by Jeremy Reed
It was Jim who led the way out to the evening street and suggested they stop off at Oddbins to pick up a couple of bottles of red. As was his way, he couldn’t resist glancing up at the sky, and his eye was rewarded by thin rafts of alto-cirrus streaking a thin blue sky. There were evening clouds starting to traffic the airways, and he turned away from his survey, having made a necessary contact with the big spaces windowed above the city.
He walked slightly ahead, aware of people directing glances at Antonio, little darts of curiosity prompted by a passing fascination more than anything else. He still felt down in himself over Danny. The walk had been responsible for putting him too closely in touch with a past he was trying to forget. He stood with his hands in his pockets waiting for the other two to catch up and for some reason looked across the street. He instantly froze in his tracks. There, standing slouched on the corner of Bridle Lane and looking directly at him, was Slut. His denim jacket was slashed open on his tattoo-splashed torso, his ripped hipster jeans were slung above his crotch and, as always, he was barefoot. He looked even more wasted than how Jim last remembered seeing him, hoisted on a tree in the Hampstead woods with smoke billowing from the fire. Jim continued to stare, unable to break the hold the man had on him. He watched Slut raise a finger to his lips, evidently warning him not to tell. The implicit gesture had Jim recoil, and for the moment he thought he was seeing things and hallucinating Slut into existence. Time seemed to have stopped in its frozen impact.
He was recalled to himself by Masako tugging at his arm and saying, ‘What’s wrong, Jim? Are you all right?’
He managed to break free of Slut’s fixed stare and whispered to Masako, ‘Don’t look, but see that man over there. That’s Slut.’
‘Why don’t we go back and call the police,’ Masako said anxiously, trying not to look.
Before Jim knew what had happened Antonio had crossed the road and made a beeline for Slut. He couldn’t believe it as he saw Antonio go up to Slut and talk to him on what appeared to be an intimate level and after a brief exchange of words return. The whole gesture was so ambiguous that he couldn’t be sure whether Antonio had issued a threat or made an assignation with the self-styled gay saint. It had all happened too fast for Jim to get any clear take on the incident.
‘What did you say to him?’ Jim shot out in panic. ‘Do you know who that is?’
‘Slut,’ Antonio replied, in a way too knowing for comfort. ‘The one who’s been bothering you. I recognized him immediately. It’s all part of my being able to tune into your thoughts.’
Jim found it hard to conceal that he knew Antonio was lying. He didn’t believe him for a moment and thought his answer was a convenient way of concealing the truth. At the same time he remained baffled by his friend’s motives in approaching Slut. Nothing made sense. When he looked over again Slut was gone. He could just make out his impossibly thin denimed figure disappearing down the Soho sidestreet, leaving him to wonder if he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
‘Do you want us to go back?’ Masako asked, increasing her hold on his arm.
‘No, let’s get the wine first,’ he replied, purposely turning away from Antonio. He felt like hurting him for the complicit way in which he had gone over to Slut. Something in him had turned and he knew he would never quite feel the same about Antonio again, no matter his motives for acting in the way he had.
Ignoring Antonio, who hung back outside, he followed Masako into the wine store where they picked up a couple of bottles of a black Chilean wine called Casillero del Diablo, one they had drunk before, admiring its down-there depth-notes. Jim purposely lingered in the shop, hoping his anger would cool. When they went back outside he ignored Antonio who was browsing in the window and who showed no sign of having taken offence at being excluded. On the contrary, he appeared his usual correct, if slightly inhuman self. Making no gesture of atonement Jim took Masako’s hand and without saying a word headed off down the street. Jim made his resentment towards Antonio his focus and correspondingly tightened his grip on Masako’s hand. Still undecided as to whether to head back home, he steered them into Great Windmill Street, glancing around as he did to see Antonio tucked in behind a Chinese couple but still following. Like Jim’s mood, the sky had clouded over, lending a blue tint to the narrow street, with girls standing outside the entrance to strip-clubs.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Masako said by way of encouragement, as they cut aimlessly into Rupert Street with its largely faceless buildings creating a disused, anonymous feel to the place.
‘Why on earth did he do that?’ Jim questioned, still chewing on what he took to be a violation of trust.
‘I don’t know. Does he know this man, I wonder?’
‘It’s a mystery to me. I’ll have to speak to him about it or I’ll never be able to trust him again.’
‘Do you want us to go back or just walk? Masako asked, as Jim showed signs of unbottling his anger.
‘Let’s carry on for a bit,’ he said, glancing back to discover that Antonio was no longer there. ‘Where’s Antonio?’ he asked, the surprise in his voice making Masako turn around.
‘He’s probably realized he’s not wanted. I’m sure he’ll be there when we get back.’
‘I suppose I’ve gone and offended him. But not without good cause.’
‘Mmm. We’ve got to do something about Slut,’ Masako mused. ‘Go to the police, Jim. I’ll come with you.’
‘I’d still rather not,’ Jim replied, giving off signals that he’d rather keep his life private.
‘Mmm, but this man’s turning into a stalker. We can’t get rid of him.’
