Bawdy gusts and typically ear-invading North-west rain whipped across clumpy brown grass as Peter O’Toole dashed at a 45-degree angle, looking like a hero from a Commando comic strip outstepping the spotlights of Stalag Luft III’s angry watchtowers. In keeping with everything else during the weekend thus far, what O’Toole was seeing made little sense. Where was the hairpin bend with its line of traffic heading to and from a metropolis? A small easy-to-miss signpost stated “Danger – Cliff edge” and showed a simple pictogram of a man falling backwards amid disturbed rocks. Stopping to kneel and take in the new territory, O’Toole looked forwards and noticed the faintest outline of tyre tracks, which he followed to a bank of rustling black bushes. Here, he spotted a breached mesh fence; in fact, the stretch was poorly maintained and O’Toole picked out other points of entry, easily recognisable by sacks of building waste liberally strewn on the grassy stretch. In the failing light, O’Toole identified an area of shredded shrubbery that had practically sealed itself due to the action of the stiff breeze. He lowered through the Vauxhall-sized tunnel of smashed twigs and entered a crescent-shaped layby lit by a single orange sodium streetlight. Beyond, an A-road beckoned and to his delight, O’Toole heard, then observed, an articulated lorry drone by.
EDDIE STOBART LTD EXPRESS ROAD HAULAGE SPECIALIST.
The formidable actor paused to reflect and his conclusion was that, in the turmoil of the fog, Smith’s driver had simply mistaken the layby for the continuation of the road. Most probably embroiled in a fascinating conversation about some television programme or other, the vehicle would have trundled idly through the layby, smashed through the decrepit fence, jounced along the scrub heath and taken to the sky, regrettably without wings.
O’Toole absentmindedly thought, Well, it could be worse, but then checked himself. How could it possibly be worse? There’s a dead man in a tree being eaten by crows! Scowling, he was quick to add, And you’ve just spent the last 24 hours in a haunted carapace in Carlisle! He regarded his internal conversation as that of a man in dire need of deep sleep and scurried on towards the carriageway with the intention of hitching a lift.
There was no refreshingly orange lighting hanging above the arterial road to guide a traveller’s trail and O’Toole wondered if this would assist or hamper his chances of thumbing a ride. Judging his appearance, O’Toole was startled to see how much of a tattered mess his beige sports jacket had become. It was two-tone due to its damp and dry areas and the material had been liberally daubed with earthy impressionist brushstrokes. Along the length of both arms were rips and exposed white lining. Passable, just. His oversized black cords had proved the correct garment to maintain warmth but they had soaked up a great deal of moisture and needed wringing. There was no mirror to check the state of his face and hair, and he hadn’t brushed his teeth since he’d set off from Ireland. He could perhaps use a Polo or two. O’Toole tossed his fringe into place and, spotting a set of sparkly white-yellow lights approaching, readied himself in the flinging rain.
To boost his chances of being seen, O’Toole stepped from the grass verge, stuck out a hand and paced along the shoulder of the highway, facing the oncoming vehicle. The car, a Ford Orion, slowed, windscreen wipers whapping, and the driver nervously eyed the bipedal lagoon creature in his midst. A scream from a female passenger – “Don’t stop or we’ll die!” – was enough information for the gentleman behind the wheel and the Escort-with-a-boot Orion hurtled off with revs high. It was a grave failure, but it was only the first attempt. O’Toole needed to make himself more appealing, so he pushed up his sleeves to reveal bare arms. He thought it might make himself more approachable.
The downpour ebbed to a manageable mizzle and for a time, O’Toole was able to discern the hum of a faraway factory unseen by the eye. He wondered about the plant’s chief concern and settled on tinned dog food. Striding through the darkness, stepping along a fast-moving road-gutter River Nile, he imagined the cans clattering along conveyor belts, brown and yellow labels automatically being applied, each with a photo of a well-groomed Afghan hound waiting for his bowl to be dropped to the floor. Without sight of a car, the minutes stretched and stretched. Where was everyone? Greater London, this was not.
