Back at the table, Jane's playing with her phone but quickly returns it to her bag and apologises. “Just checking everything's okay with Jake.”
“I'm sure he can look after himself,” I say as Yakimono — flame-grilled fish — arrives. I continue, “Let's talk about you, shall we? What opportunities do you have after graduating?”
“Nothing concrete yet. It's really tough out there, even if you've got a good degree from somewhere like UCL.”
“Ideally, what would you do?”
“Ideally? Not sure. I keep on thinking of a Masters, but I think I'd rather get out there and do a real job, pay off some debts. I can always go back and study when I'm older. So a graduate job, ideally in asset management.”
“Somewhere like Gyges then?”
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe equities instead, something with a different investment philosophy.” She takes another sip. She's losing poise. Her posture is deteriorating so that she has a clear lean to her left side, her hair's looking windblown; her words are slurred around their edges. A previously undetectable northern accent seems to be leaking out. The wonder of alcohol is in stripping away inhibitions; it permits people to behave in ways that they wanted to anyway. Tomorrow morning, when she wakes in my arms, her whole body aching happily from the night's ecstasy, she can blame the Koshu. She'll tell herself that there's no turning back, what's done is done, and so, freed from any dilemma, she'll urge me to take her again, and again, which of course I'll do.
I say, “Well let's talk about potential openings next week, shall we? I still need to understand exactly what you have to offer.”
Jane finishes her Yakimono and excuses herself. A waitress guides her to the bathroom as I plot my next move. Discreetly, I empty most of my Koshu into Jane's glass.
She slumps back in her seat with a crooked smile and wipes her hands on the new napkin placed in front of her. “Groovy toilets,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes, they are, aren't they? Very Zen. It's all about simplicity and understated quality.”
“But seriously expensive, I guess.”
“You bet. You know, Jane, you seem right at home here, like you were born to be in high-class surroundings. You've seen how the staff treat you here.”
She giggles. “Isn't that their job?”
“I can tell when they recognise real class.”
She giggles again, and slurps some more Koshu. “Cack. I'm from Worksop, my dad's in transport logistics – lorries, basically – and my mum's a teaching assistant. Working class, and proud of it.”
“It's got nothing to do with your background. You've got real class, Jane. Look around here, and you'll see what I mean. You're the classiest, most beautiful, most intelligent woman here. And just between you and me, at Gyges.”
She exhales, waves a hand dismissively, and leans back in her seat. “Now I know you're bullshitting me. What about Lucija? She's got degrees coming out of her ears, and she could be in Vogue. She's proper class.”
“Not compared to you.” I smile and give her the look. She turns coyly away and then takes another sip. “Thanks, Reynard,” she says. Even a clever girl like Jane here wilfully ignores the truth if it suits her to do so.
The tiny waitress places a rice dish in front of us; Jane giggles again. “Oh God, I'm stuffed already! How many more courses?”
“This, and then dessert, if you want it,” I say.
“I'm definitely done after this, even if dessert's banoffi pie,” she says.
“Agreed. Oh, and it isn't banoffi pie, by the way.”
We finish the Gohan, and the second bottle of Koshu is soon empty, of which I've had barely one glass.
I lean forward and whisper, “Jane?” so quietly that she has to lean forward, which she does, giggling, her elbows resting on the table. She turns her head so her ear is facing me. “What, Reynard?”
I lean forward farther so that my lips are almost brushing her ear. “Listen, the coffee here's not up to much; I've got the best Colombian single-origin coffee at home, along with some other products from that part of the world, if you know what I mean. I'll get the bill and let's go.”
“Oh.” And she sits back in her chair. She goes to take another sip, but her glass is empty. To my right, the waitress edges forward to offer another drink, but I discreetly raise my hand, and she retreats. Jane says, “I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I should be getting home.” She glances towards her bag.
“No pressure, just a little fun, you know. I think you'd love my place, it's in the most exclusive square around here.” I smile and give her the look.
But Jane shakes her head. “I really shouldn't.”
“You don't like having fun?”