Jim warmed to the intimations of solidarity in her voice and to the fact that she considered them together. It made him feel less alone and in a weird way less afraid of being attacked. He put his arm around her narrow shoulders, taking in her entire being as he did so, and brought her up close. He could feel the energies in her spiral towards him like the force bringing clay alive in a potter’s hands.
‘I’d like to stay out for a little while,’ he said. ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m happy just being with you. My only worry is Antonio.’
‘But he can go back to his hotel. He’ll be all right. It’s not like he’s dependent on us.’
‘I don’t want to worry you, but did you ever give Antonio a key to the fiat?’
‘Why would I do that? We don’t know him that well.’
‘Well, he let himself in the other day. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’
‘Let himself in?’ That means he must have had keys cut.’
‘But why?’ Masako queried, trying her best not to alarm Jim by sounding over-anxious.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jim replied, sensing that things weren’t quite as they should be and immediately reinforcing a connection between Antonio and Slut. He hadn’t liked the expression on Antonio’s face after he had come back from speaking to the man. There had been a self-satisfied air about him, one of having delivered the goods.
‘What should we do?’ Jim asked. ‘Should we go back just in case?’
‘I can’t think what he’d want in the fiat,’ Masako said. ‘He has a copy of your dissertation. There’s nothing else to interest him.’
‘But he must have had the key cut for a purpose,’ Jim said, stopping as they came to the end of the street. ‘Whatever his motives, I don’t trust him. I think he’s got some explaining to do.’
‘Let’s go back then,’ Masako said, her fingers making soft brushstrokes in Jim’s palm.
‘I suppose we’d better. But I’m not sure what we can do.’
‘Mmm. I still think we should go to the police,’ Masako urged. ‘They may have a record on him.’
‘On Antonio?’
‘On Slut. He’s evil.’
‘I’m glad in a way you’ve seen him,’ Jim said. ‘Now you can share my feelings about this psycho.’
Together they made their way into Old
Compton Street. The street was busy with predominantly gay bustle, a file of clones slipping in and out of bars or shopping at partisan Prowler or Clone Zone, a snappy tang of citrus cologne wafting back at them as slipstream. Jim was once again overcome by feelings of unreality. He had the impression he had shifted into parallel and lost track of time and place. Everything seemed filmic. The crowd resembled footage framed in a slowly evolving narrative. He had the idea that he existed only because of his part in the film being projected. For a second he feared losing contact with Masako. He was a point in recession, while she remained fixed. He felt himself being sucked backwards into a vortex and was powerless to resist the pull. It was scary, and when he did fight free it was not without rebound panic.
Sensing his alarm, Masako said, ‘We’ll sort it out. We need to get this man Slut out of your life.’
Jim felt his balance return, as though the street had righted itself after a tilt. Nothing appeared outwardly to have changed, but that didn’t take away his terror of Slut. The thought that the man could be somewhere, anywhere, in the Soho grid made him feel acutely uneasy. Nor could he rule out the possibility that Danny was in some way linked to Slut’s reappearance. He was distracted from his immediate anxieties by Masako pulling him with her into a newsagent, ostensibly to pick up the new issue of Japanese Vogue.
Once inside, she riffled through a slew of glossies, pointing out images that appealed. ‘Look at that dress. It’s got to be a Galliano,’ she said, holding the illustration of the ruffled pink flourish up for his attention.
‘It’s as good as a sorbet,’ Jim said, as an excited Masako made a quick raid on the contents.
‘All my money goes on magazines,’ she laughed. ‘I’m addicted.’
‘But they’re essential. You know what they say. Artists need luxuries and not necessities.’
True to form, Masako settled for copies of Japanese and Paris Vogue, as well as urbane ID and the equally state-of-the-art The Face. The instant hit that came from making spontaneous purchases showed in the rush of excitement to her eyes. Unable to resist adding a copy of British Vogue to her slab of image-conscious must-haves, she reproached herself for her impulsiveness and took her stack to the counter.
Jim took hold of Masako’s carrier of goodies as they returned to the heady jostling crowds streaming both ways up and down Old Compton Street. The collective buzz tapped into Jim’s consciousness as they crossed over Dean Street and made for home. Soho had this charge about it, one that got into the nerves and stayed. Often, sitting at home, he could feel it inside him, so strong that the force-field seemed to have been absorbed by his tissues. It had never been more intense than now, as they stood outside Masako’s front door, while he apprehensively fitted the key to the lock before leading the way upstairs to her flat.
No sooner were they inside than he sensed a disturbance in the airwaves. He knew somebody had been in by the roughed-up vibrations and the displacement of the familiar patterns he recognized as home. Even before his eyes met with the evidence he guessed that person was Antonio. Scrawled in red felt-tip on a piece of paper torn from Masako’s sketchbook and Blu-tacked to the wall, Antonio had left his message: I, Heliogabalus, will be sacrificed tonight on Hampstead Heath.
Jim stared at the writing in disbelief. As far as he could see nothing else in the flat had been touched. It was like finding a suicide note, only there was still time in which to act. The fact that Antonio had warned him of his intentions struck him as a cry for help.
