by M J Johnson
"How did he die?"
"He had a boat at Plymouth. He'd been a naval officer, sailing was second nature to him. He'd been drinking, according to the coroner. It was reckoned he'd most likely fallen overboard, and passed out when he hit the water."
"Tragedies happen. Believe me they do," Gil said.
"Is it possible to ever forget the past, do you think?" she asked.
"No, not forget, but perhaps it's possible to come to terms with it, resume living."
"You don't sound one hundred percent certain?"
"I'm not, but 'being here', getting on with the little things that give our lives meaning, is all we've got."
Instinctively, they both knew that to go on any further would be demanding too much from a relationship in its fledgling stages. As for Gil, he was not ready to discuss the details of his personal tragedy with Sally yet.
She returned her attention to breakfast and nothing more was said for a time. Then she asked, "Do you have work planned for today?"
"I probably would have worked, but being here with you is much better."
"I've got to do some chores and stuff later but I don't have to leave 'til two-ish." Her eyes twinkled seductively at him.
"Let me see, did I manage to show you every one of my etchings last night?" he asked, feigning a lascivious look.
"You certainly did, but I'm sure another viewing would do no harm."
14
Monday 29 December
I had to go to a supermarket today. It was sickening. Like watching a swarm of locusts descending, or flies landing on some extremely choice piece of excrement. Here, in the midst of people I feel the most alone, an individual amongst automatons.
Today as they turned out in droves from their stinking boxes, panic about the eyes, aggressive, territorial, fearful there may be nothing left to buy, filing like rats from a thousand sewers, stockpiling provisions. What ugliness, men and women drowning under oceans of flab, unashamed by their grossness, glorifying in the crassness of their vacant minds. Like it was "PROUD TO BE FAT UGLY AND STUPID WEEK".
I am alone. Forced to inhale the reeking stench of stinking bodies, stomach churning body odours, rancid sweat disguised beneath deodorant.
Am I the only one?
If our leaders and politicians were anything but useless themselves, they'd speak out. But they know better than to upset the apple-cart, flattery is more expedient. Tell people how fine, how intelligent they are, how valuable and worthwhile their tawdry little lives are. Encourage their stupidity, promise anything, anything they are able to conceive in their minuscule brains. Let them cram their bodies to bursting with all the junk they drink and eat, watching pornography and masturbating themselves stupid. Let them fill themselves up with the banalities of early twenty-first century life.
Let them feast on their burgers and cola until their foul offal bursts at the seams of their stretch marks. A society filled to the brim, unable to delay gratification, wanting for nothing; yet starving.
Is this my species? God's Creation? If so, then the child turned out a bastard! What a delusion, to believe a Divine Being, capable of creating the heavens and the earth, decided after only six days to make Man? Lo and behold, His crowning glory! Moulding Adam out of clay, and in His own likeness no less!
Am I expected to believe these buffoons, staggering behind loaded trolleys, were designed by God?
A man with eyesight so dim he had to bring each item up to his germ-infested nostrils before he could see what it was; or the middle aged woman wearing make-up as thick as the icing on a birthday cake. A truly gorgeous sight! Who would ever want to have sexual relations with that you ask yourself? A mother who looked about twelve, with two brats in tow, one gratefully restrained in the shopping trolley while the other went rampaging about with chocolate like smeared excrement around its mouth and teeth, which blended nicely I thought with the two strings of mucus dangling from its nose. Or the elderly married couple, plodding zombified through the aisles, bored into a living death long ago by each other's company. Their week's most major dilemma, which brand of fish fingers to get?
BEHOLD THE LIKENESS OF GOD!
15
It was Tuesday morning when Sally raised the subject of the proposed party. Sally had left Gil for a few hours the previous afternoon but had returned later on to spend the evening and subsequent night with him.
"I'd love it if you'd come with me to a New Year's party I've been invited to. Klaus Williams is a very good friend and I know you'll get on together."
Gil, unable to think of any decent reason why not, thought what the hell, and said, "Great, yes."
"Brilliant."
"Where is the party?"
"Wandsworth."
"London?" Gil asked, instantly exhibiting less enthusiasm.
"Klaus has a house there."
"Er … I'll arrange somewhere for Spike. I'm pretty sure the Blatts won't mind." He made it sound problematic, without trowelling it on too heavily. He could be almost certain that Felix and Kate would be happy to play host.
In social matters Gil was invariably reluctant to get involved, though generally he entered into the spirit of things once the initial inertia was overcome.
He couldn't help adding, "As long as Felix and Kate aren't doing something!" knowing full well that every New Year's Eve the Blatts entertained at home.
Sally, uncannily, just as Jules had invariably done before her, paid no attention to the problems he'd duplicitously raised, and just said, "Great!"
Gil rang and explained to Kate about being invited to a party. She told him they were only having a few local friends round and that Spike would be guest of honour, "I take it you scored with the library girl then, Harp?" she said.
He wondered how women always knew so damned much. He said, "How did you deduce that?"
"When did you last celebrate a New Year, Harp? This has to be her."
"Mmm, I'll drop Spike round late afternoon, five-ish okay?" he said grumpily.
