Call Me

by P-P Hartnett

  “I feel safe with my brother here. He won’t let me open the door unless he’s here.”

  I had the feeling the brother was listening behind the frosted glass door. The lights had gone off in the hall so I couldn’t judge the shadows, but she probably knew his ways. To the total stranger, the man with CD and stinky pink knickers in his pocket, knife inside his pannier, she said:

  “You can’t be too careful nowadays, you know.”

  I sipped the fortifying Diet Coke only after she’d had half a glass first. She also served cracked biscuits and stale jam tarts. All around the room there was food, junk food. A sachet of blancmange powder lay beside the knickers. Dolly mixtures dribbled out of a bag on to the window-sill. Pink wafers on the tv looked dry and dusty.

  “Be a love and put a record on.”

  Three shelves spilled blasts from the past: Culture Club, Cockney Rebel, Patsy Cline, Status Quo, Abba, Christmas novelties and a signed Cilia Black. The majority were marked SALE, REDUCED or CLEARANCE.

  “The council came seven years ago to mend the kitchen sink and my copy of Paper Roses by Marie Osmond went missing. I’d played it that very morning. I only noticed a month later. Had to be them. No one else had been in. I felt very sad. I bought that record my first week at Woolworths. I didn’t tell my brother, he would’ve killed ’em.”

  I may have been blushing or blanching fast so I looked above the dirty fireplace which sported examples of coiled pottery, brassy doo-dahs, plain brown envelopes behind a clock and a row of half eaten chocolate bars. In large print were two messages:

  New wallpaper needed

  Nothing will make me forget you.

  “Forget who?” I asked. It was a simple question which instantly unlocked stored-away tales.

  “I worked in a dry cleaners. We were always getting part-timers from the agency down when there was a rush on. This Romford boy, Si, was so sweet. We got on really well. Gay. Got on brilliant. The rest ribbed him. It really left a gap in my life when the holidays were up and he went back to university to study French. I feel an affinity with gays.”

  She paused, looking around my eyes, not deep into them. This made a change.

  “Do…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you wear make-up? You’ve got a pretty face. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “You should. You’d look lovely with a bit on. Do you dress up?”

  “Only in black skin-tight cycle shorts.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.”

  “Oh.”

  “I did a few times when I was nine or ten.”

  “I was just wondering.” (Persuasively.) “It’d suit you.”

  I think she was coaxing me to try on her little bits of glam. I sat with my legs a little wider apart, and breathed in with a loud sniff.

  “One of the guys who replied wrote that he had fresh breath. Now, what kind of thing is that for a gay guy to come out with to a sensitive woman? Could you … would you do me a favour?” She leaned forward, whispered for emphasis: “Would you take me to a gay club, please? Heaven. I want to go to Heaven. I hear it’s the largest gay disco in Europe. Oh, please. I’ve got a few days off next week. We could meet outside. I know where it is. I went there once but chickened out in the queue. I’d have to leave by one or I’d be dead for a week. What do you say?”

  “Blimey. Okay. Saturday’s best. Busiest. Meet you outside at eleven, this Saturday?”

  “Lovely. You’re a pal. Eleven, this Saturday.”

  The arrangement was duly entered into her little Snoopy diary, the first entry for weeks.

  “I get lazy about things. When I get my phone I can call the guys who answer my ads. No privacy out there, though. I prefer to write and get ’em round. I need a spyhole. Brother doesn’t want to know. He’s got a drill, but he just keeps it in his room, in the box it come in. Put another record on.”

  Deciding to play something truly hideous, I was faced with over-choice. I settled on a Bon Jovi single. When I turned she was taking a bite out of a Snickers from the fireplace. She had a strange stomach, making her look four months pregnant. Some sort of bowel inflammation, perhaps. As the record started, she got this far off look in her eyes and pounded the arm-rest of her chair: “Ooh! I love this. Saw ’em at Hammersmith Odeon with a gay rocker I know. Great!”

  It was time to go.

  “I’m glad you’re leaving early, actually. I like to be in bed by ten.”

  I kissed her lightly on the cheek and coughed very loudly before opening the door, giving the brother ample warning.

