by James Goss
Not-Trent, a bit dazed, said, “Yeah. Hi.” Romeo said hello back, and then gave Not-Trent a hug. The hug lingered a bit. I wasn’t surprised by this. Also, mercifully, neither was Not-Trent. He beamed a mooncalf beam. As far as he was concerned, a tiny randy gay had just come on to him in a club. Result.
“Not in Frankfurt, then?” I said, my voice low.
“What?” Not-Trent hadn’t heard, but it was the right reply.
“Thought not! I can’t talk to you now!” I said.
“Oh, Okay...” Not-Trent tried to care. But he was very out of it and Romeo was rubbing his arm.
“I’m going home. Stay if you want, Romeo,” I said, and turned on my heel.
I’d built a rough binary logic-gate flowchart for this with two outcomes. Get me. Using some incoherent phrases, I’d hopefully left Not-Trent mildly baffled and given Romeo the impression we’d had a huge row and I was storming off. What happened next would be interesting.
If Romeo followed me, then it would be fine. I could tell him that Trent and I had split up. I could even use Romeo as a reason. He’d probably like that.
If Romeo didn’t follow me, he’d clearly be going home with Trent. At some point he’d realise that Trent was Not-Trent. Maybe he’d assume it was a case of mistaken identity or something, but it didn’t matter. I would never see him again.
Only... well, I knew it would be a relief, but I didn’t really want him to go home with Trent.
I paused briefly in my storming out and then went.
LUCKILY IT TAKES a while to storm out of a nightclub. More of a slowly drifting cloud. Nightclubs really are just long queues with short breaks for dancing. I collected my coat with a rictus smile, and made my way up some stairs, past a crowd of people wanting to get in and a woman with a clipboard who may have been working for a cab firm or may just have been a passing woman with a clipboard. I nodded past and then was out into London, making my way up a pissy alley to the giant desolate roundabout of Vauxhall.
I could, I thought, get a bus and be home in an hour.
I really wasn’t thinking straight. I got on and paid for my ticket with the wrong Oyster Card. I keep two, you see. The easiest way to get around London without being clocked is to dig your own tunnel. Walking is possibly the second least traceable. Even Taxis have cameras in them. My main Oyster Card, the one I use when I’m not saving the world, is linked to my bank account. It automatically tops itself up and has a lovely long list of all of my journeys similarly linked to my bank account.
My other Oyster Card does none of these things. I top it up with cash at a machine at a different tube station every time. It’s just a series of anonymous journeys that builds up over a week or so, and then I throw it away and get another one, or ditch it with just enough credit for someone to pick it up and take it on some completely random journeys.
But I’d just used the wrong card. It was turning into a bit of a wrong night, really. It showed that I was off my guard. I’d not even bothered booking ‘Markus and Trent’s flat.’ If Romeo had come back, he’d have come back to mine. I’d even got bacon in for breakfast.
I climbed the how-drunk-are-you stairs to the upper deck of the bus, pulling my hood up over my face and sitting away from the camera through habit. I needed to think. I felt a complete failure and I needed to think my way up from it. It had gone wrong. Somehow, like a pill you swallow the wrong-way round, I’d hunted down Romeo, I’d built a trap for him. And then I’d moved into it myself. And I didn’t know what to do next.
In theory it was all fine. He was, even now, trotting off with Not-Trent to Not-Trent’s real and amazing apartment and having real and amazing sex and that should, in theory, be fine. But, if that was the case, why did I feel so screwed up about it?
My phone bleeped. It was a text from Romeo.
You guys had a row, yeah?
Yeah
Want a hug? :(
I stared at the text. I knew that wherever he was, he’d see the ‘...’ of consideration appear on his iPhone as I started typing my reply. I didn’t know what to say. In the end I went for, ‘Why?’
Because I’m downstairs on the bus. Hug.
ROMEO CAME TROTTING up the stairs, wearing his normal puppyish look. I felt genuinely relieved to see him. He hugged me, and for once his regional gay cologne was as comforting as the vinegar tang of a Fish & Chip shop.