The distant splutter of a motorcycle engine raised O’Toole’s spirits. To remain awake, he occupied his time working out the backstory of Hangingbrow Hall. Possibly built in the early 1700s. Border clashes between the English and Scots and a few unpleasantries on or near the premises. This fellow Twisteaux arrives in the Twenties or early Thirties and something happens. Was he a black-magic wizard, able to call on underworld forces and orchestrate incredible power? He was Swiss, that much was known, and he had the ear of the Nazi top brass. He had a wife and three children, a simple ruse to establish his credentials as a family man to the local community. But they are expendable and expend of them he does in the most grisly Nazi-like time-is-money fashion, as witnessed in wild contortions by the Prestwich psychic Mark E Smith. Twisteaux is in constant contact with Berlin. Hitler, no champion of Christianity, glad to see its demise in fact, believes in older gods and that the Germans were not only subservient to these ancient deities, but somehow directly related. Hitler was also obsessed by Atlantis, from which he was convinced his Aryan brethren were derived. Was Twisteaux’s heritage linked with this blonde-haired, blue-eyed mythical island?
Another set of dazzling lights sprung up on the horizon. I’ll stop this ferret, O’Toole mouthed, and he stepped with purpose into the middle of the road, hands raised, waving, hoping his white exposed forearms would act like enticing beacons. He could hear the engine become louder, its lights brighter, but this car was not slowing. Soon there was the blare of a horn, a hard get-out-of-my-bloody-way stab of raw racket that made O’Toole wince. The car nipped past O’Toole’s pelvis at 70mph and the 51-year-old thesp practically cartwheeled away with shock. Glancing up prostrate from the black tarmac, he wondered, Am I so untrustworthy unto your peepers?
Desperation chomped and bared crooked teeth, but a curve in the road brought a sight as fine as a full house at a provincial theatre. Further along the carriageway stood a telephone box tucked away neatly by a trim hedge. Its illumination within was so welcoming, it could have been rays emitting from an angel. The metal of the door handle fitted O’Toole’s fingers perfectly and he swept into the chamber and found himself marvelling not just at the black receiver sitting on its cradle, but the whole science behind telephones.
O’Toole dialled 100 to speak to the operator. “Yes, could I reverse the charges to a London line?” he asked, and read out the number.
“One moment,” the voice replied. “Could I ask your name, please?”
“O’Toole.”
“I’m putting you through now…”
There came a click and a beep-beep.
“Peter.”
“Steve, spot of bother,” said O’Toole. “Can you assist?”
“If I can – I’m your agent, after all.”
“I’m in Cumbria.”
“Has this anything to do with alcohol?”
“No, but I’d like it to play a part.”
O’Toole’s representative at William Morris, Steve Kenis, chuckled. “OK, go on.”
“I’ve had the most incredible two days, which I can’t talk about right now. I don’t know where I am, other than I know I’m in a telephone kiosk in the countryside. I’m trying to hitch, but… well…”
“Peter, what’s happened? Do you have any money on you?”
“No money, just a bloody Access card. Listen, can you try and find out where I am through this phone number, and then somehow get hold of a local taxi firm to pick me up. I need a hotel with six rooms. Do you understand, six?”
“Six? Peter, what are you up to? Wait a minute, let me get a pen. I’ll write this down.”
“Good man.”
“OK, go ahead.”
“I need a taxi. A hotel with six rooms, preferably with bath and/or shower facilities. I need clothes, and I don’t know how you’ll manage this at…” O’Toole looked at his watch. “My God, it’s half-seven already.”
“Let’s see what I can do. What do you need?”
“The whole nine yards. I look like Stig of the bloody Dump’s derelict uncle. Shirt, jacket, trousers, socks, shoes. Pyjamas, but not essential. Undies. I need undies! Lovely clean undies, yes.”
“Have you been mugged?”
“No, no, no,” O’Toole answered. “Now here’s the important bit. You know the batsman Geoff Boycott.”
“A-hmm. Cricketer.”
“You should expect a call from him before ten this evening.”
“A call from Geoff Boycott? Christ, why? He’ll have representation already, Peter.”
“Don’t go off on a tangent. I’ve given him your number.”
“Why should I expect a call from…?”
“For God’s sake, listen. Geoff bloody Boycott. If you hear or don’t hear by 10pm, either way I need to know. I’ll ring you a minute or two after that.”
“And you can’t tell me what the problem is?”
“It’s a long story, Mr Fixer. Another time.”
“OK, lunch is on me next week. For now, sit tight and wait.”
“I’ll bring you back some fudge.”