  “Bye ducks,” she said, waving ta-ta.

  Mad cow. Around the corner I took off the suit, folding it neatly into a carrier bag before packing it into the pannier. It would have to be cleaned. The shirt came off, too—destined for a boil-wash. Sitting on the kerb, swapping brogues for the Sidi Dominators, I saw a face up at a window. It didn’t take much to work out that it was her brother. If a policeman asked me to describe the face I’d have to say I couldn’t. It was too dark, officer.

  My nipples hardened in the breeze. Towards Plumstead Common my legs decided to ease up on catching sight of a jogger. The occasional intensity of headlights made the easy, regular motions of the limbs more filmic. I was instantly hard. He couldn’t hear the gentle click of chain, pedals or gears. I cycled alongside awhile, letting him give my recently shaved body the once over before making eye contact.

  “Nice night for it,” he said.

  I smiled at this, the oldest of lines. Speeding ahead I didn’t look back. When I came to an area where the bushes thickened, just beyond his line of vision, I turned off my lights. Resting the bike down into long grass, my breathing began to quicken. Stroking my penis lightly through the pink knickers, waiting for him, I felt terribly excited.

  * * *

  ‘Thanks. Lovely evening. See you Saturday, 11pm.’

  I signed the card with my awful full name, Liam Patrick Hanmore. Writing ‘(Patrick to my friends)’ beneath was a detail, a precaution in case I bumped into anyone I knew. Fake names can be such a nuisance.

  She didn’t turn up. No note. No phone call. Nothing. Maybe she’d spotted the missing CD or knickers. There could be a lot of maybes.

  * * *

  March, Cambridgeshire.

  The recurrent postmark announced the arrival of cards made from the wood pulp of managed Scandinavian forests. The cards were always sent first class, catching a six thirty post, always Price Code F, never a pleasure to receive.

  I’m glad you’re my friend the italics on the outside whined.

  Chances are … the italics on the inside whispered … that when you open this card—I’ll be thinking of you.

  Each card was initialled with an angular D in black ink.

  Having spent a month of smoke-filled evenings designing the ad, each innuendo atop his tongue for hours, failed phrases binned in temper, he’d finally reached the strokes of words which cast a spell—for him. He expected one hell of a lot in exchange for that cheque he’d sent off to The Pink Paper. What he was getting was the most painful foreplay. He very much liked what he’d met. He thought I was bona, drop dead G. A time-bomb of madness was ticking away in his head. He wanted dick.

  * * *

  Lying in the dark with nothing but my headphones on, I didn’t hear the phone ringing until a pause between tracks. I’d forgotten to put the answerphone on.

  “I want to speak to Sidney.”

  “Yes, speaking,” two words delivered with artificial reticence.

  “This is Sidney speaking?”

  “Yes.”

  The voice was firm, hard, matter of fact.

  The School Master was scary, his polite, clipped English very much to the point. It took a while before I could get a word in edgeways.

  “Ah. Right. Well … first I inspect a pupil to make sure he’s up to standard. Then I ask that pupil, having passed the preliminary tests, to strip down for further inspection in my study. Thi
s way I can ascertain exactly what that pupil requires. I’d have to put you over my knee and spank you first. Then you’d dress up in a schoolboy uniform, which is absolutely compulsory. Then you’d suck my dick—see what goes on from there. Understand my meaning? Your typical Head. I have lots of straight boys round. Quite normal. I’m not gay myself. Once a boy comes round they usually come again. Come back for more as they know what they’re gonna get. I hope you’ll come over soon, very soon. I’ll pay for a cab if you like. Come over for a good thrashing like a good naughty boy.” (Pause.) “Come on over for the thrashing of your life, you little slut an’ slave. I’ll make you work real hard. It’ll be Sir and Beg!” (Pause.) “But for now I want you to tell me a bed-time story. It’s called Do You Remember? Okay?… You’re eight, nine, eleven, thirteen … you choose how old, nothing beyond fifteen though—”

  Fuck this for a game of marbles, I thought. Hoping what I was about to say would ring reasonably true, I took a deep breath which probably got him all excited.

