Good Thing Bad Thing

by Nick Alexander

  “Great spot signor,” I say.

  Tom slips an arm around me. “Yeah,” he says. “Waaay too many people down there.” He turns to me and smiles and pecks me on the cheek.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I scared you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”

  I shrug. “It happens,” I say. “I’m quite good at scaring myself without anyone’s help,” I add.

  “I know,” Tom agrees.

  I frown at him and wonder how much he has realised, how much he knows about just how scared I was. I run the hem of his beige shorts between my finger and thumb, and then gently caress his thigh. My stomach rumbles.

  “That hungry huh?” Tom laughs.

  I snort. “Not hungry enough to face that lot though,” I say, nodding at the harbour.

  Tom wrinkles his nose. “Do you think we could…”

  “Get a takeaway?” I say, finishing his phrase.

  “We could eat it halfway back,” Tom says. “Find a nice spot like yesterday. I saw a pizza place up by the car-park…”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I say breaking into a grin.

  “What?” Tom asks.

  “It’s just…” I say with a shrug. “Oh I don’t know…”

  Tom frowns bemusedly, so I continue.

  “Well, we’re so compatible you know.”

  Tom smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Imagine being with someone who wanted to go to a swanky restaurant every night,” he says.

  “Oh honey, perlease can we go to one of those adorable lil’ ole restaurants?” I say, jumping up and pulling Tom to his feet. “Come on, my little soulmate,” I say. “It’s pizza in a car-park for you.”

  Tom smiles at me. “Great isn’t it?” he says.

  “Hey, look,” Tom says, gently nudging me as he looks over at the farmhouse.

  I ease off the accelerator and tear my eyes from the pool of light in front of the van. “Huh,” I say. “Police car.”

  “Shit this thing’s a bitch to drive,” I add as we lurch into a tractor rut. “I swear it drags you magnetically into the holes.”

  Tom snorts. “The van’s fault then,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow and sigh. “I haven’t seen you fighting to take the wheel,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, squeezing my leg. “It’s just, well, what with it being Jenny’s and all.”

  “Jenny wouldn’t mind.”

  “Yeah, but she’s still more your friend than mine,” Tom says. “If someone’s going to break an axle on a farm track then I’d rather it was you.”

  I pull up behind the two deckchairs and heave on the hand brake. “Thanks!” I say. “Anyway, we’re home. Actually, I suppose you’re always home in one of these things.”

  “Home is where your deckchair is,” Tom says.

  “You’re on bed-folding duty,” I tell him. “I need a crap.”

  As I slide the door shut, Tom giggles and says, “Good luck.”

  He knows how I hate Dante’s outside loo.

  By the time I return Tom is propped up on pillows. He’s reading the Rough Guide to Italy in the dim light.

  “There’s mozzies tonight,” he says.

  I pull a face. “Oh no! I hate that,” I say. “Though I’m surprised we haven’t had any before really… all those ditches around this field.”

  As I reach inside the cupboard for the insect spray, Tom tuts. I shrug and wave the can at him. “You tutting at me, sweetness?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Just wait and see, okay?” he says. “I hate sleeping in a load of insecticide for nothing.”

  I shrug again and put the can down beside the bed. “Well, last chance for the fuckers to evacuate,” I say. “Cos I’m not doing that bzzzzz bzzzzzzzz comedy sketch all night.”

  I undress and dump my clothes on the driver’s seat, and then I crawl in beside Tom. It’s warmer tonight and he has already kicked the sleeping bag down to the end of the bed.

  “So what are you reading about, little research assistant?” I ask him.

  “Oh, just those walkways,” he says snapping the book shut. “How were the sanitary facilities?” he grins.

  I pull a face. “I hate that half door affair,” I say, “It makes me feel like I’m at school.” Tom finds my discomfort so amusing, I add, “It makes me afraid to fart as well.”

  Tom snorts. “I don’t think anyone can hear you in there,” he says. “It’s miles away from the house …”

  “Well, I could hear them,” I say, “They’re talking inside the house.”