“I’m sure you will. Speak later, Peter.”
“Thank you, Steve.”
O’Toole replaced the receiver and crumpled on the concrete floor, life’s discarded dishcloth, his legs tucked up to his chest, head resting against a dirty glass pane. His eyes blazed. He was ravenously hungry and thirsty, but at least he felt safe and not completely cold. He thought of the war, of the concentration camps, of the striped-uniform degradation, of the barking dogs, of the experiments, of Anne Frank, that smashing girl, of her last moments, of the Warsaw Ghetto, the blind panic, those valiant souls. He thought about Adolf Hitler as a child and the unwarranted love bestowed on his riddled dark soul. O’Toole blistered with anger. He blinked, blinked, drifted, drifted, drifted…
O’Toole was presenting an Afghan hound with its dinner in a farmhouse-style kitchen. Within the bowl were shiny chunks of meat straight out of a tin topped with a crunched-up pillow of Shredded Wheat for added fibre. O’Toole was in his Lawrence Of Arabia-era Sixties pomp and gave the flamboyant dog a deep piercing look with his striking blue eyes. This meant many things at once: love; respect; kindness; you’ve-deserved-this exuberance; and even equality. Hitler, in full military regalia, entered the kitchen from an adjoining room and switched the kettle on. He gave O’Toole a radiant smile. “I love ze dogs!” he joyfully affirmed. The long-haired creature yawned so widely that O’Toole thought its head might turn inside out and then it started honking like a goose. There followed a shrill whine, heavy clatter and a great deal of scraping.
“You Ortul?”
O’Toole raised an eye and was temporarily blinded by the dull light.
“Ortul?”
“Whaat?” O’Toole said with gravelly croak. “I’ve fed the dog!”
“Radio Taxis! Been bibbin’ me ’ooter for five minute.”
“Taxi, ahh, wonderful,” O’Toole smiled, rising to his feet. “Just the man!”
“You drunk?”
“No, more’s the pity, just lost and tired, friend.”
“Can’t ’ave you in my cab if you’re spewing.”
“I haven’t screamed ‘Hooray!’ since I was a teenager.”
“Come on, it’s Sat’day. Busy night. You’re lucky. I’ve got an address to drop you off. You’re pre-paid. Never ’ad pre-paid before.”
O’Toole rested in the back of the cab and instantly recognised the fresh aroma of a pine forest. Dangling from the rear-view mirror was a tree-shaped air freshener that reminded O’Toole of the Spar supermarket logo. “Expedient car you have here. Not British, is it?”
“Colt Tredia,” replied the driver with an accent that seemed the perfect cross between Pakistan and the local Cumbrian dialect. “These are better than British cars in the cold. Just more reliable. Our firm’s got five. Three years unlimited mileage warranty from a place at Carleton. Eh, what ’appened to you? You cave rescue or something?”
“Have you ever read in a newspaper ‘death by misadventure’?” O’Toole explained. “Well, I remain alive by misadventure.”
The taxi driver nodded and took a close look at O’Toole through the mirror. “You look familiar to me.”
“I have one of those faces,” O’Toole returned the stare.
“Yeah maybe,” the taxi driver nodded. “Nice ’otel you’re off to. I’m not sure they’ll let you in the bar like that, though!”
“You should have seen the place I stayed last night.”
“Dump?”
“It was hell!”
The taxi driver was a man of haste, not torpor, and at a painted roadsign the Japanese car braked sharply, turned and quickened along a single-track access road. With a click of a stalk full beams lit the way, scouring the woodland setting with its searching shine. Gazing along the thoroughfare through the semi-condensation of the window, O’Toole glimpsed a grand neo-Georgian house and he knew he was minutes from running water, hot food, clicking radiators and possibly a whisky for medicinal purposes. Haven’t I merited a thimbleful?
In warming wet clothes, the sharp bite of Cumbria’s outside air felt raw to the bone and O’Toole pulled an expression of barely concealed discomfort. Age, he sneered. Lifting his nose, he recognised the unmistakeable fragrance of a nearby waterway, and it reminded him of his green, soggy Connemara. Familiarity was a fine thing and he breathed in greedily.