  “Um, this is a bit awkward. Yes, my name is Sidney, well, Sid. But I didn’t reply to your ad, or any ad. Some joker replied to a whole batch of ads giving my name and number. My phone’s been going all hours of the day and night. I’m going to have to get British Telecom to intercept cos it’s getting a bit much. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced the same way I’ve been for the last two weeks.”

  I thought I’d done pretty well. My drama teacher would have been proud.

  “Are you having me on? Are you sure you aren’t just chickening out? Are you? You sound very nice. Are you for rent? Is that it? Prostitute poofter?”

  “This is all a mistake.”

  “Wank a lot do you, Sidney? I can tell you’re queer.”

  “I’m going to put the phone down now.”

  “Listen, you’ve got me all turned on. I’m playing with myself. I’ve got my big dick out. If you did reply and you’re just turning chicken, you time wasting little shit, I hope you … I’d … I’d like to kick your pretty little head in. Hear me? Kick Sid’s pretty little head in!”

  He slammed the phone down.

  “Oh, go fill some teeth or whatever you do,” I said in a tired voice.

  The phone rang immediately, making me jump. Someone blew a raspberry. Then the phone rang again. It was Jessie. Her brother had died unexpectedly. I was delighted. She was going to have to stay up for the funeral. Hamish was to stay a while longer.

  * * *

  “Kieran?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh, I got a note from you today because of an ad.”

  “Oh, thanks for phoning.”

  “It took me completely by surprise.”

  As did the Satin Man’s accent.

  “Placed the ad ages ago, see? You just caught the three month deadline.”

  “So, you’re the thirty two year old, slim, attractive, muscular guy into satin. From Ireland by the sounds of it.”

  “What a good memory you have! Yes, from Kerry originally, but now I live Greenford. West West London.”

  Next to Ealing, queen of the suburbs, where I grew up.

  “I’m not long, all that long … well, it’s nearly twelve months now, a year ago now … a year since I split up from a relationship going on for seven years. Monogamous. I’m in a phone-box at the moment because I share with another guy and I’d … he’s straight. I feel a bit awkward talking with him about, see?”

  “I get the picture. I was intrigued by your ad.”

  “Oh, yeah. My interest. Well,” (big smile entering his voice), “I love it. I’ve had a very poor response, actually. No one genuinely interested in satin or nylon. So, have you got any satin gear yourself?”

  “I used to be a competitive cyclist but, well, you know. It was one injury after another. Anyway, yes. I’ve got some lovely shiny rayon an’ stuff. Shorts an’ the like.”

  “Oh, that sounds really good. Those cycle shorts, they fascinate me. They’re so … especially when I’m driving past them and the cyclists are raised above the saddle. It’s the sheen—really, um, really…”

  “I’ve got one top, kind of silver grey it is, which is really shiny. It’s got a kind of metallic sheen to it.”

  “Sounds great. I’m Finbar by the way. I’ll give you a description: I’m about five foot eleven. Tall. I’ve got loads of gear. Loads. Costs me a fortune! I must have forty pairs of football shorts. I’m also into jockey riding gear but way too big to wear it meself. And windsurfing gear, that’s a new direction for me. I loved the winter Olympics this year, if you know what I mean. And, er … what about you?”

  “I’m quite a normal lad really.”

  (Very interested.) “Yeah?” (Always works.)

  “Recently twenty two, tall, slim. Not a hair on my body, except a bush of silky pubes I’d like you to stick your nose up against.”

  (Pause).

  “What colour’s your hair?”

  “Dark. Goes jet black with oil on. I like oil.”

  “Very nice. The sheen on a guy’s body turns me on too.”

  “What’s your line, Finbar?”

  “Manager of a bakery in Hayes. Want to have my own place again one day. I used to, see, with my lover. When we split up we sold up. So, shall we meet up? I’m not a promiscuous person.”

  “How about a swim at Northolt baths? My favourite pool. That’s close to you. Sunday morning in Speedos?”

  (Pathetically.) “I can’t swim. I could meet you there if you like.”

  “Something else perhaps.”

  “I did learn one time but I’m just one of those people who just doesn’t take to water. I can do the doggy paddle.”

  “I’m sure you can. We could always check into a cheap hotel for an evening.”

