by Julian Clary
‘Such a good Catholic boy. You warm my heart. OK, then. If murder’s the only honest way to get our hands on the lolly we’d better seriously consider it.’
‘You’re as mad as he is!’ I said, astonished.
‘Think about it. First, we need the money.’
Catherine was right. Our move upmarket was proving much more expensive than either of us had anticipated. Besides the constant need for grooming and clothes, the rental on our new flat was five times the amount we had been paying for the last place, and the Italian furniture we’d eyed up wantonly in Selfridges had been beyond our means but we’d bought it anyway, along with many other luxurious items that we couldn’t live without. And there was our ever-increasing cocaine habit, which was now costing us hundreds a week. No matter how much we earned, the money melted away.
‘Can’t we just shag some more Arab princes?’ I asked. That seemed a much nicer proposition than killing Georgie.
‘It’s bloody Ramadan, isn’t it?’ Catherine pointed out. ‘They haven’t got the energy.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s not just the money, though, sweets. Think about it. He’s going to die anyway. Don’t forget, I used to be a geriatric nurse and I’ve seen those poor old people suffering and dying in their hospital beds. Forget skipping gently away between clean sheets with your family gathered at your bedside. Think of horrible pain, sliding in and out of consciousness in a strange place surrounded by people you don’t know as you listen to the sounds of a busy ward and the beeping and clunking of all the machinery keeping you going.’ She eyed me meaningfully, as she swirled an expensive cognac round a cut-glass tumbler. ‘Or die quickly, at home, in ecstasy, with someone you like. I’m pretty sure which I’d choose.’
She had a point. But still …
‘Sleep on it,’ suggested Catherine. ‘Twenty thousand pounds! See how you feel in the morning.’
By breakfast Catherine had convinced herself that ‘we’ should carry out Georgie’s wishes. ‘It’s his choice, after all. The way I see it, it’s euthanasia for thrill-seekers.’
For a moment, we munched our muesli in silence.
She saw that I wasn’t as enthusiastic as she’d hoped. ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with the idea, when you think it through. He’s going to die anyway. It’s a compliment to you that he asked. Being able to make someone happy is no small thing. And we sure could use the dosh.’
‘We? You’re not the one who has to squeeze the life out of a little old man.’
‘I’d be with you in spirit. I’ll be standing by with some Wet Wipes.’
‘You’ve just got your eye on the cash, Catherine,’ I said plainly. ‘It’s really rather vulgar.’
Her eyes kit up. ‘Cowboy, you’re right! We’re behind with the rent, we’ve got credit-card bills coming out of our ears and I’ve seen a fridge-freezer with a glitterball inside that turns when you open the door. We’ve got to have it. Please?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘I just don’t think I’ve got it in me.’
Catherine looked cross. ‘He’ll only leave the money to the other silky old fart or a cats’ home. What a fucking waste! Do things his way and we’re all winners. Don’t be so mean. Anyway, I thought you cared about your clients.’
‘The bottom line is I don’t think I could kill a man. It’s all very well for you, sitting at home planning the spending spree, but I’m the one who’ll have to do the deed and live with it for the rest of my life.’
Catherine held up her hands to stop me. ‘All right, enough! Let’s forget it. Tell him he’ll have to find someone else.’
I loaded our dirty bowls into the dishwasher and poured us some more tea. Catherine was sulking now, burying her face in a glossy catalogue of chic leather furnishings. I sighed. ‘How much is the fridge-freezer?’ I asked.
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ said Catherine, tossing the catalogue to one side to give me a hug.
‘I’m not saying I’ll do it,’ I warned. ‘I’m very far from that …‘ But she could sense that something in me was weakening. By lunchtime she had made a list of our sudden new ‘must haves’ and precious little of the impending twenty grand was unaccounted for. The camp fridge, new sofas, a coffee-table and our rent arrears were neatly listed. A thorough make-over for our patio garden and a thousand pounds worth of ‘miscellaneous’ expenses had crept into the equation. A huge amount was noted as ‘partying’. I assumed this was earmarked for Catherine’s coke dealer.
‘I’ve put aside three hundred for a holiday for you in Gran Canaria. You’ll need a break afterwards, I should think, to come to terms with what you’ve done. You’ll probably have night sweats or a spot of eczema. The sunshine will do you the world of good.’