With a farewell to the no-nonsense cab driver, O’Toole ascended a small set of stone steps and shuffled through a foyer towards the hotel reception desk. Guests in smart get-up heading to the dining room slowed their stride to fully appreciate this muddied marvel in their midst. A blue-suited blonde woman in her late twenties, a large perm lacquered into brittle security, rose from her seat, unsure whether to welcome O’Toole or alert security. In the brilliant light, O’Toole caught sight of his reflection in a large-format mirror adorning a wall. “Good God!” he called out. “Ring London Zoo! There’s Sasquatch on the premises!”
Men chuckled inwardly, always glad to witness mirth or mischief, while wives and mistresses, exuding anxiety, as well as the new fragrant spice and amber notes of Coco by Chanel, were eager to move on.
“Good evening,” the receptionist said with trepidation. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I believe I have a reservation under the name O’Toole, possibly Kenis, K-E-N-I-S.”
“And your booking is at Daventry Hall?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” O’Toole replied, and then glanced over his shoulder to judge the class of the clientele. “I asked for six rooms,” and his eyes once again fell on the receptionist. “I have some acquaintances who will follow later if the traffic is good to firm. The M6 can be a bugger of a racecourse, you know. And this weather! Ducky Lucky would feel hard done by.”
The young lady checked her diary and this time knew a smile was the correct response. “Ah yes, O’Toole. The manager would like to see you. If you could take a seat.”
“Where’s the bar?” OToole brusquely enquired. “The manager can see me there.”
The receptionist felt unusually unsettled by O’Toole’s aura and to her own annoyance she blushed. Even though this new arrival resembled a potato that had been dragged from the ground, he exuded grace, confidence and even danger. She pointed to an arched doorway from which gentle laughter and tinkling glassware could be heard. O’Toole slunk in its friendly direction.
Once inside, the bar was seen to be a small yet inviting library that sold a fine array of intoxicating liquor. O’Toole was famished, hungrier than he’d been for years and his expression did little to hide the fact. His startled eyes danced from his dirt-encrusted features, while seated people who were idly checking newcomers struggled to conceal their surprise. There were check brown-patterned settees, sumptuous armchairs, low tables and shelves holding leather-bound novels and reference books. A fire crackled with a slow-moving, sleepy yellow flame, giving a sweet aroma of wood smoke and, by association, safety. There were a smattering of guests, middle aged and upwards, and tweed was flavour of the month. O’Toole surveyed the artwork, mainly framed prints of hunting scenes with blasting guns and alert dogs. It wouldn’t do to be a pheasant in this northern quagmire. He approached the bar, which was small and barricaded with bottles and pumps, and held up a hand to gain the attendant’s attention.
“Pint of water to start with, skipper,” O’Toole ordered. “A Macallan to follow, large and straight. And bags of ready salted crisps, nuts, pork scratchings… anything.” O’Toole craned his neck to further study the room’s embellishments. Antique furniture was narrow in style and tastefully curved, fitting the environment so perfectly that they were almost invisible. Windows were practically floor to ceiling in length, curtains yet to be drawn, although nothing could be viewed through the panes at this hour. Small lamps privately burned, providing a homely glow.
The barman, a local, smiled like a bobby on the beat and asked, “Do you ’ave a room number, sir?”
“Not at this precise time, but all is in good order, and in three minutes, I’ll not have one room number but six to choose from.”
“Or would you prefer to pay in cash?”
“Alas, not a penny on me,” and O’Toole conspiratorially squeezed up to the bar to explain. “I’ve ridden a rough excursion, you see, and thankfully I’ve reached the terminus. All change please!”
A draught of air and O’Toole suddenly felt he had company; whether benign or malicious he was yet to discover. He span ostentatiously to find a red-faced, rotund, headmasterly/CEO figure in his early sixties resembling a small tank engine that was uncoupling from its sniggering trucks in a Rev W Awdry Railways Series yarn. The gentleman’s moustache quivered and judging by his attire and perturbed state, he’d spent a miserable day firing at, and missing, large colourful birds in the wet Cumbrian countryside.
“Now see here,” the portly soul began.
“The television programme for the deaf?” O’Toole interrupted. “Sundays. I’ve seen it. Usually as I’m getting in from Saturday night.”
“What the devil are you talking about? This is a private bar for the guests of the hotel and furthermore there’s a dress code. Where’s your tie?”
“Fuck off,” O’Toole jabbed a finger, in no mood for fools. “It’s Scarecrow Night.”