  “No, I don’t really like that idea.”

  I pursued this line of discomfort. It was time to discard, shoot to kill: “Oh, I’ve done that loads of times before. It saves on the laundry if you want some dirty fun, you know.”

  “Dirty fun?”

  “Yeah, you know. A bit of shit an’ piss. I love the look of a drop of yellow cascading down a guy’s face.”

  There was a long pause before he put the phone down, ever so gently.

  * * *

  Jessie’s got a friend, Mrs Hitchin. A nosy old cow with an aversion to flying creatures. She was happy enough to water Jessie’s plants every other day but would sooner eat Hamish roasted than look after him for a day or two. Before I went out on to the landing, I could see the bitch watering the stringy geraniums outside Jessie’s front door with a teapot.

  “‘Old on a minute, Liam. Something came for you earlier. Didn’t you hear your bell go?”

  Yes, you nosey old cow. I did hear the fucking bell go and I chose to ignore it. But I didn’t say that. I’m a nice chap. Nice decent and respectable, keeping myself to myself, keeping the communal staircase and piss swilling lift nice. Lights out by eleven.

  “I was on the balcony, cleaning the windows. Didn’t hear a thing.”

  “I’ll just get your little surprise.”

  “Oh, thanks. That’s very kind of you, Mrs H.”

  She returned with the box I’d seen her take with such interest just ten minutes back, through the spyhole. She was beaming.

  “How nice it is to have an admirer!” She winked as she shut Jessie’s door, going back inside to poke through drawers and use the phone. I didn’t like her or her parting line. She knew about Ray and me.

  It was an attractive little box, containing a single red rose in one section, a scroll in another. I opened it next to the rubbish shute.

  It’s so nice to know you’re there.

  D

  Not liking what he was saying with flowers, I disposed of the unique same day delivery. Down it went, garbage. That’s what his single red rose had become, without entering my little home. But even down in the massive, grey garbage cans, I was troubled by that rose. Even after the disposal men came on Tuesday, all scrunched up and dumped
on a heap, those petals still managed to exist. Reduced to something small, compressed and rotten—with all the other bits and pieces trashed—they were still fuming up into the air, polluting it, visiting trouble. I should have phoned him.

  * * *

  “Luke?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Got your reply to my ad.” He sounded like he probably had lots of initials after his name.

  “I answered a few. Which one are you then?”

  This put him on the spot and made me sound like an above average slag.

  “It was in Capital Gay. A leather ad. Looking for a younger guy into leather.”

  His lips must have been on the mouthpiece. His voice went straight into my head, like he was breathing all over me. It was neither seductive nor terrifying.

  “Right,” I said, “go on.”

  “And how old are you Luke?”

  “Old enough to know better.”

  “And exactly how old is that?”

  “Twenty three.”

  “And what sort of things do you enjoy?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Well, I enjoy … I obviously enjoy dominating younger guys who, um, enjoy being submissive and, er, dominated. Getting them to do boot-licking and, er, putting a dog collar on them and taking them for a walk over Hampstead Heath or out in the country. In a secluded spot I could push you down and humiliate you—take your clothes off, make you crawl through mud, force you to see to my boots, suck cock, lick arse. Um … and generally make you pine and work for things. Whatever you wanted you’d have to work for. I’m in Muswell Hill. You are, I take it, in Clerkenwell.”

  “You’ve checked the code. How thorough.”

  He couldn’t act tough the way he would have liked, but he was trying.

  “I work in the City. I pass through Clerkenwell every day.”

  I greeted this with silence. Clerkenwell: a place of doctor’s coats and butchers’ aprons and City boys in suits with ties. Sodomite territory.

  “Do you know the leather shop, Expectations?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I buy there, there and The Zipper Store in Camden. Buy toys for boys like you. I’ve got a harness you’d look good in, feel great in. You name it. My most expensive purchase lately was a pair of riding boots. I’d like your tongue to break them in.” (Pause.) “I’m not too rough. Wouldn’t break your ribs or anything like that, unless you wanted me to. Mild stuff really. Fantasy, but … let’s see what develops. Could you … could you come round tonight?”