Fat

by Rob Grant

  Unfortunately, the only person in the room was The Girl, so great, another brilliant triumph for Grenville Roberts, and another bridge down in flames. Sterling work. He was burning more bridges than Operation Market Garden.

  Outside, it had started to rain, quite heavily, in fact, and Grenville relished it. He really needed it to help him cool off, but then he reached his car, and, of course, he'd left the roof down.

  He unlocked it with the beeper and opened the door. A good two inches of water cascaded out onto his trousers. How was it possible that so much rain could have collected in so small an area in such a short space of time? It was as if every single raindrop had been deliberately funnelled into this one spot. Look out, God, for there's a mighty kicking a-coming Your way.

  He squelched into the fabric seat and turned on the engine. How did you get the roof back up? The girl at the Hertz office had shown him, but he couldn't remember now. He looked in the glove compartment for the manual, but it didn't seem to be there.

  Stuff it. He just had to get out of here. He gunned the engine and reversed into a large concrete pillar.

  There was a young sous chef from Hitchin

  Whose wife was consistently bitchin'.

  Without any bluster,

  He killed her and trussed her,

  And served her up, roast, in his kitchen.

  He looked around nervously for CCTV cameras, and, yes, of course, there was one pointed directly at him. He waved at it.

  He drove out of the car park at ridiculous speed, frankly, and with the rain driving into his face, he was partially blinded, so it wasn't until he hit the first set of traffic lights on Friern Barnet Road that he noticed there was a security barrier wedged firmly in his radiator grille.

  He reached into his folder, pulled out Dr Roth's book and hurled it with some considerable venom out of the car. There was an old lady sheltering from the rain under a greengrocer's canopy. The book hit her smack in the middle of her face, and she went down like a coal sack.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Well, now. Jeremy Slank finally had Jemma in his den. And the game was more than afoot, Watson, the game was almost concluded. From this position, he rarely failed to achieve closure. Very rarely indeed.

  She'd eschewed his offer of supper when they'd finally been turfed out of the John Snow, but accepted, to his great surprise, the offer of a nightcap back at his gaff. Jemma, predictably, had not stopped talking all throughout the last-orders bell -- thankfully the proprietors either hadn't sought a late-night license as yet, or had no interest in invoking it on a midweek night -- the repeated cajoling of the bar staff and the donning of overcoats. She probably carried on while Jeremy had visited the loo.

  She had continued talking while he snagged a cab, all throughout the taxi journey and all the way up to his flat. She was still talking now, sitting on the sofa, while he poured them both a substantial glass of very decent red wine. He usually got very good results with champagne, but he suspected Jemma was a cut above that, and spot it for the blatant ploy it was.

  'The big problem,' she was saying as he handed her the glass, 'is actually how to define obese and overweight. For years, doctors used a standard established by an insurance company, of all things: the Metropolitan Life Assurance Company -- the MetLife weight tables actually used to appear on most commercial weighing scales. But it was a thoroughly inadequate system, and when it transpired that MetLife weren't actually using their own scale to evaluate insurance risks, the whole thing was abandoned, and a replacement had to be found.'

  She took a big glug of wine. All this talking was making her thirsty, and Jeremy was thinking that might turn into a problem soon. She'd had, what? At least a bottle and a half already. He didn't want her reaching that state of inebriation where her judgement could be said to be impaired and he would cross the legal line from seduction to date rape. He would have to make a move fairly soon.

  'So, about twenty years ago, they started using BMI, body mass index, an equation devised by a Belgian epidemiologist in the nineteenth century, Adolphe Quetelet. And you thought you didn't know any famous Belgians.'

  She laughed, just a little bit too loudly. The balance was beginning to tip. Jeremy reached out and took her hand gently in his. She didn't pull away. She didn't seem to notice, as a matter of fact. She must have thought it the most natural thing in the world. So far, so fine.