“You can’t simply walk off the main road after a day’s dozing in a farmer’s barn, bolt into the first place you find and order yourself a livener, you… you… vagrant!” the man complained. “I can’t work out whether you’re bloody rude or plain insolent?”
O’Toole appeared shocked for a moment. He then broke into a jaunty smile and softly replied, “Sir, I have the same problem.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the man spoke, shifting up a gear and keen for a rapid solution. “You’re upsetting the tenor.”
“Your companion was cheap for the price,” O’Toole commented, copping a view of the angry individual’s female friend, and instinctively shifted to one side as a dumpy fist shot through the air. Events appeared to be hotting up when a smartly dressed figure of authority in black suit, white shirt and shiny blue tie raced forward to restore order. “Major, Major, please, this man is a guest of the hotel, despite appearances. Please pass on complaints to staff and allow us to deal with these in the appropriate manner.”
“Guest?” the Major rolled back with indignation. “He’s a dosser!”
“I’m Carlisle Council’s chief dustbin inspector,” O’Toole explained. “It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it. This is my final job of the day. The hotel passes with flying colours, once again.”
The ears of the seated Chuck Mosley pricked up. The mixed-race singer and guitarist with San Francisco post-punk band Haircuts Would Kill scribbled It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it on the back of a Bass beermat, and then crossed out has to in favour of gotta. It sounded less British and stuffy. He was enjoying the Limey fracas but felt sympathy for the hobo. Mosley would shortly replace Courtney Love in the American rock band Faith No More. He tucked the beermat into his bag and continued drinking his pint of John Smiths “bitter”, which he liked more than he’d expected.
The hotel manager gestured towards an empty table with two accompanying high-backed chairs and beckoned O’Toole towards them. The Major, silenced and chastened, returned to his wife, who promptly handed him a tablet from a plastic container. It was swallowed with a G&T.
“I’m Darren Stockdale, hotel manager at Daventry Hall. And you are Peter O’Toole, the actor, right? Lawrence of Arabia?”
“I’m heavily disguised,” O’Toole cracked a grin. “It’s the only way I can travel.”
“I doubt you’ve been recognised by a single person,” the hotel manager followed. “I’ve had a Mr Kenis from London on the phone. Your agent? He mentioned you’ll need six rooms. I’m sorry but I can only offer two. It’s hunting season in these parts and we are busy at the weekend. We should be completely full but the fog last night took its toll. I’ve never seen conditions like it.”
“Yes, it was quite something,” O’Toole accepted.
“You can stay in our largest suite for no extra cost and I’m sure we can find space, with a little shifting around of furniture, for you and your five friends, but you might be three to a room. It’s best we can do.”
“That would be fine,” O’Toole smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be fit to drop once they arrive. Could I order a drink?”
“Of course,” the manager said. “What’ll you have?”
“Pint of water. Whisky, large. Bagged snacks of your choosing, preferably four,” O’Toole affirmed.
“How about a steak? We can set you up a place here, no bother.”
O’Toole’s eyes lit up. “Medium rare. Hold the crisps.”
The manager conversed with the barman using a secret language of clicking fingers, hand movement and eyebrow manipulation. Two mats were rapidly slapped on the table followed by a pint of tap water and two tumblers, one containing a divine brown liquid, the other rocks of ice and a long spoon.
“Apologies for the misunderstanding, sir,” the barman spoke. “Your clothes threw me. The Macallan is a largelarge. Fifteen Year Old. A top drop. You look like you need warmin’ up. On the house.”
O’Toole reached for the pint of cold water and downed it in one. He placed the glass back on its mat and contemplated. “Isn’t it amazing?” he expounded. “In times of trouble your body instinctively knows what is best, and right now, that is a glass of ten-furlongs.”
Stockdale looked perplexed. “Ten furlongs?”
“Ten furlongs mile and a quarter,” O’Toole smiled. “Water.”
With deliberation, O’Toole lifted the tumbler to his nose for a long-drawn-out sniff and then lowered the rim to his lips. He eyed his tranquil surroundings and thought of his companions traipsing dejectedly away from the cliff face hours before, their own adventure far from completion, with uncertainty their only certainty. He sipped his Macallan with due respect and commented, “Absolute heaven. How do they make it so cheap?”
“As for clothing, we’ve a few items that should suffice,” Stockdale added. “You’ve arrived with nothing, is that correct?”