‘What on earth is this?’ Masako exclaimed, as she came up behind Jim and stared at the hurriedly executed message. She placed one hand on his shoulder and stood back from the red slash signalling from its improvised spot on the wall.
‘We’ve got to act fast,’ Jim said. ‘We need to find him before Slut pins him up on the orgy-tree.’
‘I’m not with you,’ Masako said, her voice dropping a tone.
‘I’m sorry. I’m talking out of my past. Heath-goers select a particular tree as a site for group sex and christen it the orgy-tree. The place may change from night to night or remain constant for weeks or even months.’
‘Then how will we find it?’ Masako asked, clearly puzzled by the notion of this shifting location.
‘Instinct. I’ll know from the lie of the land what’s in use.’
‘It’s too dangerous. Let’s notify the police and stay out of it. It may be a hoax.’
‘I need to do this. It’ll be light for at least another two or three hours. My feelings are that Antonio is already on his way to the Heath. Now is the time to find him.’
‘I’ll come with you. You can’t go alone, Jim. I won’t let you.’
Jim accepted the offer without hesitation and before he had time to reflect on the risk involved they were already headed towards Tottenham Court Road tube station.
They went down into the fetid, heat-inflected Underground and took a packed train north. Progress was slow on the crippled Northern Line, and there were inexplicably long delays at each station, the packed carriage smouldering with resigned frustration. Someone had thrown themselves on the line at Camden earlier in the day, and services continued to be interrupted.
When they got out at Hampstead and took the lift up to the street Jim felt ovened by the suffocating Tube. To his mind, its high-risk circuit could fry at any time.The place smelled like a mortuary, and he was glad to be out in the air.
The streets were still busy, and they took a right turn out of the station and climbed the hill towards Jack Straw’s Casde, the familiar landmark that signposted the way towards gay activity on the Heath. It was still daylight, and Jim clung to the notion that they might flush Antonio out of the woods before Slut and his circle arrived. It was a risk but one he knew they had to take.
He led the way through the car-park behind the pub and down a footpath that prefaced the entrance to a deep oak wood. Glades of balletic silver birch rippled in the wind as he tried to push the idea of danger from his mind. What he dreaded even more than a confrontation with Slut was the possibility of encountering Danny. He regretted allowing Masako to accompany him to a place territorialized with the imprint of nocturnal sex, a precinct given over at night to outlaws, queer-bashers and a retinue of the desperate.
The sky had clouded over and, although it didn’t look like rain, Jim was sensitive to the change in light. A woman with a greyhound on a lead nodded to them in passing, and he wondered if she had any idea of the use to which the woods were put at night.
They went through a tunnel into the trees, his foot turning up a KY Jelly tube as a sign of the previous night’s activity. He kept his eyes on the ground, eager for clues that would point in the direction of the proverbial orgy-tree. A littering of used condoms, stranded like dead jellyfish in shallow undergrowth, were additional reminders of the orgiasts who came here under cover of darkness.
Although it was early and still light Jim felt apprehensive as they entered the wood. He called out Antonio’s name once, twice, convinced he would suddenly come out of hiding. Jim kept close to Masako as they stepped in under the shadow of a group of giant oaks, trunks sculpted by the centuries into elephantine markings. He could hear the wind trapped in the dense foliage overhead, like the sea exploring the interior of a cave. The place seemed both a refuge and a potential arena for conflict. He looked down at the impacted layers of acorns, crushed under-foot, which must have been accumulating there autumn after autumn. They formed a dense, hard pattern, a decaying substratum that felt wooden underfoot.
They went deeper into the trees, and he called out Antonio’s name again, this time more assertively. He heard the sound chase off down wind before fading in a series of dramatic die-offs.
He continued to read the territory for give-away signs to recent activity. He knew that since the advent of the plague things were more organized in the community and that a night-watchman usually sat in on proceedings, his tree-post lit up by green fairy-lights. He had caught sight of this strategic point, f
rom which condoms could be obtained, right at the entrance to the wood, the lights slung up in the tree like the snaking length of a vine.
Jim and Masako came out from the first dense grouping of oaks, crossed a clearing and went deeper into a recess of trees. Even though they were only half a mile from the main road the stillness of the place had Jim imagine they were in deep countryside. They had literally entered another world, a zone unofficially occupied by a gay community who had succeeded in making it their own. He had heard from a reliable source that even the Heath Police in their white van had been told to relax their vigil on this area of the woods at night.
‘It’s spooky here,’ Masako said, hacking into Jim’s thoughts. ‘But pictures are coming to me. I know he’s here. I’m getting flashes.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jim said, as he continued to study the ground for footprints.
‘That Antonio’s not far away. I’m getting a signal. It’s coming to me.’
‘You mean you’ve tuned in?’ Jim said excitedly.
A skinhead clone, dressed in paramilitary gear, came out of the trees and disappeared again into another part of the wood. Jim was reminded that the area was probably full of such figures, either concealed in the bushes or cruising the territory for a chance encounter. He simply wanted to find Antonio and be out of there before dark.
‘I can see him in my mind,’ Masako said. ‘He’s dressed in something long and purple. He’s gone back to being an emperor.’