Good Thing Bad Thing

by Nick Alexander

  “So?” I say, as we meet each other on the pavement’s edge.

  Tom swallows and shrugs. “Can we go back?” he says. “I’m overheating here.”

  “Back to?”

  “To the gite… I’ll tell you all about it,” he says. “But I need a moment to digest it all too.”

  I shrug. “Okay,” I say doubtfully. “But everything’s okay, right?”

  Tom nods vaguely. “Yeah…” he says. “I think so.”

  We sit beneath ‘our’ tree. Tom hands me the bottle of water. The day is much hotter than when we were last here. It’s so hot it seems even to have silenced the insects. I try and remember how long ago that was… It seems a world away, when in fact it’s just a few days. “So tell me,” I say, handing back the water. “I’m dying of information thirst here.”

  Tom swigs from the bottle – I watch his Adam’s apple bob. Then he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay,” he says. “I haven’t worked any of this out yet, but here’s the deal.”

  I nod and shift towards him sitting cross legged. For some reason I think of the Buddha sitting beneath the tree of wisdom. “So enlighten me,” I say with a smile.

  “Right,” Tom says. “So… It’s hard to know where to start.”

  “The letter?”

  “The letter…” Tom repeats. “Someone walked into our Milan office and asked if they knew how to get a message to Tom Gambino. Then they handed it over. End of story.”

  “Oh,” I say frowning in disappointment. “Do we know who?”

  Tom shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Do we at least know how the Milan office got your address?”

  Tom nods. “Yep. They phoned Claude. And that’s the only reason he knew about the letter.”

  “He read it?”

  Tom shakes his head. “I really don’t think so. I can’t imagine anyone daring to open it – not a letter to the boss’s nephew, and they posted it directly to my home. And Claude really didn’t seem to know anything about it. He asked me what it was and I had to bullshit him about it being from someone I fell out with ages ago, and how that was why I freaked about it.”

  I nod and sigh heavily. “Okay. So how did, whoever… How did they know the Milan office could even get a letter to you?”

  Tom shrugs. “It’s not so hard really. It’s a forex office – it’s called Cambio Gambino.”

  I wipe the sweat from my eyebrows. “Oh,” I say again. “But surely you’re not the only Tom Gambino in the world?”

  Tom pulls a face. “Apparently we’re reasonably well known around Milan. And there’s not a lot of us left – it’s a dwindling dynasty.”

  I nod knowingly. “And the Gambinos are known for what exactly…?” I say.

  “Claude says we were quite big in the thirties… quite rich. But now, just for foreign exchange and banking stuff.”

  “Big in the thirties?” I say grinning and nodding at him suggestively.

  Tom wrinkles his nose and half smiles. “I know what you mean… but… Oh, I don’t know… He was really honest and quite sweet really… I even asked him if they were connected with the Mafia.”

  I bite my lip. “Was he upset?”

  Tom shakes his head. “He just laughed like it was the silliest thing he ever heard. I felt quite bad actually.”

  “Did you ask him about that other family, the Corrleones?” I say.

  Tom shakes his head. “How? Remember he hasn’t read that newspaper article.”

  I nod and press the bottle of water against the side of my head. “So we still don’t know who took the letter in… Paolo maybe?” I say.

  Tom nods. “I was thinking that too. Remember what he was like when he saw my passport. He wouldn’t have forgotten my name in a hurry.”

  “In which case Paolo shot Dante? Or got him shot?”

  Tom shrugs. “Maybe he couldn’t cover up for him anymore… Maybe he didn’t want to be dragged down. It’s all guesswork though isn’t it.”

  “Maybe Paolo thought you were the source, the one sending all those anonymous tip-offs.”

  “I almost wish I had,” Tom says. He lowers his gaze and then looks away at the grey mountains. “I didn’t think of it though,” he adds.

  “I wonder who the other bodies are. They said there were three and one was a French businessman’s son.”