"Come a bit before that for coffee, and bring her."
"Mmm. Maybe, if we're not too pressed for time."
Kate laughed, far too knowingly in Gil's book.
Changing the subject he said, "You can't think of a hotel in London we could stay at, can you? So far everywhere I've rung was booked up months ago."
Sally had said they could stay in Streatham at a tiny flat belonging to her friend Roz if all else failed. Gil couldn't say he felt very enthusiastic about this idea.
Kate said, "Hang on a minute, Harp."
Gil could hear her discussing the problem with Felix.
After a minute or so she came back to ask, "Felix wants to know how many rooms?"
"One," he replied.
"Oooh!" said Kate with a giggle before disappearing off the line again to report back.
After this Felix came on, "Leave it with me, Harp. I'll see what I can do."
Twenty minutes later Felix rang back with a booking arranged, "It's all sorted out. It's where I lay my head whenever I need to stay over since I gave up the flat. They'll make you comfortable there I'm sure."
"Thanks Felix. You're a pal."
"I'm trusting you, now, Harp," began Felix, sounding intensely serious, "This is my favourite hotel. And I believe I'm held in fairly high esteem there. Please don't go wild and end up trashing the room! No rock-star antics, please!"
"I'll do my best to contain my rock star alter ego," laughed Gil.
16
The insurance assessor rang Gil shortly after he'd finished speaking with Felix and arranged to see the car on Wednesday morning. Unless he deemed it to be an uneconomical repair, which judging by the age and value of the car seemed extremely unlikely, the re-spray would probably go ahead the following week. Gil had kept the car locked away in the garage since the paint attack.
When he'd shown it to her, Sally had exclaimed, "My God, it's a total mess!"
"No doubt the work of some budding artist," he said sardonically.
Gil hesitated before asking, "Could it have been him?"
"I don't know. He's rather indolent, especially when pissed. He certainly wouldn't have driven home to Hadlow to fetch a tin of paint. By some strange quirk of fate he may have had a tin stashed away in the boot, of course."
"Seems a bit unlikely, doesn't it?"
She thought about it, "He's certainly vindictive enough."
"The chap the police sent round, Constable Rowe. He said he was going to have a word with him … perhaps they didn't bother. The insurance company are footing the bill, so perhaps it's best forgotten."
Sally smiled, but the underlying tension remained, "Not bothered about getting your pound of flesh?"
"I think pinning it on him, even if he was guilty, is unlikely. And as for getting my pound of flesh, I probably feel more animosity towards him on your behalf than on my own. I mean, beyond the Michael part, I don't even know what he's called."
"Chilvers ... Michael Chilvers."
"You're still quite scared of him, aren't you?"
"Not when I'm with you."
17
Tuesday 30 December
You're quite a sad character.
I've just been reading some archive accounts relating to the accident that killed your wife. When you consider what happened to her, I think it's quite remarkable how much spirit you showed on the motorway when we met.
I wonder how you felt about your wife's killer getting off so lightly. I think I would have needed to intervene if the murderer (let's call a spade a spade) of someone I cared about got away with only two and a half years in prison. So, high marks for how you behaved on the motorway but poor marks for accepting an unacceptable verdict.
I suppose some might say, 'Poor chap, he's suffered enough, walk away, let him get on with his wrecked life.' Many people might think like that – but you know what Gil, you aren't dealing with them. I always see everything I do right through to the end.
By the way, your house is worth a fortune. I found out what the asking-price was when you bought it and what it's likely to be worth now. Almost five times what you paid for it!
I've said it before and I'll say it again, isn't information technology a marvellous thing?
18
New Year's Eve began on an uneasy note when Gil and Sally were woken at 7.50 am by a phone call from Constable Rowe. He had been to see Michael Chilvers the previous afternoon. Apparently, Chilvers had been so drunk when Rowe called, that the constable had found it necessary to caution him about his abusive language.
"As you might expect, he denied damaging your car. However, he did admit ringing Miss Curtis on Christmas Day but claims he fell asleep immediately afterwards." The constable went on to say, "If he was as drunk on Christmas Day as he was yesterday, I doubt he was capable of much. Anyway, if he was involved, now I've talked to him, he'll think twice before doing anything like that again. I suggest, for the time being at least, we let sleeping dogs lie. He'd be crazy to bother you again."
The assessor for the insurance company came to see the car at 9.30 am, and he arranged for a recovery vehicle to pick it up less than an hour later. Because of the holidays, the re-spray would take a few days, but in the meantime Gil was perfectly happy with the courtesy car.
For the rest of the morning Gil and Sally passed the time pleasantly in each other's company. That afternoon, Gil followed Kate's explicit instruction and took Sally along with him when he dropped Spike off at the oast.
Now, several hours later, they were on their way to the party in London.
"I'm glad you liked the Blatts," Gil told Sally, as he brought the car to a stop at a red traffic light.
"They're delightful. It's so romantic, meeting two people who've been together for years and years that are still devoted to each other."
The lights changed and they moved off.
"Do they have children?" Sally asked after a lull in the conversation.
"I think that's possibly the only sadness in their lives together. They both wanted children. Poor Kate had a series of dreadful miscarriages."