“I travel light,” O’Toole replied.
“Room 9 is free now,” the manager confirmed and passed over the key. It’s upstairs. There’s a bath and shower. Your clothing is on the bed, but they’re lost-property pieces. Nothing new but they’re clean. Carlisle closes at five on a Saturday and doesn’t stir till Monday morning. I can call an outfitter but whether he can drop by, I wouldn’t like to guess.”
“Don’t go to the trouble,” O’Toole dismissed, taking another small drop of smooth firey warmth. “I’m sure your second-hand selection of clobber will be ideal for my evening’s entertainment. I can’t thank you enough.”
“We believe the jacket once belonged to Geoff Boycott, the cricketer,” the hotel manager stated. “He stayed here a while back when he were signing autographs for a book launch in a sport shop. Afterwards, we tried contacting him but he never rang back. It’s a shame. I’m a bit of a fan. It’s too tight for me, like. I enjoy me mother’s Sunday dinners too much. ”
O’Toole sunk back into his seat, face reddening, and just as the hotel manager suspected his guest might be suffering a heart attack and that he should call an ambulance, O’Toole rocked forward, tapped the table with the flat of his hand and let out a bronchial laugh. “Oh, Mother!” he breathlessly heaved.
Stockdale, smiling yet baffled, stood and announced, “We’ll get two mattresses and extra blankets in your room once you’ve had a moment to freshen up. We’ll have a key at reception for the extra accommodation. Do you want to go up now or are you ready to eat shortly?”
“Eat!” barked O’Toole. “I forgot to pack my sandwiches this morning.”
The Major gave O’Toole a withering stare and the actor merrily raised his glass in his direction. “What about the tie?” O’Toole asked Stockdale.
“Not required. Don’t worry, these are unusual circumstances.”
“They are not!” O’Toole harrumphed. “I’m in fine company. You must have a tie somewhere!”
Stockdale slowly nodded and disappeared, returning minutes later with a tie that had a criss-cross design of muted countryside shades. O’Toole thanked the hotel manager for his can-do capabilities and as soon as he was alone, he removed his beyond-repair jacket to reveal a brightly coloured pink, blue and white striped shirt that, apart from damp stains at the shoulders and residual blemishes at the chest from his cliff ascent and scrape with an evil ventriloquist’s dummy, belied the struggle he’d endured in reaching Daventry Hall. With the Major busily observing, O’Toole fastened his tie around his forehead like a Rambo sweatband.
The waiter, who’d been pre-warned that a world-famous actor had descended on the hotel, was professional enough to conceal his amusement upon spotting O’Toole’s oddball appearance. Wait till I tell Dad! he inwardly beamed.
A place was set with knife and fork, fork and spoon, and when dinner eventually arrived, O’Toole’s face straightened to take in the majestic offering.
“Steak Diane, sir,” the waiter revealed with a Borders twang. “Might I suggest a red wine to go with ya dinnah? A Chianti, perhaps?”
O’Toole nodded his approval. “Just a glass, mind. Certainly no more than two. If I have three, I shall be annoyed and hold you responsible.” He placed his napkin dutifully into his shirt. This dragged a smile from the waiter. I mean, why is ’e botherin’? the staff member wondered.
“I’ll ’ang ya coat up, sir,” the waiter followed, which brought tired thanks from O’Toole, who was hoping to remain awake long enough to fully appreciate the bounty before him.
With alcoholic accompaniment delivered, O’Toole’s stomach let out a radio-interference whine, such was his hunger. He launched into the steak like a wolf in a wildlife park. It was served with skinny chips that were fancifully titled French fries on the menu and a mixture of vegetables including white, overdone cauliflower and leathery broad beans. Incredibly, the flavours were out of this world. O’Toole felt like he was taking part in an Olympic race to clear his plate in record time, an act witnessed with much interest by the barman.
A second glass of rocket-fuel Chianti invigorated O’Toole and his eyes widened. A flash of his watch and he realised time was pressing and that his body was aching to be submerged in piping-hot water. He declined pudding and asked for the bill to be charged to his room. With haste, O’Toole picked up his key, retrieved his ragged jacket and bid a theatrical good evening to the guests in the bar, including a huffing Major and his flapping umbrella of a wife. Chuck Mosley called over, “Fuck, man, you got a good look! You’re like Oscar from Sesame Street! He’s the deal!” With O’Toole departing, the Major approached Mosley’s table to reprimand him about his foul language.