  “There was nearly a fourth,” Tom says with a serious nod. “The son of another wealthy businessman. I’m thinking more and more that maybe the reason it happened… happened to me I mean… Maybe the whole reason they held me in the first place was precisely because of my name, because of who my uncle is.”

  I nod thoughtfully. “You mean settling an old score or something?”

  Tom shakes his head almost imperceptibly and then raises an eyebrow. “I was thinking more in terms of ransom possibilities.”

  I nod and think for a moment, then declare, “No, that doesn’t make sense… We went there… You know? He didn’t come and get us. We drove into Dante’s …”

  “Yeah,” Tom says with a shrug. “Maybe he thought he got lucky. Maybe Dante couldn’t believe his luck.”

  I sigh and shake my head.

  “Anyway, the important thing is,” Tom says, “that whoever did send the letter… well at least they don’t have my address.”

  I lean across and run a hand up through his hair. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s one good thing. Though they do know where you work.”

  Tom sighs and then shrugs. “Worked,” he says.

  “Worked?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” Tom says, pulling an, oh-now-I’ve-gone-and-done-it face. “I got the sack. Well, he asked me to leave.”

  “Really?”

  Tom nods soberly. “Said I’m unreliable. And hysterical. And paranoid.”

  I bite my bottom lip and restrain a smirk. “I guess it must seem that way.”

  “It’s not funny,” Tom says. “Though I don’t really blame him…”

  I shrug. “You don’t look too sad about it,” I say.

  “Well, we were talking about doing something else anyway,” he says with a wink.

  “Right,” I say. “Hey, you know what though… I just thought… We didn’t quite stumble into Dante’s place.”

  Tom frowns at me.

  “If I remember correctly, a friendly policeman took one look at your passport, told us the campsite was full, and sent us there.”

  Tom nods slowly. “Yeah…” he says. “Good old Paolo.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, then I say, “Maybe you should avoid Italy for a while.”

  Tom snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I should change my name.”

  I smile. “We could get married…” I laugh.

  But Tom’s smile fades, his voice shifts to a serious tone. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “How come you stayed with me? Through all that… I mean, I know I was… well… awful really.”

  I frown. “Where did that come from?”

  Tom shrugs. “I was just wondering.”

  I shrug. “Ah, well… It was the money I expect,” I laugh. “Plus, you were buying such lovely suits.”

  Tom sighs and shakes his head sadly. “I hate it when you do that,” he says.

  I take a deep breath, swallow hard and tip my head slightly to one side. “Sorry,” I say. “I… I suppose I was intrigued,” I say. “Even when I hated you, I wanted to understand why you did it. Maybe I loved… love you too much to just let go like that. I wanted to understand first …”

  Tom nods. “And did you?” he asks. “Understand?”

  I frown at him. “I think so Tom,” I say. “More or less… When I came to see what Dante represented instead of what he actually was… well, the anger just fell away really.”

  Tom nods and stares at his feet. “Well, thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you hung around.”

  I nod. “Me too,” I say.

  “I don’t think I’ll be we
aring the suits so much,” he says. “”I think I’m over that… Will that be a problem sir?”

  I grin. “Nah,” I say, stroking his cheek. “You look pretty good in biker gear too. We’ll make do.”

  “Yeah… I suppose I have to get rid of the Mercedes,” he says forlornly. “He’s giving me three months pay, but I won’t be able to keep the car.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” I say. “I’m not sure that it’s the ideal car anyway.”

  Tom wrinkles his nose. “I knew you never liked it,” he says, pushing to his feet.

  “I wasn’t meaning that,” I say, standing myself. “I was thinking you might be needing a different kind of car now, that’s all.”

  Tom frowns and looks at me sideways.

  “I was thinking, you might be needing a four-by-four. This place is under three feet of snow in the winter.”

  Tom frowns at me. “What? You want to come back here in winter?” he says.

  I smile. “I was keeping it for a surprise,” I say. “But, well… the place is up for sale.”

  Tom shakes his head. “What, this place? The gite?”

