There you are, sir,’ said the Stepford-like receptionist, handing Alan a polystyrene cup of sump-oil coffee. ‘On behalf of the Wooden Heart Hotel, I would like to offer you our condolences at this difficult time. If there is anything we can do please ask. We hope to welcome you again soon. For your information the body has now been removed, and the British consul is on his way. In the meanwhile Jay, our under-manager, will wait with you. Have a nice day now’.

‘So he’s not Eddie any more, he’s ‘the body’,’ thought Alan, automatically reaching for the cigarette pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. He dropped his hand as he caught Jay’s disapproving eye.

‘I still can’t take it in, he was only 58,’ Alan said, half to himself.’ That’s no age to die. ..I don’t know how I am going to tell Moira… that’s his wife. Eddie always does the talking for both of us, always has. He leads, I follow, it’s been like that since we were young, we started at the engineering works the same day…’

‘Really sir?’ said Jay, stifling a yawn. Next week he would be so out of here, better job, new life in Cancun with Mitch. No more pitiful Elvis fans with their sad lives and sadder deaths.

‘At least he enjoyed his last day. He loved Elvis, you know. I remember at work that first day he jumped up on a table in the canteen, started singing ‘Jailhouse Rock’. The girls loved it. He went on to be an Elvis impersonator, nothing grand, just the working men’s clubs. I don’t think you have those here.’

‘No, sir,’ replied Jay, vaguely. He remembered seeing the two of them as he went off shift yesterday morning, they were waiting for the Gracelands tour bus to pick them up. The dead one was wearing a white Elvis costume, strained over his pregnant belly. So tacky and so last century. The other one was buttoned up in his best cardigan, despite the heat, white legs with ropy, knotted veins visible between his shorts, and his sandaled, stockinged feet. Jay remembered thinking,’ Please, someone call the fashion police.’

‘His house is crammed with Elvis stuff, like a regular museum,’ resumed Alan.’ He even has a message on his answer phone saying ‘Elvis has left the building’.’

Jay paused in examining his nails, he really needed a manicure, and raised a sculpted eyebrow.

‘Yes, well, I suppose you have to hear it really. He even wanted to call their flat ‘Gracelands’, but Moira wouldn’t have it. Thought it might make the neighbours jealous. When Elvis died it was terrible, you would have thought there’d been a death in his family he took it so personal. He was off his beer for a week. I suppose you’re a big fan of the King yourself, living in Memphis?’

‘Not really sir, I’m just passing through.’ Where the hell was the consul? Jay was anxious to get to the gym. He needed to work his six pack more, if he was to look good on the beach next week and keep Mitch’s interest. And the sweaty Englishman with the sad eyes was still talking.

‘It was his dream to come to Memphis, ever since I’ve known him. He never thought he would have the money. Especially not after being made redundant. He didn’t make much taxi-driving, just enough to get by. He did the lottery, every week just in case. Then, a punter, some business-man, left his lap top in Eddie’s cab. He was so grateful to get it back, he gave Eddie two grand, just like that. He’s been looking forward to the trip for months, planning all the details. It was like going to Rome for a Catholic or Mecca for them Arabs’.

Alan paused, staring down at the nylon carpet, bewildered. A wave of tiredness swept over him. He just wanted to curl up and go to sleep and make it all go away. The jetlag, the excitement of Gracelands and now this, he couldn’t take it in. He wanted to be back home with the wife and grandchildren. He ran his hands anxiously across his head, automatically adjusting his comb-over. The night’s events were playing over and over in his mind. One minute he’d been outside enjoying a last smoke before bed, next thing he knew he was hammering on the door of their room, annoyed with Eddie for going to sleep and locking him out. Too much beer as usual, he’d thought, if you could call the dish-water they served here beer.

Then he was running down the corridor, puffing to keep up with Jason as he fetched the pass-key. As long as he lived he would never forget the sight that met their eyes. Him and Jay standing in the corridor under the flickering strip-lights, Jay opening the door, and across the bedroom the bathroom door ajar. Poor Eddie, slumped forward on the toilet, white polyester flares around his ankles. Well, he’d always wanted to be like Elvis, now he had died like him. His Moira would be mortified, though. The doctor reckoned it was a massive coronary. Eddie hadn’t lived the healthiest lifestyle, he’d liked his cigarettes and beer. Still he had died happy.

Jay pulled up the blind and looked out at the parking lot. ‘The Consul is just arriving, sir.’