The hug also gave me a moment to work out what we’d said.
“Sorry,” I said. “We had a massive row. He met someone in Frankfurt. Sort of. You know...”
Again he stared at me with those eyes. “Is it serious?”
“Yes.”
“And are we?”
He didn’t blink. And I didn’t know what to say. Not at first. Then I smiled.
“Want to come on holiday?”
LOOK, THIS ISN’T a cop-out. And please don’t slam the book down in disgust. Especially not if it’s a Kindle. They’re fragile. Look, Romeo wasn’t evil. Not like most of the people I’ve been talking about. He genuinely meant well, sort of, drawing close to people like moths to a flame. Or, to go back to the Fish & Chip shop analogy, like flies to those little blue buzzing boxes. The same as when the cat climbs on me when I’m running a temperature. It may feel like real concern, but also, you’re simply an amazing and irresistible source of heat.
He just wanted what we all want, to be liked.
“Why do you seek out couples?” I asked him.
“What?”
“Oh.” Waterloo rattled past. “I looked into your Twitter history. You know. You spend a lot of time making friends with couples. Is it because they’re stable—you know, you figured that if they’re going out with each other then they’re at least sane?”
Romeo considered this, or maybe he was just looking at the London Eye. “Well, perhaps,” he said at last. “It’s more that every couple, every couple I’ve ever met is secretly very unhappy. They’re clinging to each other because they each feel very insecure. And so, if you show them a little bit of affection... well, they’re all broken. And they like the attention.”
“Oh.”
The bus moved on, crossing the bridge that no one can quite remember the name of.
“I mean, look at you and Trent. You both claim to be so happy. But I’ve fucked both of you.”
I HAD NO idea where the bus was going now. He can’t possibly have... I mean... I ran Trent’s Twitter account. I’d not been checking it every day, obviously. For one thing, he was supposedly in Frankfurt, and it didn’t do to be updating from Tottenham Court Road by accident. So, he couldn’t possibly have been tweeting him. Could he...?
Romeo was looking at me, and still smiling that little empty smile of his. “He didn’t answer the messages. Not like you did. I found out where he worked. From the photos it was fairly easy—the Sodobus building was in the background. And, after I’d seen you, I’d always leave at lunchtime and stand around the plaza outside the office. Waiting for him. I saw him on the second go. I don’t think he recognised me. Not at first. But he noticed me. People do. I’m pretty. And he definitely looked back the next time I saw him. So I went over and smiled and we went for a coffee. It wasn’t serious, I could tell that. He gave me a made-up name, even lied about his job. But it didn’t matter. Because, as soon as he took me for coffee, I had him.” Romeo leant forward, his smile stupidly big and bold, like an angry email. “He took me back to his office, and signed me in as a guest with a trembling hand. Then he took me to the disabled loo and we shagged.” Romeo licked his lips. He got his phone out. “I’ve photos on my phone. The angle’s a bit funny, and I couldn’t turn the flash off, but hey...”
I glanced at the images, and felt furious for all the wrong reasons.
I handed him back the phone without even noticing what he did with it. The sudden flare told me that he’d just taken a selfie of the two of us. Me looking horrified. Him pulling Quizzical Face. Still with the flash on—he was such a dreadful photographer.
“I always do that,” he laughed. “I’ve a gallery of them.”
What was odd about his laugh was that it wasn’t evil. No-one has an evil laugh. It wasn’t even malicious. It was simple delight.
He held up the picture of the two of us together. Him looking like a triumphant Bell’s Palsy sufferer, and me, lost and confused and, although he wouldn’t notice it, admiring.
Romeo had done very well.
MY NEXT MOVE was interesting.
If I was going to kill him, I couldn’t act immediately. There was now CCTV of the two of us together on a bus. Screenshots would appear all over the Metro of his mysterious last journey. So it couldn’t happen now. The phone was an issue, though.