  I nod. “Two-hundred thousand,” I say. “Pretty cheap considering. Her husband walked and she’s selling up.”

  Tom nods but says nothing. He doesn’t look impressed, so – a little deflated – I shrug, and start to walk back along the track. Tom follows me silently.

  As I reach the little stone hut, he touches my shoulder so I pause and turn to look at him.

  “Mark, are you serious? Is it really for sale?”

  I nod.

  “And would you really think about doing it?”

  I shrug. “I’m just saying that she’s selling the place. And that together we could just about afford it. That’s all.”

  Tom moves his mouth to speak and then closes it again.

  “The gardening would be all yours,” I say. “I hate gardening.”

  “Gardening…” Tom says in awe. “Wow, do we get the vegetable garden and everything?”

  I nod. “The land goes all the way to … Well, to here,” I say gesticulating at the stone hut behind me.

  Tom spins to face the gite, then slowly turns, scanning the land between and finally looking back at the hut. “Wow!” he says. “That’s huge!”

  “Eleven hectares,” I say. “It would take all of our money though. And the gite only makes about five thousand a year from guests at the moment, so it would be really tight.”

  “But we could grow our own veg,” Tom says his voice now trembling with excitement. “And if the food wasn’t so shit… you could really make this place work.”

  “Who could make it work?” I ask.

  “I mean, one could…” Tom laughs.

  “Yeah…” I say doubtfully. “Oh and Jenny said she might rent that studio apartment off us too,” I say. “If we did move here.”

  Tom wide-eyes me and shakes his head. “Really? Would she really be up for it too?”

  “She’s up for renting a cheap apartment from us,” I say. “I wouldn’t count on her for much else…”

  Tom pushes me back against the stone wall and kisses me. “I hope you’re not joking,” he laughs. “Because if you’re winding me up, I’ll have you.”

  I shrug. “So have me,” I say, leaning forward and kissing him back. “But seriously, you have to think carefully about this… It’s not a quick decision.”

  “I have thought carefully,” Tom says, now pushing me sideways towards the doorway. “I’m a very quick thinker.”

  “But it won’t be easy…” I say. “You do realise? It’s a tough old life up here; three months snow…”

  “Oh who wants easy,” Tom says. “I’ve spent my entire life choosing the path of least resistance. Easy’s boring.”

  I nod. “I know what you mean,” I say.

  “Plus,” Tom laughs, manoeuvring me into the darkness of the hut, then reaching down into my shorts. “It never ends up being that easy, does it?”

  I kiss him, and as he starts to unbutton my shorts I make a grab at his arm. “Tom,” I say. “Not here…”

  “Why?” he asks.

  I shrug and relax my grip on his hand.

  He kisses me on the lips and slides to his knees. The hut is dark and cold and as I feel his lips slip around my hardening dick, I glance out through the unglazed gap in the sidewall. The view is almost identical to that of our bedroom.

  Tom pauses and I look down at him grinning at me. “If this place is going to be ours, then I think it’s only proper that we…”

  He laughs and licks the tip of my dick, swiping it with his tongue as if it were an ice cream. “Test the outbuildings,” he says.

  Epilogue

  I walk through to the bedroom and lean in the doorway, watching Tom. He is staring at a load of suits he has piled up on the bed. He sighs deeply. “You’re not having regrets are you?” I say, moving to his side and slipping an arm around his waist.

  He smiles at me, wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says. “I was just calculating how much money I spent on all these stupid suits. It doesn’t even seem worth packing them now.”

  I reach out and run the lapel of a grey silk number between finger and thumb. “I suppose you can’t really wear them for gardening,” I say. “Shame though.”

  “You think I should just dump them all?” Tom asks. “I could take them to a charity shop or something.”

  “I think you should keep a couple… At least keep the really nice ones,” I say.

  “For all the cocktail parties we’ll be going to?” Tom laughs.

  I shake my head and peck him on the cheek. “You could always wear them in the bedroom from time to time,” I say. “I certainly wouldn’t complain.”