"How awful," Sally hesitated then asked, "Did you and Jules plan on having kids?"
For a moment Gil affected more attentiveness in his driving "I think we both would have liked a family," he replied then quickly came back with, "How about you?"
Sally laughed, "Not me. I like kids, but other people's are better. You get the nice bits without the angst. Most of my girlfriends are either already mums or about to be. Do you still want to be a father?" She asked the question almost too earnestly, as if she feared his answer might be affirmative.
"Not anymore. I can't imagine it would be much fun being constantly mistaken for your kid's granddad."
"You're not old, lots of people start families late these days."
"Not me. I'm too settled, too selfish." Gil pointed to a signpost, "Wandsworth."
"You need the next right," directed Sally.
As he prepared to make the turn the clock on the dash said 8.40.
The conversation was making him uncomfortable, so he changed the subject, "So our host, Klaus Williams? How do you know him?"
"When I was a student at St Martin's, he gave a series of guest lectures and workshops. He told me to get in touch once I'd graduated. We've worked together quite a bit since. He designs sets for most of the leading opera companies. He's quite prestigious - Covent Garden, La Scala. He recently designed a new production of Bizet's Carmen at the Met."
"He gets about then."
"He's a sweetie. He's been really helpful in my career … very supportive back in the days when Michael didn't want me to work. 'You must work, darling,' he kept saying, 'it would be a crime to let your talent go to waste.' Michael and Klaus loathe each other. Almost came to blows once or twice."
Sally had just used the two most clichéd words associated with the theatrical lexicon: 'sweetie' and 'darling'. Gil wondered if he was about to spend the evening adrift on a vast ocean of slush and lovie-ness and felt a rush of apprehension.
19
Klaus's home was an impressive double-fronted Victorian property over four floors. They were let in by a girl in her mid-twenties who greeted Sally as an old friend. Gil missed her name when introduced due to the vocalisations of David Bowie's Changes blaring out from the room to the right. A sudden stampede of teenagers clambering down the staircase before him was no aid to hearing either. Later, he deduced the friend's name was Roz. Sally had already mentioned her; she often assisted Sally with costume-making and sometimes provided her with a place to stay over in London.
Roz shouted above the competition, "Our Sal has been very secretive about you Gil. For instance, she didn't think to mention how tasty you were."
Gil half-gathered what the girl said through party osmosis; which is, gleaning the barest gist of a remark and nodding appropriately.
Sally brushed her friend aside with mock aggression and linked an arm under Gil's, "Hands off, slattern!"
"Thought he might appreciate a bit of variety, that's all."
"I can provide all the variety he requires, thank you."
A dancing man about Roz's age came out of the room playing the Bowie, grabbed around her waist and started to propel her towards the music. "Hi Sal," he greeted with a wave.
"Hi, John. This is Gil," called Sally.
"Hello there Gil," said the younger man, releasing a hand from Roz's waist to shake Gil's before continuing on his way. At the door he spun the happily-consenting Roz about and slapped a hand down on one of her pert buttocks, protruding like a sun-ripened peach beneath a short, black, spray-on dress.
"He's a sweetie," commented Sally.
At first, Gil found himself noting every 'sweetie', 'darling' or 'love' he heard. However, his uncertainty about being thrust into this alien environment quickly passed, and he was soon discovered laughing, joking and general
ly enjoying himself. The evening was not exclusive to people from the world of opera, and the number of children present suggested a family event. These children were generally seen marauding up or downstairs like a troop of demented Von Trapps.
Food and drink was in plentiful supply in the large basement kitchen area. Sally, leading the way downstairs, was greeted by a cheer from the crowd already gathered there. A Neanderthal-browed, short, stocky, curly-haired man, about fifty, in jeans and a t-shirt that bore the slogan 'Opera kicks ass', threw his arms affectionately around Sally. On the back of the t-shirt was a photograph of the late Luciano Pavarotti in defiant pose, with a superimposed hand and a raised middle finger.
"Sally, I'm so glad you made it."
"We thought we should see the year in in style."
"You've definitely come to the right place then, plenty of that here, darling," replied the man, affecting a more camp delivery.
"I'd like you to meet Gil Harper, Gil this is Klaus Williams."
Klaus took Gil's hand in his bear-like paw, "Welcome Gil," he boomed in a deep baritone voice, which would have made it easy to believe if he'd been introduced as a singer. Then he whispered in a playful aside to Sally, "So, this is the one you've been missing heartbeats over?"
Sally flushed pink.
"She's been obsessing about you for a couple of weeks, Gil."
Gil felt a little abashed too, even if it was flattering. Chuckling he asked, "Do you always go in for the ritual humiliation of your guests?"
Klaus gave a wicked laugh. "I always say, if you can't embarrass the guests at your own 'do' then what's the point?"
A man in his mid-thirties, a foot taller than Klaus but with a contrastingly slight build approached the group.
"Hallo David," greeted Sally, placing kisses on both the man's cheeks.
"How are you Sal, did you have a nice Christmas?" The young man's voice was gentle and Gil observed that his mannerisms were quite naturally feminine.