Devices sync. As soon as he plugged it into his laptop a copy of the photo of the two of us together would appear on it, and probably on Dropbox and in the cloud, and maybe even Facebook—what if he kept a private rogue’s gallery on Tumblr? The phone would have to go immediately. Or rather, it would have to leave his possession immediately. That was easy enough. He was looking out at the South Bank, after all, his phone poking out of his pocket.
I could send a tweet from Trent’s account to his—‘Hey! Did you find your phone?’
Then the next day, his phone would spend an hour or so with me on the Circle Line, shunting back and forth until the battery ran down. If he had an iPhone tracker installed, it would seem as though he’d dropped it on the Tube. While underground I would wipe it. Then I’d surface. A surprisingly quick way to get rid of it was through a charity scheme to send old phones to the third world. That amused me. Kids in a village in Ghana taking selfies. With the flash on.
In the meantime Romeo would apparently get a replacement phone, pestering people on Facebook with, ‘Hey, got a new phone, send me your numbers!’ He’d done this twice since I’d known him, which meant he’d never got the hang of syncing contacts, which was a good thing. He’d get through the next few days with the replacement phone, excitedly talking about the new model he was going to get, and getting increasingly cross with the couriers from the delivery firm. With any luck, he’d even post exactly when he was going to be waiting in his flat for them. A nice long window—say 8am till 1pm. When he’d be home. Alone in Wolverhampton. We’d both come so far from there.
Travelling down to see him would be easy. I’d get the bus and pay in cash. If anyone noticed me popping in and out of the building, I’d take care to look incredibly generic. Just another internet hookup. While on the bus, I’d use their wifi to add a single word to the Wikipedia entry for his performing arts course. That would be very, very important. As would be announcing on Twitter that Trent and Markus were going to spend some time away with each other (“healing”). Before protecting their accounts. Then they’d vanish.
Perhaps the police would identify Not-Trent. He’d then have to explain why he had a fake account with a fake name. The more he protested his innocence, the guiltier he’d look. That was good.
I could see it all in my mind. So very clearly. The thoughts felt sharp, like I was sat in a cold bath. It was all so easy. And there was something else in the water. Romeo had been sleeping around. It made me feel jealous. But just the fact that it made me feel anything made me admire him even more. He’d got to me.
No, it was interesting. Late night London crawled past as we slouched up Tottenham Court Road. There was rain outside and someone downstairs on the bus was hammering the window and yelling “Barry” over and over again. I glanced around the top deck of the bus. Sat at the back, wrapped up in a hood, staring at me, was the figure of the Ninja. How had I not noticed her before? She nodded to me. I nodded back and turned away, shivering.
Romeo was talking. “Basically, it feels like I own you. And that’s nice, isn’t it? I wonder if McDonald’s is open. Romeo Hungry. I could do with a burger. If you can lend me the money?”
At McDonald’s they have a shovel for fries. Someone must have sat down and invented it. There must have been a meeting where the ongoing issue of moving chips from pan to box was raised and various solutions were suggested. And someone—let’s call her Helena—came up with the suggestion of a metal cone. At first, everyone found reasons not to do it, but someone there—perhaps Ronald McDonald himself—squeezed his nose and said, “Let’s give it a whirl.” And thus was Helena’s unique chip shovel created. I mention this only because I can’t make up my mind. I’m trying to decide whether or not to kill someone and I’m weighing up all the factors. I watch Romeo tip back his head and empty the box of fries into his gullet in a smooth move. Yes, he is definitely my chip shovel situation. Do I do something about him, or do I just let him go?
Let him go. That suddenly made me sad. Letting go would mean not waking up with him again. Even though I’d simply been having sex with him because I had to, I knew that I would miss it. Which in turn meant a whole lot more thinking to do. Even more chips to cram into a neat cardboard box.
I was aware of a figure watching us from across the street. It wore a hoodie and kept to the darkness. Was it the Ninja? Was she watching to see what I would do? To see if I chickened out?