  Tom reaches behind him and clicks off the light. “Yeah?” he says. “Weird, I mean, the outside loo is behind all the sheds and stuff.”

  I shrug. “Must carry through the pipes or something…” I say.

  “Hmm, so what were Dante and the cutey policeman up to?”

  I yawn and cuddle up to him. “I could only hear vague voices,” I say. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mr fantasy man!”

  Tom leans over and pecks me on the lips, and then rolls away. “I just love a man in uniform,” he says.

  “Anyway, if I had heard it would have been in Italian.”

  Tom smiles. “Does fucking sound different in Italian then?”

  I shrug. “You’re the one with an Italian ex,” I say.

  Tom’s smile fades. “Don’t,” he says.

  I squeeze my arm around him. “That was really nice today,” I say.

  “Yeah, despite the bad start,” he replies. “But that was a great spot we found on the way home.”

  “Mmm,” I agree. “Lovely view.”

  “Shit pizza though,” Tom laughs.

  I grin at the memory. “Soggy pizza,” I say. “In Italy. Who would have thought?”

  We lie listening to the sounds of the night. I hear Tom’s breath start to slow, and note my hard-on starting to fade. Then, just before sleep takes over, I remember something. “There were three voices,” I say.

  But Tom’s already asleep.

  “How wonderful,” I think, jealously. “To have instant sleep like that.”

  *

  I squint out at the darkened interior of the van. All is as it should be, and yet… well, something woke me.

  I can hear Tom’s breathing, the gentle white noise of the trees moving in the breeze, the creak of the rusty gate… There! The buzz of that damned mosquito.

  I roll onto my back and hold my breath as I try to work out exactly where the beast is, and slowly, as silently as possible I reach down beside the bed for the can of insect spray.

  But as I finger the can, I notice a different noise – a vague, almost inaudible grunt. I turn a little towards Tom, guessing this is some new night-time breathing sound he’s added to his repertoire, but no, the noise repeats again and it’s coming from outside, from some way away.

  I listen hard and identify a different sound, a faint burst of white-noise, like a short gust of wind through a cracked window, or maybe a fly swat, or a skipping rope or… It’s followed by the grunt again, low, restrained, muffled.

  “Tom,” I whisper. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah,” he replies immediately, rolling onto his back.

  “Can you hear that noise?”

  “Yeah, I authorise a chemical attack,” he says.

  “Eh?” I say, wondering if he’s still dreaming.

  “Go for it,” he says, sounding more awake. “If it’s bugging you then kill the fucker.”

  I nudge him. “No, not the mosquito. Listen,” I say, lifting myself onto my elbows.

  I hold my breath again and Tom does the same. A second later the noise repeats – a faint whoosh followed by a muffled groan. Tom sits up beside me, alert and straining to hear.

  “It sounds like…” I say, but Tom raises a hand to stop me.

  The sound repeats – exactly the same sequence as before.

  “Ooh baby,” Tom says, lowering himself back onto the bed and grinning broadly.

  “No! You don’t think?”
I say.

  “Thwack – Aaah!” Tom giggles. “Sounds like Dante and the naughty policeman are having fun to me.”

  He snuggles towards me.

  “Not sure it sounds like fun myself,” I say.

  “Who do you think is thwacking who?” Tom whispers.

  We both listen again until the noise repeats. We snort and laugh together.

  “It’s got to be the policeman doing the thwacking, right?” I say.

  Tom shrugs and pulls me towards him. “I don’t know,” he says, “But it makes me feel a bit…” As he says this, he reaches over and grabs my dick.

  “Hey, don’t start anything you can’t handle, Mr Herpes,” I warn him.

  “I thought maybe you could…” His voice peters out, but he rolls onto his front and pulls me towards him, making it perfectly clear what he wants.

  “But what about your…”

  “It’s fine,” he says. “Just be gentle with me,” he giggles.

  I roll on top of him. “You sure?” I say.

  “Mmmm,” Tom coos. “I’m feeling really horny actually.”

  I reach for my wallet and pull out a condom and lube pack.