  Tom grins broadly and bumps his hip against mine. “Okay, you choose then,” he says.

  “Just keep all the new ones,” I say. “And that silk one! And get rid of any you haven’t worn for a year.”

  Tom nods and sighs. “Okay,” he says, folding the grey one and dropping it into an open removals box. “This one’s in…” He reaches and pulls something from the pocket of the blue blazer beneath. “You saw that right?” he asks handing me the newspaper clipping.

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking the sheet open. “Well – the first half anyway.”

  The bed bounces as Tom sits down beside me.

  “It’s funny really,” he says as I start to read. “I mean, if all that hadn’t happened… I’m not sure we would even be here packing now. You know what I mean?”

  I place a finger on the page so as not to lose my place and look up at him. “Good Thing Bad Thing?” I say.

  Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says meaningfully. “Good Thing Bad Thing.” He pecks me on the cheek, and then stands to continue packing.

  “Well, the really good thing here is that he’s dead,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Tom says. “Harsh, but true.”

  When I reach the bottom of the page, I unfold the second part and stare at the photograph – one of Dante’s victims, and shiver. Then I read the caption and frown.

  “Tom? Is this supposed to be Dante?” I ask. “Or someone he killed?”

  Tom runs packing tape across the top of the box, adds it to the pile against the wall and returns to my side.

  “Eh?” he says, bouncing back onto the bed.

  “Look,” I say, pointing at the caption.

  “Murdered – Migliore,” Tom reads. He frowns at me. “No, that’s not Dante. It must be one of the victims.”

  I shrug. “That’s not what it says, Tom,” I say. “Murdered – Migliore, that implies it’s him… It implies that the picture is… was… Dante,” I say. “Supposedly now dead.”

  “No way that’s Dante,” Tom says. “It’s nothing like him.”

  I furrow my brow and slowly fold the page. “No,” I say thoughtfully. “You’re right. It’s nothing like him at all.”

  The End

&
nbsp; Keep reading for a preview of

  BETTER THAN EASY

  The next instalment in the

  Fifty Reasons Series, by Nick Alexander

  Sleep evades me. The wind is hurling itself, invisible battalions crashing against the shutters. I imagine that the subsonic thuds are the lines they show on weather maps, smashing to smithereens, cartoon style, on the walls of the building, hopelessly, pointlessly.

  Tom sleeps through it all, dreaming it would seem – his mouth is working constantly, his tongue clicks occasionally against the roof of his mouth.

  I can feel the warmth of his body or maybe something more than just warmth – his aura? – jumping across the gap where our thighs nearly meet. From the waist up our bodies curve away into separateness.

  Another subsonic wave collides with the bedroom window. I can feel the air inside the room move too. There must be a gap somewhere.

  I roll onto my side and study Tom’s features; he looks beautiful. He’s no slouch when awake, but asleep he looks younger – peaceful, neutral somehow.

  I know he’s still asleep precisely because our bodies aren’t touching. When awake Tom always positions himself so that there is at least one point of contact – unless we’re at war. In winter he hugs me like a koala, hot and comforting against the cold extremities of the bed, while in summer it can be just a heel, or a shin; the simple contact of a finger, a toe, his dick… but whatever the season, there’s always a spot where our bodies meet. And then sleep takes him and he rolls away.

  I sigh and smile at the contented look on his face and wonder if he is truly happy. He’s so hard to read when awake – he gives so little away. And then I roll onto my back and wonder what the day will bring.

  I think of a song by Holcombe Waller – my current musical obsession. “Hey oh, hey oh, hey oh; who controls your emotions?”

  For Tom will wake up soon and the nature of the day will begin to crystallise, like some complex mathematical result of putting his star sign or biorhythms, or whatever controls our emotions, together with mine. Or maybe the day already exists somewhere over the horizon, and we just have to sit and watch as the weather of the day – sunshine or storms, cold shoulders or popcorn – slides invisibly into place.