“I'm sorry, Reynard, but I love my boyfriend, and I wouldn't do anything to hurt him.”
“Who said anything about him? And what he doesn't know...”
“Sorry. You're quite good-looking, but I just can't.”
“I'm not sure you mean that. I know you want me.”
She looks away. “I'm sorry, but I can't.”
“Have you any idea how much this dinner cost?”
She frowns. “Then I'll pay for my share.” She goes to take out her purse.
“That's not how this works, you know? I pay for dinner.” I smile winningly.
She shakes her head, the precursor to capitulation, surely. The briefest of glorious images then: my cock sliding between her moist lips. She takes her phone from her bag and says, “I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable now. I should go. I'll get an Uber.”
“Bollocks. The night's barely started. I tell you what, I can get us into that new club round the corner, you know, The Next Bardot? It's really, really exclusive. For the ultra-elite. It might be your only chance.”
But Jane stands and says, “I'll take the risk. Thanks for a lovely dinner, Reynard. See you on Monday.”
And she's gone. The bill arrives, almost £700, for which I could have splashed out on a couple of middling street girls, both prettier than Jane, and both willing to do whatever I want, no arguments. None of this absurd dancing around each other, both knowing what the end goal is, but one overly concerned with doing the right thing. I leave a hefty tip and ask for the tiny waitress's name and phone number, but before she can give it to me, the maître d' is standing there instead, thanking me for my generosity, and looking forward to seeing me again soon.
Back in the flat, alone with Grey Goose and a handful of pregabalin. Jane's loss. She'll soon realise what a mistake she's made; in hindsight only does the criticality of single moments become apparent. Two paths to choose, and she chose the wrong one. Why? The naïveté of youth, certainly; the blinkers of what she thinks is love, perhaps. Now back in her stinky flat with little Jimmy, maybe watching a box set or something equally mundane, but meanwhile thinking of me. Perhaps already regretting her decision, but it's too late to go back. She's burned her bridges. And besides, she was never up to the standards set by the others, most of all Akemi.
Akemi's still the best. God, how I miss those still surprisingly long nipples, the arch of the back, the yielding softness between her legs. There's still something about her that gets me searching for the poetic, even though that's not really me.
More straightforward: I miss her tits and her cunt and her face. Factually correct, but something about that statement just doesn't quite ring true either, even if you ignore how crass it is. There's an attachment – see, I admitted it – and so with her going there's a sense of loss. An absence.
In one of my walk-in wardrobes there are still some of Akemi's clothes, shielded within dry cleaners' plastic covers. I take down a Dolce & Gabbana floral-print evening gown, slide it out of its cover, and bring it up to my face. Underneath the smell of silk charmeuse, Akemi's fragrance still lingers there. Immediately I've an insistent erection, the most convincing for days. I find a lace-trimmed satin playsuit (also D&G) which, after a little manoeuvring, fits surprisingly well (if a little tight around the crotch an
d shoulders) and a pair of knee-high patent leather boots, which are clearly way too small, but which I can jam on sufficiently to be able to totter out of the bedroom and towards the balcony. My cock's barely contained by the playsuit, so I pop it out to the left of the gusset, where it juts out inquisitively as if looking to escape.
Out on the balcony, a light drizzle falls. It's still early, barely 11.30 p.m., and London roars unseen around me. Across the square, there are lights on in the widow's place and in some of her neighbours'. Who knows who's watching? Certainly a large-enough audience to make this worth it. I put my hands together, spit, then take my cock in both hands, coax it towards its full majesty, and then with just my right hand, masturbate vigorously. Then, a series of white flashes surrounds me, like an electrical storm or divine appreciation, perhaps. Images: Akemi; the tiny waitress; Lucija; Jane's puckering anus; Kylie Minogue; Akemi. But the mind then strays unhelpfully: John Bobbit; David Bligh; Bella Emberg; the Reverend Anthony; the bankruptcy courts. My mother. Time and again I try to focus elsewhere: Akemi; Kylie Minogue; Lucija; a troop of Californian cheerleaders. But no dice. Unseen churches strike midnight, including, I'm sure of it, St Saviour's. The bells toll just for me. The mind unspools, unravels itself as my chaffed cock softens and retreats. Roger; Uncle Ish; my mother's funeral; an oncologist probing under my ribs.