  'It's a very simple equation,' she went on, smoothly, 'your weight, in kilograms, divided by the square of your height in metres. If you have a BMI below 20, you're underweight, 25 to 30, you're overweight, over 30, you're clinically obese. These definitions are pretty arbitrary at best. They don't in any way take into account the proportion of your body weight that is made up of fat, which is the real measure.'

  Now was the time. Jeremy leaned forward and placed his lips on hers. She did respond this time. She kissed him back, but affectionately, not passionately, almost as if she barely noticed it. It was not, in Jeremy's considerable experience, a 'first kiss' kiss. Very odd indeed. He didn't press it, just leaned back slightly and let her carry on. Which, of course, she did, as if nothing unusual or remarkable had taken place at all.

  'Now, remember, this is the measure the Government uses to define obesity, the measure they use to set the so-called "Fat Tax", the measure they will be using as a criterion for the Well Farms. But under that definition, almost all American footballers are obese. Not overweight, mind you, but obese. Even the quarterbacks. Some of the wide receivers, the fittest athletes on the planet, men who can sprint to Olympic standards in full football armour, carrying a ball, are actually defined as "morbidly" obese. It's insane.'

  Jeremy really wished she'd stop talking about the Government. Especially in his flat, thank you very much. He decided he'd make one last move and then give up. He leaned forward again and lightly began undoing the buttons on her shirt. She seemed to have reached the end of this particular rant, and there was a danger of an awkward silence, of all things, which would be very bad timing indeed, so Jeremy said: 'Well, isn't that just the exception that proves the rule?'

  Damn, he was having trouble with her buttons, which wasn't like him. She looked down at his fumbling and lightly brushed his hands away, and Jeremy assumed that that would be the end of that. Major disappointment, of course, but these things happen. You live to fight another day.

  But that was not the end of that. Far from it. Instead, Jemma carried on undoing the buttons herself. She'd obviously simply got impatient with his fiddling clumsiness. Well, now, this was shaping up into something special.

  'The exception that proves the rule?' She snorted. 1 love that one. What can that possibly mean? You have a hypothesis, someone presents evidence that flatly contradicts it, and that's supposed to prove your case? How does that work, then?'

  She tugged her shirt off, laid it over the arm of the sofa and in the most matter-of-fact way, reached around behind her back and unhooked her bra.

  'The exception, dear boy, does exactly the opposite. The exception disproves the rule.'

  She leaned forward and shucked off the bra and, just like that, her breasts were free. It wasn't exactly a striptease worthy of Gypsy Rose Lee, it wasn't exactly sensual in any way, more like someone undressing for a swimming gala, or in a Top Shop changing cubicle, but it was an undressing and the boobies were out, baby, in all their bouncy glory. Without pausing for Jeremy to exploit this opportunity to enjoy the visual splendour of them, much less the texture, taste or weight of them, she leaned forward and started undoing his belt buckle. Sweet Lord in heaven above, this was strange.

  And, of course, she carried on talking. 'I mean, anyone who uses that hoary old chestnut can't have thought about it for thirty seconds. It involves a total misunderstanding of the word "proves". In that phrase, it's used in an old form that's pretty much obsolete these days.'

  And Jeremy's zipper was down and his penis was hauled out. Over the top, lads! Up and at 'em!

  '"Prove" used to mean "te
st", basically. The exception tests the rule. The exception challenges the rule.'

  She was running her hand up and down his shaft, gently but skilfully. She had a talent for this work, that was for sure. She was efficient and unhurried, not like the majority of girls who go for speed and strength to achieve the goal, and try to tug the damned thing out by the roots. And then she knelt down before him, still talking, and lowered her head towards his erection.

  'And if you can't come up with a convincing thesis to explain the exception, matey pie, then your theory is utterly and totally blown.'

  As Jeremy himself was about to get utterly and totally blown. And best yet, she would surely have to stop talking with that monstrosity in her mouth. Surely. Things were certainly moving along nicely now. From first kiss to tits out for the lads to gob job in what? Two minutes? Less? Slightly forward, wouldn't you say? Not that he was complaining: Jeremy liked a girl who got right down to business. He was all for it. He just wouldn't have put Jemma in the first-date oral sex category. In many ways, the orals was more intimate than just plain straight sex.