‘Three hundred pounds isn’t much for a holiday,’ I observed.
‘No, well — have you ever been to Gran Canaria? Monte Carlo it ain’t. If you want any spending money while you’re there I’m sure you can earn it. The place is crawling with desperate old queens recovering from their exertions during the panto season.’
Somehow, as we talked, the money became more real and more difficult to imagine not having. Over the next few days, Georgie’s proposition went from being an old man’s ridiculous fantasy to something I had solemnly undertaken to carry out.
When I told Georgie I was prepared to murder him, he was delighted, then agonized over exactly when he wanted to make his exit.
‘Does the seventeenth of September suit you?’ he enquired, as if he was booking a manicure. ‘I’ve had a look at the long-range weather forecast and it’s likely to be cool but bright with sunny spells. Perfect, I thought. We can start in the early evening. You should be home for Newsnight.’
He seemed so rejuvenated by the prospect of his own violent death that it was hard to believe he was sick. It was as if he’d been waiting all his life for this extravaganza. The following Friday he clucked round his flat, excitedly instructing me on which restraints were to be applied where and in which order.
‘I shall, of course, have all this written down for you, but we’ll start with a little playful strangulation in the hallway. Handcuffs we won’t bother with — they’re so old hat — but I’m going to Bond Street tomorrow to look at some silk scarves. I’ll treat myself to something expensive. As for the business round my neck, I think the leather strap from a Louis Vuitton bucket bag should do the trick, don’t you?’
The execution was to be preceded by a marathon of sexual humiliation, plus S and M shenanigans.
I quaked at the prospect. Talking about it like this made it horribly real and I told Georgie I didn’t think I could do it.
‘Now listen,’ he said, ‘This is my last wish on earth. You’re performing an act of great kindness, don’t ever forget that. I won’t have you torturing yourself — it’s me that wants to be tortured, after all. Get a grip — in more ways than one, baby!’
He was very worried that his illness might cause some sexual dysfunction so he’d been on the Internet and ordered himself a quantity of Viagra, he told me. ‘I got a few pairs of latex gloves too, for you, not me.’
I was touched by his concern.
‘Well, dear, this will be a crime scene by the time you’re finished. Remember, no fingerprints, no naughty DNA from you, my boy, or you’ll be cursing me from your prison cell and I don’t want that.’
Somehow he made it sound so reasonable and I was quite comforted. After all, if he could be so relaxed about it, surely I could too.
The date he’d set was two weeks away. He booked me to go round on Wednesday the fifth for, as he called it, a ‘technical rehearsal’. He would pay for my time as usual, he added.
He met me at the door, that sunny early-autumn evening with a clipboard in his hand. An extravagant amount of lilac was arranged throughout the house. His nasal hair had been trimmed and he wore a little light foundation, I presumed, to disguise his yellowing skin. He smiled excitedly.
‘You look good,’ I said, because I felt a p
ang of sorrow.
Despite his remarkable enthusiasm for the event he was planning it occurred to me only now that, deep down, he was afraid of death. By taking matters into his own hands (or, rather, mine) he was ‘dealing’ with it, rather as he would the installation of a new conservatory. It would be messy, but worth it in the end when he was basking in eternal sunlight.
‘I think I kook drop-dead gorgeous,’ he said, then laughed a little too loudly. He handed me three sheets of lined A4 paper, on which he’d listed things in capital letters. ‘You must memorize all of this, then burn it before you leave,’ he said, in a business-like tone.
I felt as if I was meeting a secret agent on Waterloo Bridge. It was hard to believe we were in earnest. The whole thing seemed like an elaborate charade.
‘Early evening is a ridiculous time, I now realize. Far too cosy for what I have in mind. Let’s make it three in the morning. This has advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side you’re far less likely to be spotted entering the premises but on the other hand any, er, noises we make in the course of our endeavours may well be heard by your friend and mine, Mistress Sammy next door. I have ascertained that he is away at a wedding on the night of the thirteenth of September. I therefore propose that we bring our plans forward to the early hours of next Thursday morning. What say you?’
‘Um …‘
‘Now,’ said Georgie, going all Katherine Hepburn, as he often did, ‘our business transaction.’