Romeo was talking again. He belched up some coke, swirled the ice around in the bucket and then dropped it onto Oxford Street. Irritated, I wanted to pick it up. But I didn’t. Justifying it to myself, I’d say that I was worried about leaving my fingerprints on anything he touched. But I think I just didn’t want to be seen as being prissy. He looked at me, his lips glistening with coke and salt and ketchup. Should I take him home? I thought. Would he want to come? Should I risk us being seen? There would be DNA. Lots of DNA, hopefully.
And then, suddenly, he made my life so much easier. He belched again and grinned. “Ever had sex in an alley?”
AFTERWARDS, AS WE were walking back towards Oxford Street, he turned to me. “I don’t know what to do with the two of you,” he said.
Neither do I, I thought. I hadn’t decided. He was already patting his pockets, idly wondering where his phone was. Ah well, it would probably turn up.
He turned away into the sludgy dawn, heading towards a bus that would take him the long way home. He smiled at me. I smiled at him.
Should I kill him? Would I kill him? Could I?
“Hey,” I called after him, my voice cracked with surprising nerves. I felt like I was asking him on a date. Which I was. I guess.
“Yeah?” He smiled. I noticed for the first time how narrow his eyes were.
“Would you like to come on holiday with me?”
“Will you hide me in your luggage?” He laughed, a delighted little laugh.
I hugged him. No, I wouldn’t kill him.
Body-In-The-Bag Student
Death Mystery
INVESTIGATORS ARE STILL trying to solve the cause of death Romeo Flexeder, 23. The student was found in a bag in his flat in Wolverhampton last week. While there are no suspicious circumstances or any evidence that anyone else was in the flat, police are still baffled as to how he sealed himself in the large holdall. Or, indeed the exact cause of death. Officers are trying to trace his movements over the last few days, and are appealing for any witnesses to come forward.
Wolverhampton Post
Cat Hair Clue In Bag Death Mystery
A single strand of cat hair found on the clothing of Romeo Flexeder may hold the clue to his death, a police source has claimed. “Of course, it may have come from a cat he stroked on the way home. But it could hold the vital clue to how the student ended up dead in a holdall.” The problem currently facing officers is tackling the task of identifying the cat hair. “It is a problem which would be made a lot easier by investment in the £200million Sodobus DNA cross-matching programme currently being considered by the several forces across the country,” a Police spokeman told us.
Wolverhampton Post
Wolverhampton School Of Performing Arts:
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The course offers tuition in the classics of performance, spee
ch and drama, with extensive vocal and movement coaching. Optional modules include sword-fighting, modern dance, ballet and stage magic.
Latest Revision (edit) (undo)
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The course offers tuition in the classics of performance, speech and drama, with extensive vocal and movement coaching. Optional modules include sword-fighting, modern dance, ballet, escapology and stage magic.
BAG DEATH RULED “TRAGIC ACCIDENT”
Wolverhampton Post
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MRS HITLER
YOU’D HAVE TO BE DESPERATE TO KILL THESE PEOPLE
Has Jackie Aspley uncovered a serial killer who may just be a mercy killer?
OH, THIS BAR is awful. As I look around it, at the walls trying too hard to please, at the dark wood that went out with the Tea Party and the desperate-to-be-noticed subtle lighting, my heart breaks. What a terrible place, and what an awful place to die. I wouldn’t be seen dead here, but that’s exactly what happened to marketing manager Danielle Audley.
Audley? Even her surname sounds ordinary, doesn’t it? Well, she was here having a perfectly ordinary night out in this perfectly ordinary bar in a perfectly ordinary bit of London with her perfectly ordinary friends... and then she died. It is about the only extraordinary thing she ever managed. Poor cow.
I order a glass of white wine from the bar, and it’s enough to make you weep. I imagine that this was her last drink and I shudder in sympathy with her dying thoughts. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes in your last moment. (Ye gods! I’ll have to think about my marriage again. So many traumae.) I am trying to imagine Danielle’s flashback. Like a tiresome Big Brother best bits package where they’ve forgotten to include any best bits and it’s all tragic Primark bargains and Müller corners. She must have died feeling so disappointed.