Following directional signs to Room 9, O’Toole bounded a set of supremely well-hoovered stairs, passing a tense-looking couple on the landing, who gave the ascending figure a wide berth despite the actor’s cheery approach.
Room 9 was located at the far end of the corridor and for a moment it reminded O’Toole of the children’s room and the horrors of Hangingbrow Hall. Two camp-bed mattresses had already been pushed up against the passageway and this eased his fears. O’Toole wondered who he’d most appreciate as his dormitory chums and assumed the elder duo Brian Clough and Geoff Boycott would naturally gravitate his way. Not that he could foresee much idle chatter into the early hours. Even Clough had his limits.
Inside, the room was joyously warm, dry and welcoming, with a bouncy king-size bed, two large windows with drawn yellow floral-patterned curtains, a desk and seat in which a business traveller might check his invoices and receipts, a set of well-polished wooden drawers and, laid neatly on the bed, Geoff Boycott’s discarded blazer, a pair of denim jeans, a white shirt, a maroon V-neck Slazenger jumper, grey socks and, importantly, Paisley underpants of a medium size. By the side of the bed lay a pair of well-worn golden-brown brogues, which appeared to have been glued at the sole to extend their life. He had no sartorial plans for his beleaguered friends. Some bridges had to be crossed as and when.
O’Toole stepped into the bathroom and span the hot tap, pouring a slug of bubble bath into the steaming water to assist the dirt-scouring. He undressed and twisted the cold tap to avoid cooking like a lobster. He ran his hand through the foam and rapidly swiped the water from side to side to give a steady sub-boiling-kettle temperature. He wiped the steam from a mirror to study his bedraggled state and smiled at his reflection. He slipped the Rambo-style tie from his head and found himself mesmerised by the sheer amount of grime and red scratches on his gaunt face.
Gloriously, the bathwater was so searing that O’Toole’s feet and lower legs, accustomed to nothing but cold and damp, tingled painfully. He slowly descended into the water until his shoulders were submerged and it felt like he’d climbed into a shaft of sunshine. He washed his hair and to his joy saw small clods of dirt float past his knees, as if he’d departed a rugby field not five minutes earlier. He took hold of the soap and scrubbed until his skin glowed pink.
The towel was white and fluffy, which he tied at the waist. To his dismay, there was no toothpaste so he wiped his teeth using his forefinger. The clothing was not an ideal fit but when on a war footing, such inconveniences could be discounted. O’Toole then sat anxiously at the end of his bed holding his watch in his hand and counted the minutes until 10.01pm.
There was a trim phone by the bed, and once O’Toole had navigated the complexities of dialling an outside line, he placed a call to London.
“Yes, hello.”
“It’s O’Toole.”
“I’m sorry, Pete…”
“What do you mean sorry?” O’Toole veered forward. “You must have received a call!”
“I did,” O’Toole’s agent Kenis revealed. “The police in Cumbria. They found a wrecked Ford Capri in a field that had been rented by a Mr P O’Toole in Dublin. Irish plates. A write-off. Upside-down. Bag in the back. Are you injured?”
“No, not at all,” O’Toole spoke. “So much has happened since then, I’d almost forgotten. What did you say? Did you tell them I’d called you?”
“Yes,” said Kenis. “What else could I do? I told them that I suspected you were concussed and possibly in need of a doctor.”
“Did you reveal my whereabouts?”
“No, although I said I was expecting you’d ring back at 10pm and explain what was going on, and that I’d call them back as soon as I knew.”
“You did the right thing,” O’Toole responded. “I’ll call flatfoot myself.”
“That would be appreciated,” said Kenis. “And ring back if you need any more help. I’ve a phone by the bed so I won’t miss it.”
O’Toole replaced the wedge-shaped receiver, and picked it up again. He tapped the buttons, 9 (outside line)… 9… 9… 9…
“Hello, which service do you require?” asked the operator.
“Police.”
There was a click and another voice said, “Hello, police.”
O’Toole cleared his throat. “I’d like to report five missing persons. Their names? Geoff Boycott, Brian Clough, Tony Wilson, Mark E Smith and Tim Healy.”