remember the whip?

"
Of course, darling, it
'
s in with the handcuffs.
"

"
And what about the….
"
He leaned towards her as if whispering in her ear.
"

"
Yes! Yes!
"
she let out a loud theatrical moan.

The clerk hurriedly pushed a key in their direction. It was six inches long, made of brass tied to a red satin heart.

"
Room 408, the Honeymoon Suite,
"
he said.
"
No extra charge. Enjoy your stay.
"

The famous seaside promenade, which on summer weekends is packed with holidaymakers, was almost deserted the following morning as George, a spring in his step, marched the length of Brighton Pier with only the company of recreational fishermen bundled up against the wind. He passed the fish and chip shops, the postcard sellers, the purveyors of tattoos, all shuttered and barred. He paused to admire the merry-go-round and all the prancing horses as still as statues, hearing again from his childhood the ghostly music of the whirligig. At the end of the pier was a helter-skelter and a sign that said,
'
From the top, on a clear day, you can see the
Isle of Wight
.
'
And here he stopped to carry out his mission. A cold mist was blowing in from the sea. George reached into his pocket for the flash drive, which felt lighter than a pebble in his hand, and he hurled it without ceremony into the gloom. He listened hoping to hear a splash, but heard nothing, only the taunting screech of gulls. It was done. Nobody knew. Nobody saw.

But one person saw it all. Catherine Mallory Jones, sitting alone at a widow table in the breakfast room of the Palace Hotel across from the Pier, knew what it was George Aloysius Brown had buried at sea. She watched him, a tiny, lonely figure silhouetted by the pale light of dawn. And at that moment she would say that she loved him, a good and simple man. And George in his loneliness felt the love. He was happy and carefree in a way he hadn
'
t been for years. She watched him doff his bowler hat to the clouds and twirl his rolled up umbrella as he strode towards the shore. She saw him stop on the boardwalk and do his Charlie Chaplin jig, kicking out his legs and clicking his heels. Then the mist rolled in and she could see him no more.

THE END

About the Author:

Award winning journalist Alan Daniels was a daily newspaper reporter and editor in London, Sydney, Hong Kong and Vancouver. Married with children, he is currently working on his second novel.

Connect with me online at:

http://spankthenovel.com