It must be raining harder now; I reach up to my face, and it's soaking wet. A deep voice says, “Fucking weirdo. Lock him up,” and a woman laughs and then another laughs and then another. I'm on my knees as the electrical storm continues and God continues to send me pulsed messages of light through the darkness. I lose both boots as I crawl back to the living room, where the rug encloses me in its warmth and I'm taken away by sleep.
23
Woken in daylight by buzzing. Rug's wet and cold. Roll onto side to get up on all fours, put hand in something warm and sticky. Thick oozing shit; bright yellow flecked with red. Retch, then spit. Bile, blood. Fall back, close eyes. Things soon less bad.
Later, the buzzing wakes me again. I find my phone on the coffee table. A series of messages from the Reverend asks me where I am, and if I'm okay. I message him, apologise, and we agree to meet at three instead. Take a long shower on the most intense setting, but still I can't get rid of the smell of shit. I pack a Mulberry overnight bag; I'll stay in the Bacchus Club until the cleaners have been.
Twice now my body's let me down. I’m so used to it performing magnificently that I'm somewhat confused. Perhaps something's not agreeing with me. Perhaps adding tramadol to the mix has disrupted the equilibrium. Perhaps I just need time to get used to it. Must line up a doctor's appointment for when things have quietened down.
But for the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with.
By 2.30 p.m. the old Reynard's back, after the usual medication, bolstered by four Caffè Nero Espresso Con Panna and three triple chocolate cookies. Now the tremors have gone and clarity returns. The noise ceases. It's as if the periphery has been wiped out, and now there's only a narrow path down which I can see. There is light at the end of the tunnel. Is it St Saviour's?
There’s a sudden jagged pain in my right side, but nothing else happens. A couple more cocodamol and I'm ready.
In the Rev's office, the kettle boiling, chocolate digestives arranged on a chipped plate.
He asks, “Are you sure you're feeling better, Reynard? You look awfully pale. A bit yellow, in fact.”
“Top of the world, Tony. Never better. But busy, of course. No rest for the wicked!”
“Yes, so I hear. Make sure you take it easy, okay? You're not getting any younger.”
“Well, literally true, I suppose. Now, did you want to talk about something?”
He pours water into a teapot and places it on the table next to the milk and sugar. “Yes, well, it's a delicate matter, really. You mentioned something about skeletons the last time we met.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, I was just wondering what you were getting at.”
“What do you think I was getting at?”
He smiles. “I don't know, do I? Which is why I'm asking you.” He lifts the lid of the teapot, prods at the teabags with a spoon, then carefully closes the lid. He gestures to the plate between us. “Biccy?”
“Maybe later, thanks. By skeletons, I mean secrets. Things you really wouldn't want made public. Ring any bells?”
He raises his eyebrows, then lifts the lid of the teapot once again, gives it a prod, closes the lid. “Another minute or so, I reckon.”
I wait; there's no advantage to me breaking the silence. Eventually he says, “Is this about my personal life?”
“It could well be. Do you have some skeletons?”
“Don't most people?”
“Maybe, but most people aren't reverends, are they, Reverend?”
“True. Well, hit me with it, then Reynard. You know, this feels a lot like blackmail, whatever it is.”
“Who said anything about blackmail? Just reciprocity: you make sure my bid for St Saviour's wins, and I don't tell the world all about your sordid secret.”
He lifts the lid on the teapot, and, satisfied, he pours us both a mug. “After you,” he says, sliding the milk towards me. He takes a bite out of a biscuit, hurriedly chews, and swallows.
“My sordid secret? So what is it, Reynard?”
“You know what it is.” I take a mouthful of biscuit, but it's distinctly inferior to the Nero cookies.
“Enlighten me.”