He sashayed over to his desk in the lounge and snatched a bulging envelope from a drawer. He cupped it in his left hand and stretched his arm towards me slowly. There was silence between us. I knew if I accepted this mighty wad of cash I was committed to carrying out my side of the bargain.
‘I can’t,’ I said eventually.
‘This is only the first half!’ he said teasingly, and walked towards me, hips swaying. He wafted the envelope under my nose and I smelt the funky, sexy aroma of used notes. The coppery taste caught the back of my throat like a hit of amyl nitrate, and I felt flushed and giddy. I snatched the money and heaved a mighty sigh.
‘Thank you,’ said Georgie, quietly, all acting gone now.
I sat down on the sofa and opened the envelope. I counted the money. Ten thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes.
‘The second payment will be waiting for you. It’s in the schedule. I’m going to add a bonus, too.’
‘What’s that for?’ I asked warily.
‘Dear Bernard. Could you carry on seeing him for a few weeks after I’ve — gone, as it were? Another death is going to be horrible for him. I’d like you to be there. A shoulder for him to cry on.’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ I said, rather regrettably.
‘Good. Now. A little champagne to celebrate?’
As we chinked flutes, Georgie said, ‘A toast! To going out with a bang!’
Then we went through his notes together. This was how they read:
THE KILLING OF SISTERGEORGIE
TIME: 0300 HOURS ON THURSDAY 13 SEPTEMBER
LOCATION: THIS FLAT, 18 CASTLENAU GARDENS, BARNES, LONDON
COSTUME: TO BE PROVIDED BY GEORGIE. OVERALLS, SHOE COVERS, LATEX GLOVES AND BALACLAVA
PROPS: TO BE PROVIDED BY GEORGIE. TORCH, SCARVES, CLINGFILM, GAFFER TAPE, ASSORTED FRUIT AND VEG, CLOTHES PEGS, CONDOMS, ELECTRICAL FLEX, CANDLES AND MATCHES, CIGARETTES, LEATHER LOUIS VUITTON STRAP, MIRROR, BIN LINERS
RUNNINGORDER
0255: GEORGIE WILL CALL PHONE BOX ON THE CORNER TO CONFIRM THE PLAN
0300: JD TO ENTER THROUGH THE FRENCH WINDOWS. GEORGIE TO BE IN BED AS IF ASLEEP
0302: JD TO ENTER BEDROOM AND UNZIP FLIES
0303: GEORGIE WAXES WITH A GASP ONLY TO HAVE A HUGE ERECT COCK SHOVED IN HIS MOUTH
And so it went on, including a curiously amusing yet detailed list of sexual acts and fantasies, becoming ever more sadistic and violent. The entire proceedings were to last for one hour and forty-five minutes, but some leeway was given, as the duration of the final, fatal strangulation with the Louis Vuitton strap could not be accurately predicted. Ultimately even Georgie couldn’t die to a precise schedule.
‘I might pop off with excitement before the night, darling. Then you’ve got a nice little windfall for nothing, haven’t you?’
I’m not sure if it was the alcohol or the strangeness of the situation but I was in a dream-like state. Georgie didn’t seem to notice, he chattered away, salivating slightly at the corners of his mouth. It took me a while to notice that he was also, clearly, sexually aroused. His hands began to press and pummel, as if he was kneading dough in his lap. As I was paid to be there, my professionalism soon kicked in and I pulled myself together for long enough to pull my client together too.
Afterwards, Georgie recovered quickly and, now sitting in his dressing-gown, picked up where he’d left off. He snatched up his clipboard almost before his breathing had returned to normal and read out the last few items on the timetable:
‘04.40: CHECK GEORGIE’S PULSE AND HOLD MIRROR TO MOUTH. IF DEAD, REMOVE ORANGE AND BLINDFOLD, ETC.
04.42: JD TO REMOVE CONDOM, PLACE IN SEALED PLASTIC BAG. CHANGE BED SHEETS, PUT SOILED ONES IN BIN LINER PROVIDED, AND PLACE IN HOLDALL.