  Then I rip the top off the sachet of lube with my teeth, and manoeuvre myself between Tom’s legs. As I pull the condom on, I lean down to his ear. “Did I ever tell you?” I say, slipping a finger into his arse.

  “Mmm?” he says.

  “You have the best ideas in the whole wide world.”

  “I kneel again and squirt the rest of the lube onto my dick. Behind me in the distance, I hear another whistle, followed by another grunt.

  “Oooh baby,” Tom says.

  I grin broadly and move myself into position but then I pause – I’ve had a different idea. I lean forward so that my mouth is against Tom’s ear.

  “I didn’t know you were into…” I whisper, as I sit up and straighten my arm for the swing.

  Tom gasps in shock, and for a moment, I think I have slapped his arse too hard, but then he groans appreciatively, and writhes a little on the bed.

  *

  It’s the breeze that wakes me. Tom has opened the windows on both sides of the van, and the tiny curtains are moving to and fro as it gusts back and forth. A tiny bird is chirruping merrily somewhere to my right; it is so loud it sounds as if it’s inside the van.

  I stretch and yawn happily. I feel amazingly relaxed this morning, in fact – I realise – it’s the first time I have actually felt like I’m on holiday. I guess it always takes a while to settle into the rhythm.

  I mention this to Tom, but he just giggles and says, “Just because you got a shag!”

  I listen to the birdsong for a moment. “You know there’s a French colloquial expression for grumpy, or bad tempered,” I tell him. “They say mal baisé.”

  He rolls over and props himself up on one elbow. “A bad fuck?” he asks.

  “No, badly fucked,” I correct him.

  “So if someone’s badly fucked it means he’s in a bad mood?” Tom asks incredulously.

  I laugh. “Well, they’re a bit macho, so it’s usually she’s badly fucked,” I say. “Elle est mal baisée. But yeah… it means she’s in a bad mood, and by implication that she’s in a bad mood because she needs a good shagging.”

  “Stunningly accurate,” Tom says, rolling onto his back.

  I shimmy slightly down the bed so that I can rest my head on his stomach.

  “So did your poor dick survive the ordeal last night?” I ask.

  Tom’s chest jumps beneath me as he laughs. “Yes,” he says. “Tres bien baisé, merci.”

  Hey I wonder if Dante is in a good mood too,” I giggle.

  Tom strokes my hair and judders again. “I wonder if he can sit down?” he says.

  “What are we helping him with again?” I ask.

  Tom shrugs. “Oh, yeah… Chickens or netting or something,” he says.

  When we arrive at the farmhouse, Dante’s policeman friend is leaving, so we open the gate as he drives past and rather stupidly stand to attention. We both think it’s funny, but he seems un-amused, and shouts something at Tom as he drives through.

  “He says to make sure and shut the gate,” Tom translates.

  Dante is sitting at the kitchen table peering into a bowl of steaming coffee.

  He looks up brightly and beckons us in. “Come, come!” he says, jumping up. “Coffee.”

  We take our seats and pour coffee from the pot. I remember that this is a no sugar zone, so I make sure Dante can’t see the inside of my cup and serve the strict minimum – about half an inch.

  “I’m glad you help today,” Dante says, dunking a piece of bread into his coffee. “It’s very hard for me…” He frowns. “When is only me,” he adds doubtfully.

  He looks rough this morning – his skin looks dry and wrinkled. His hair – though still jet black and shiny – is flattened on one side and jutting out on the other. His green eyes look a little redder around the edges than usual.

  “It’s hard to do it on your own,” I say, in a slow, didactic voice.

  Dante nods but seemingly misunderstands. “No,” he says. “It’s okay. I drink too much with Paolo.”

  “Paolo the Policeman,” I say, thinking that it sounds like a Disney character.

  Dante frowns. “You see Paolo?” he asks.

  “Twice,” Tom replies. “When we arrived, and today.”

  Dante’s eyes narrow. He stares at his coffee and chews his bread. Tom glances at me and raises an eyebrow.

  When Dante looks back up he looks me straight in the eye, as if challenging me to believe him. “My best friend,” he says.

  I nod and force a reassuring smile. “Friends are important,” I say.