  Her lips, deep red from the wine, were hovering over his tip now, and he really ought to stop things for a second and don a rubber, but she didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered about such niceties. She probably had a few thousand theories about why condoms were unnecessary, or dangerous even, and in any case, Jeremy was not about to subject this particular gift horse to any kind of dental scrutiny right now.

  And she stopped. She froze within millimetres of his straining Iwo Jima monument and looked up at him, horror in her features. 'Oh my God. What am I doing?'

  She pulled her hand away from his penis as if she'd suddenly realised she'd been holding a giant stick of primed Semtex, which, let's face it, was pretty much the truth, leaned back and covered her breasts with her arms. 'Jeremy, I'm so sorry -- I thought you were Keith.'

  Keith? Who the fuck was Keith?

  'Well,' Jeremy said gruffly, 'you've started, so you'll finish. I mean, surely?'

  Jemma turned and scooped up her bra and shirt, one-handed. 'I'm so sorry. I must have had more to drink than I thought.' She raced over to his bathroom and paused at the doorway, and turned. 'Really, really sorry, Jeremy. Really.' And she disappeared inside.

  Jeremy leaned back in the armchair and looked down at his rampant cock in disbelief. What was he supposed to do with that? It would be hours before he could stuff it back into his trousers. Perhaps he could poke it out of the window and hang his washing out to dry on it. Perhaps he could paint the knob end orange and pretend it was a Belisha beacon. It certainly felt like it was glowing.

  In the end, he opted to force it back against his belly and, very carefully, strapped it in place with his belt, then tugged out his shirt to cover up the entire construction.

  He was dizzy and disoriented with lust. He'd been working all weekend to hit his deadline, and he'd slept from Monday afternoon all the way through to Tuesday afternoon, and he'd had no opportunity, up until now, to vent his pent-up sexual energy, so he was just about as primed as he had been at any time since puberty. To be led so far up the path to release and then stopped was, quite frankly, physically dangerous. There was a serious threat that some part of his apparatus might actually explode.

  Jemma emerged from his bathroom, fully clothed and freshened up. 'I think I'd better go,' she said.

  'Don't be silly--'

  'No, really.' She took out her mobile. 'Have you got a cab firm you use?'

  'Well, if you're absolutely sure--'

  'I am.'

  Jeremy nodded at the pin board by his front door. 'There's a cab firm on there, and an account number. I'll call them if you like.' He was hoping she'd turn down his offer, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk over to the phone without snapping his belt.

  'No, no. I'll do it.'

  'Just quote the account number and you won't have to pay.'

  'I'll pay. Don't worry. I couldn't let you pay. Is this your address?' She tapped an envelope on the pin board.

  'That's it, yes.' Jeremy struggled to his feet. 'I just have to...' He nodded towards the bathroom.

  'Of course.' She held her mobile to her ear and turned to face the pin board.

  He made his way slowly to the bathroom, leaning forward to minimise the strain on his belt, for fear a sudden movement might result in his garrotting his own penis. He finally made it and closed the door behind himself.

  That had gone well. He staggered to the sink and tenderly undid his belt. The penis sprang out, undaunted by the experience, still enthusiastic and keen for action. He ran the cold tap over it -- he swore there was a hiss and some steam when the water first hit -- but three minutes of icy drenching failed to dim the wilful beast's eagerness. It was still straining at the leash, raring to go.

  He thought about manually achieving conclusion with a spot of DIY, but it seemed a dreadful waste. He remembered reading somewhere that you only generated a finite amount of semen in your life, and he really didn't want to waste what must have been at least half of his lifetime supply in such a tawdry, solo enterprise. On top of which, there was a very real risk he might clog up his sink. Try explaining that one to the Dyno-Rod man.