LAY GEORGIE OUT ON BED IN DIGNIFIED MANNER CLOSE EYES. RETRIEVE TEETH, COVER WITH SHEET PROVIDED. PUT ALL CLOTHES BACK ON, INCLUDING BALACLAVA, TAKE HOLDALL, COLLECT ENVELOPE CONTAINING REMAINING CASH AND LEAVE QUIETLY VIA FRENCH WINDOWS.’
At last, I thought, he’s finished. But I was wrong.
‘Then there’s the aftermath to brief you about. Obviously there’ll be a murder investigation. I sincerely hope the police won’t want to interview you, but you never know. Be prepared! You will have your clothes, the sheets, the condom and all ropes, fruit and so on, in the holdall. Dispose of it as soon as you leave here. I suggest the incinerator in Wembley. On Wednesday night go out to one of your nightclubs before you come here. After you’ve finished, go to one of those recovery dos you told me about under the arches in Vauxhall. Take an E and make a spectacle of yourself. Make sure you’re seen. That’s where you were on the night in question. Don’t act too upset. I was only a punter, after all.’
I nodded and smiled, touched that he’d thought everything out so thoroughly, even concerned about my alibi. He was right. If we were going to do this thing we might as well do it brilliantly. Georgie was being extraordinarily detailed, but at the same time he was invigorated by the planning and scheming. I started to play my part and think things out as seriously as the man planning his own departure.
I said, ‘There’s your semen to worry about. Don’t come on me whatever you do.’
‘I’ve already thought of that. By my calculations I should be face down at the point of orgasm. You will be very much on top, and thus free from any possible transfer of seminal fluid. As for faecal matter, I’m booked in for an enema that evening so no worries there either.’
‘Lovely. Georgie, you’ve thought of everything.’
‘I believe I have. My last piece of theatre — and this time I’m the director.’ Georgie stood up and that was my cue to leave. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ he said. ‘We must do it again some time.’
I stood up, too, and shook his hand. It seemed appropriate to say something significant, but what? ‘Until Thursday morning, then?’ I said, awkwardly.
‘Counting the hours!’ said Georgie.
I must take responsibility for my own actions, of course, but Catherine and I discussed the plan to kill Georgie in great detail and without her encouragement — or, rather, insistence — I doubt I would have gone through with it.
‘We must see this job as a military operation,’ she coached me. ‘You’re a soldier following strict orders. Focus on making your benefactor’s dream come true.
‘I will,’ I vowed.
‘Georgie’s happiness is in our hands,’ Catherine reminded me. ‘I know you can do it.’
And she would reach for our silver heart and get me some ‘medicine
’ to help me stay firm.
I still couldn’t quite believe that it was going to happen. But as the date neared, it seemed no one was backing down.
In retrospect, I blame ambition for blinding me to the reality of my actions. The jockey who dopes his horse desires to win the race at all costs. He is wrong to do it, of course, but the dream of glory, the need to be the very best, is what drives him to it. So it was with me. I simply wanted to be the best fantasy-fulfiller the world had ever known. If that meant strangling my client, so be it. The circumstances were unusual, but the rules of the contract were simple: he asks me, I say yes. Could I be held responsible? Was I really a murderer? After all, anyone who kills someone else in cold blood must be unhinged in some way. Was I treading the path to madness? I didn’t think so. I wanted to make Georgie happy, that was all. It didn’t mean I was a sociopath, someone who experiences little or no empathy — on the contrary, my empathy was fully engaged with Georgie’s most heartfelt desire. I didn’t feel sorry for planning the end of his life because I was fulfilling his dearest wish. We don’t have to share those desires or understand them, but neither can we dismiss them as unworthy of our consideration. I was in the business of granting people’s wishes, not saying, ‘No, I couldn’t possibly!’
I suppose there is the fact that I was paid handsomely for the deed, and without that fee, I would probably never have done as Georgie asked. But I’m not Jimmy Savile granting wishes, or one of the Sisters of Charity, and I never claimed to be.
But don’t allow the fact that I benefited from these circumstances to lead you astray in your assessment of my mental health, and don’t condemn me as nothing more than a cold-hearted killer. There was so much more to it than that.
It was the night of Georgie’s murder.
Catherine dropped me off at the end of Castlenau Gardens at two forty-five a.m. The streets were deserted and every window was dark. As the car pulled up, she turned to me. ‘Good luck, Cowboy. Keep your nerve.’