  Dante bangs his chest. “Paolo has big heart,” he says.

  The job, it transpires, is to cover an unused chicken run with orange nylon netting.

  Dante has decided – for reasons he explains at great length in Italian and which I don’t understand or really care about – that the chickens need their own area. Presumably, the netting is required to make them stay put.

  The run is about twenty meters long by three wide, bordered by a low brick wall supporting a fence.

  We divide the labour, with Tom and I on each side of the run, wiring each loop of netting to a loop of the fence. Dante deals with cutting the lengths of netting and stretching them between Tom and myself as well as attaching the edges of the lengths together.

  He’s very specific about wanting a metal tie through every loop of the fence. If they’re not bionic chickens then it seems a bit over the top to me, but, well, it’s his fence and they are his chickens so I say nothing and with a dismayed glance at the length of the run, start to twist the first of the wire links.

  It’s a fiddly, repetitive task, and for the first fifteen minutes or so I feel resentful at having to spend my holiday doing such a shitty job to someone else’s absurdly over-engineered specifications ….

  And yet…

  And yet, I settle into the mindless rhythm of it, watching Tom on the far side, and Dante zigzagging between us.

  I adjust my speed, going faster when I get behind, occasionally slowing down when I get ahead. The sun beats down making me sweat slightly, and every now and then, the breeze lifts up my t-shirt and blows refreshingly around my sweaty waist.

  “You okay?” Dante asks, as he stretches the next length of netting to my outstretched hand.

  I smile at him, a genuine smile born of team effort. “I am actually,” I say, realising it as I say it. “It’s nice.”

  Dante nods appreciatively, and pauses as if I should continue, so I frown and think about how I feel. “It’s good to have something to do with your hands,” I say. “Something manual … It kind of frees the mind.”

  Dante nods. “People meditate,” he says. “They should come fix fences.”

  I nod. Meditative pretty much describes how I’m feeling. “Not a lot of manual work nowadays,” I tell him. “Not in
the city.”

  Dante pulls his tobacco pouch from his pocket and starts to roll a cigarette. “Yes,” he says. “Work is key. Everyone want luxury – no work,” he says.

  I groan at the realisation that I have started him on one of his philosophical tangents again – a tangent I have already heard. It’s not that I don’t agree with him, but I was enjoying the non-mental space provided by the work. That’s the whole point… The last thing I want is to intellectualise about why it’s good.

  “Sometimes I think I should make a, how you call that? Una comunità hippy,” he says.

  “A hippy commune?”

  Dante nods. “Yes, you know just let city people come live here. Discover simple life.”

  I shrug noncommittally. “Why not?” I say.

  Dante nods at me. “You think is good idea?” he asks.

  I shrug again. “I guess,” I say.

  “Someone like you would want?” he asks.

  “Me?” I frown and grin at the same time. “Not really my scene,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “No communes for me… I like my own place, my own things…”

  “But you enjoy today?” he says.

  I nod and smile. “Sure, it’s nice,” I say.

  Dante nods reflectively and hands me another bunch of metal ties, which I wedge between my teeth.

  Thankfully, he then turns to Tom. “Toma!” he shouts. “E’ pronto per la prossima?”

  For nearly three hours we work like this. Dante and Tom chat in Italian, and I make no attempt to understand – in fact their voices drift and merge in with the background sounds of wind and trees and birdsong.

  My mind wanders over the mundane and drifts to great questions of life and then bumps back down to the everyday again, strangely liberated by this simple task on this beautiful day.

  Childhood places and people float to the surface – the seafront in Eastbourne, the taste of a ’99 ice cream, an auntie’s bent umbrella.

  I think about the fact that we have no food and wonder where the nearest supermarket is, and I think about Dante living off the land, picking leeks when he wants leeks, killing a pig when he wants pork.

  I think about Jenny and Sarah back in Nice, and the van, the van she bought with Nick, parked over the way in all its orange splendour. The van that Jenny conceived in because of my own accident, and I think of Steve, poor dead Steve. It’s a shame he never met Tom… He would have liked him, except of course, if Steve were here then Tom wouldn’t be.