  He finally calmed down to a semi-erection, but all of that cold water, and all that lager and wine, had made him want to pee, very badly. He tried forcing his pecker down over the loo, but couldn't achieve a suitable peeing angle without considerable pain, so he stood just inside his shower cubicle and pointed at the tiled wall opposite. Mistake. It was as if he'd turned on a riot-control water cannon. The awesome power he unleashed splashed right back at him off the tiles and doused his Emporio Armani trousers and his Paul Smith shirt fairly thoroughly. Some of it even hit his face.

  He managed to stop. He wedged his todger in the shower door and finished his pee in that curious situation, safe from the splash-back, though it was a bit late in the day for that. The damage had been done.

  When he'd finally subsided sufficiently to tuck himself away and sponged himself down and rendered himself as presentable as he was likely to get, he stepped back into his living room.

  Jemma was gone. She'd left a note on the pin board. Jeremy crossed over and read it.

  'Sorry, sorry, sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I'm a terrible person. If you don't absolutely hate me, please give me a call and I'll' and there she'd scribbled something out. It looked like 'make it up to you', and instead the missive went on: 'take you out to dinner one night. My treat. Jemma xx', and, as an afterthought, she'd put an asterisk after 'night' and added 'with Keith'.

  Jeremy sighed. Dinner with Keith. He could hardly wait. He wondered if it might not be too late to call someone up to help him unload the terrible burden lolloping around in his testicles, but it was. Two-thirty in the morning, almost. He could probably persuade Susie to come along, but the request would smack of desperation, surely. Or worse still, would be an indicator that he had stronger feelings for her than he actually did, and might impel their relationship along to a place he didn't want it to go. To wit: it might actually become a relationship.

  No, he'd call it a night and sort it out tomorrow. As he headed towards his bedroom, he stopped at his work station and decided to check his emails. There were a few, some from the office, quite a few junk. He had to laugh. No, Jeremy Slank definitely did not need Viagra tonight, my friend. And there was another one.

  And, unless it was a wind-up, it was from the office of the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

  It was very short. It said: 'J, Well done. Great stuff. Can't thank you enough. Cheers.' And there were two letters at the bottom. They happened to be the initials of the nation's leader.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  So, there was just one question remaining. How to do the dirty deed?

  Being hospital-bound, and in the constant company of the Cow Detective, Hayleigh's options were limited. No opportunities to throw yourself in front of a bus or a Tube train, for instance. Her room was high enough
off the ground to contemplate a defenestration, but the windows were suicide-proofed, which she found odd -- didn't people tend to go to hospital to get better? -- and, on top of that, it would be quite a tricky business manoeuvring her girdered leg out of it, anyway. She didn't know enough about electrocution to guarantee a successful attempt with that particular methodology, and it never seemed a pleasant way to check out when they did it on television shows. Plus there was that awful death scene in The Green Mile. No thank you.

  Hanging was out. You have to do fairly complicated height-to-weight-ratio mathematics to make sure you break your neck right away, so you're not just left dangling there, slowly choking to death, and Hayleigh hated maths. She was unlikely to be able to get her hands on a gun, which would have been quick, at least, and any pain involved would be over relatively quickly.

  Pills or knife, then? She was in a hospital, so she could, theoretically, get hold of either. Pills would probably be better: they would probably hurt less. But you have to know the right pills. She doubted she'd be presented with much of a choice in the pill department. She'd probably have to swipe them off a trolley she passed in the corridor or something like that. There was no guarantee they'd be deadly. What if she swiped some vitamins or something and actually made herself healthier?

  Hayleigh allowed herself a little giggle at that. In a weird sort of way, planning what she mentally referred to as her 'finale' was quite fun. In a very weird sort of way, of course. It was a project, and it occupied her mind, and helped her get through the worst of the day. Lunch that afternoon had been, if not actually enjoyable, then at least bearable, and it had been done with in record time.

  Mum looked over from the table where she was tapping away at her laptop and smiled at the giggle. She probably thought Hayleigh was showing signs of improvement. Little did she know. Later, in the unlikely event she ever managed to wrangle a moment's solitude, Hayleigh might allow herself an evil-villain laugh in honour of the irony. 'Mwah ha ha ha haaa!' This truly was the secret of all secrets.