“Well, your sexual proclivity is, well, hardly Christian, is it?”
“What 'proclivity,' as you put it?”
“Your proclivity for young men.”
He splutters on his tea, places his mug down hard on the table, and laughs hard. “My 'proclivity',” he mimes quotation marks with his index fingers, “is irrelevant, in the eyes of the Lord. Is that really it?”
“Isn't the Bible full of warnings against gay sex?”
“Nope. Misquotes or deliberate misinterpretations. I never thought I'd have to say this to you, Reynard, but you need to get with the times. It's been ten years since being gay was a bar to being a minister. I've no case to answer.”
“But how do you think your colleagues and your congregation would react to the news?”
He smiles and takes a sip of tea. “You're really not well, are you? I'm willing to pretend this conversation never happened, but I've one proviso: that you get some professional help.”
“Don't try to distract me. Aren't you concerned about this becoming public?”
“Not in the least.”
“So the Bishop knows, your congregation knows?”
“Yes. I don't broadcast it from the rooftops, but all the key people know, yes. Reynard, we've known each other for years, so I'm flabbergasted you're bringing this up now.”
“Oh, right.” He watches me as I finish the digestive and my tea. There's still one bullet left in the gun. Casually, I say, “How did you enjoy Aaron?”
He colours. “Aaron?”
“The Asian boy you molested last week.”
“How did you know about him?”
“I never reveal my sources.”
He shakes his head and winces. “A beautiful young man. Love at first sight. An angel sent from heaven – I could hardly believe my luck. Although obviously I don't advocate leaping straight into bed with anyone, he touched something deep inside me.”
“Yes, literally — I've seen the video.”
His puffy face is immediately drained of colour. In a feeble voice, “What video?”
“There's an hour-long video of your encounter with the angel. I'm sure the Bishop would be fascinated to see it.”
“You bastard.” He stands, so I stand too, ready to fend off any attack, but instead he says quietly, “But Reynard, again, this really doesn't matter. The Bishop knows I'm gay, and I'm sure the police would be very interested to hear about this gross invasion of privacy. Looks like you set up the whole thing i
n an attempt to blackmail me.”
“Au contraire, Rev. It's not just an attempt.” I smile my winningest smile.
“You arrogant bastard. I should've trusted my gut instinct – I knew deep down you were evil but thought you might contribute to the roof fund. But this isn't going to work. Leave now, and I never want to see you again, otherwise I'll go straight to the police.”
I take a step towards the door, as if to leave. “There's just one other thing, Rev.”
“What?”
“Have a guess how old Aaron is.”
“I don't know. Early twenties or so. Twenty-one, twenty-two?”
“Not quite. He's fifteen. Last time I checked that's under the age of consent, isn't it? Which means you raped him.”
He slumps in his chair with the clumsy, spastic movements of an old man. “I don't believe you. You're lying.”
I move towards the door. “It's true, and I can prove it. You'll be publicly branded a rapist and a paedophile. Have a think about that for a bit, and I'll be back in a few hours.”
“Wait! Please wait, Reynard!” he cries pathetically after me as my strides echo up and through the altar, past the Last Supper, into the thin air of the nave, and out through the heavy doors, back into the streets of London.
Back at the Club, there's that sense of well-being that follows a job well done. Mindful of last night's wobble, I decline Henry's offer of a V&T and order instead afternoon tea for two. A three-storey cake stand arrives, laden with sandwiches, scones, and cream cakes. A pot of Darjeeling is chased down with some tramadol, and all's well with the world.
In the Sunday papers there's little of interest. Reports of Europe-related jostling, and the rest seems to be devoted to the utterly inconsequential: losing weight; celebrity rehab; army wives; migrants; council tax.
A typically verbose email arrives from Roger, in which he summarises our current funding position and invites feedback. A reply from Lucija, suggesting we explore options for strategic collaboration with similarly positioned funds. Roger replies with Excellent idea. I reply to them both, insisting that we'll discuss tomorrow. I'm not keen for anyone else to stick their oar in; Gyges is my baby.
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