I stayed there, hoping for another splash to cool me down, but it didn’t come. Eventually I pulled myself away and sat on a bench under a plane tree. It was the last Sunday in February and the branches were bare, but it seemed darker and more secluded there under the tree’s spreading arms. I felt in some way shielded, protected.
It wasn’t a cold night. If anything, it was quite warm, one of those spells of good weather in what had been a bitter winter. I’d hoped the air would be cold enough to cool my burning skin. But it would have to have been well below zero to do that.
I sat there for ages, trying to get things straight in my head, to make some sense of the thoughts racing round my brain.
There could be no doubt, could there? Had I misunderstood? Was it possible that this was sheer coincidence, totally unconnected to anything in my past? Was I trying to make a connection where none existed?
I don’t know how long I sat there, going over those words again and again. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that, far from misunderstanding, I had finally understood.
And now that I understood, I had no choice but to act.
My skin seemed to be getting hotter until I felt as if I was on fire.
In spite of everything, against all the odds, I’d made a life for myself. Nobody knew what I was. Nor what I might have been. Even I didn’t know that. All I knew was that I had been turned into a creature like no other. Like some kind of alien that passes for human. As if there was another being inhabiting my body, controlling my impulses.
Whenever I’d watch sci-fi programmes or films like Close Encounters, I’d see those humans whose souls had been invaded and think of them as kindred spirits. For almost as long as I can remember, I’ve been wrestling with that alien being within – the creature that made its home inside me, uninvited and beyond my control.
There had been times when it all got too much and I gave up the fight, let that dark side lead me where it chose. I ought to regret those times, but I can’t. It was inevitable, given the unbearable pressure, the strain of trying to contain it.
That pressure was building within me again, with every moment that I sat there under the tree. And inevitably it would be released, just as it had been in the past. Soon. I knew that. I’d known it in the restaurant, the words of the others washing over me. Somehow I’d kept up a pretence of joining in despite the voice screaming inside my head. But then, I was used to pretending, keeping up appearances.
Calm now, my skin once again cool to the touch, I got up from the bench. My mind was clear, all doubt removed. From this moment on I would be following the path of my destiny, although my route would not be as others might expect. It would be designed to create the maximum confusion before I allowed my true purpose to become apparent. But there would be no turning back. Not until it was settled. All of it. My misery avenged and my honour restored. Finally.
three
The changing rooms at Shannon’s Health and Fitness Club in Covent Garden are situated at one end of the building and the swimming pool at the other. This means swimmers have to walk right past the gym along a glass-walled corridor.
George, being a bit of a show-off, rather liked that. Conscious of having caught the attention of a girl pumping hard on an exercise bike beyond the glass wall, he allowed himself a sideways peek. She had small breasts and thick legs and was not nearly pretty enough to interest him.
All the same he pulled his shoulders back and sucked in his stomach muscles as he walked. George could never resist posing. He knew he had a good body, its muscle definition emphasized by the perma-tan he maintained with regular visits to a tanning shop.
He was returning to the changing rooms having swum his regular mile up and down Shannon’s lap pool. It was much cooler in the corridor than in the pool area and he had to tense his muscles in order not to shiver. Water droplets stood up on his shoulders and upper back, but he never bothered to dry off until he reached his locker. Unlike most swimmers he did not even carry a towel or a robe. He told himself that was because he preferred his towel to stay warm and dry while he shed most of the excess water during the short walk.
He also had just about enough self-awareness to recognize what an exhibitionist he was. Why bother working out if you couldn’t enjoy showing yourself off in skimpy scarlet Speedos?
Fleetingly he looked down at the satisfactory bulge in the front of his Speedos and nearly bumped into two fully dressed men who were walking towards him, probably on their way to the exit. They turned out to be a gay couple George knew vaguely, and after calling his apologies as he carried on along the corridor he couldn’t help glancing back. The two of them were both still looking at him, as he had known they would be. George flashed them what he considered to be his most enigmatic smile.
George frequently attracted the attention of men as well as women. He wasn’t gay, but sometimes indulged in playing up to those who were, just as he rewarded the attentions of unattractive women by appearing to flirt with them. It was the least he could do if someone was treating his body with the respect and admiration he felt it deserved.
He brushed a few strands of wet black hair from his forehead, feeling invigorated, as he always did after his regular Thursday workout and swim. By the time he reached the changing room, on what had so far been a thoroughly unremarkable visit to the health centre, there was only one other regular present: an older man with a belly the gym seemed unable to diminish. George knew the guy by sight but had never deigned to acknowledge him. Instead he busied himself removing the safety pin and key which he’d attached to his Speedos and then unlocked the door to his locker. He reached inside for his towel.
There was no towel. George peered into the locker.
‘What the fuck’s happened to my stuff?’ he muttered.
The older man, perched on a bench in the far corner, broke off from lacing up his shoes and shot George a curious look.
‘I definitely put a towel in there and now it’s gone,’ said George.
He leaned forward and began to rummage with both hands. There was something at the back of the locker, but his clothes were missing. And his wallet, his door keys and his mobile phone.
‘Oh fuck, all my stuff’s gone!’ George continued, still rummaging.
He could see a bundle of brightly coloured cloth that had been crammed into a corner of the locker.
George pulled it out, shook it, and held it up before him. It was a garment of some sort. It took the form of two large orange discs held together with black ribbon, and had matching elongated orange arms.
It was a Mr Tickle suit. George recognized it at once.
By now he had the full attention of the other occupant of the changing room, whose mouth had dropped open. George glowered at him.
The orange disc that formed the front of the Mr Tickle suit bore the image of a face sketched in black. The face smiled gleefully at George.
George did not smile back.
The man with the belly didn’t stick around to offer George any assistance. He might have done so, and indeed at one point looked as if he were about to, but the openly hostile looks from the man with the Mr Tickle suit made him think better of it.
George hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d been hostile to the man simply because he was there.
After the man left, scurrying through the door without a backward glance, George held the ridiculous costume up in front of him. It would surely be far too small for him to wear even if he was daft enough to try to do so.
George shivered. He was beginning to feel very cold. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He supposed he should make his way to reception. But even he was not enough of an exhibitionist to be comfortable in the reception area, which had windows onto Endel Street, wearing only his skimpy Speedos. He desperately needed something with which to cover himself. He looked around the changing room. Sometimes towels were left lying about. Tonight there were no towels.
And as it was so late in the evening no further
gym members had entered the changing room, nor were likely to do so, which George in any case considered to be a mixed blessing.
There was nothing else for it. He wrapped the Mr Tickle suit around his body and set off.
The trouble with Shannon’s was that there were mirrors everywhere. Usually this did not bother George. Indeed, he rather liked it. This particular evening was very different.
Even before he left the changing room George had seen his reflection and was well aware of how ridiculous he looked. Not that he needed a mirror to be sure of that.
He ran up the stairs to reception and hovered at the door. Justin, who more or less ran the place most evenings, sensed his presence and turned round to face him.
Justin’s long, lean slightly hangdog face expressed first surprise and then disbelief. Finally he started to laugh. George had never seen Justin laugh before. Indeed, Justin gave little indication of having a sense of humour at all. He wasn’t the type. Or at least he hadn’t seemed to be the type. Now it turned out he was a bit of a star in the laughing department. And the misfortune of another human being proved quite irresistible.
Great howls of laughter came from Justin. Tears of mirth rolled down his normally pallid cheeks which turned distinctly pink. His body, long and lean like his face, bent involuntarily forward until it formed a right angle with his legs. And all the time Justin stared at George.
George stared back.
Justin kept on laughing.
‘That’s enough, Justin,’ said George eventually.
Justin ignored him and carried on laughing.
‘You’re hysterical,’ said George.
Justin ignored him.
‘Stop!’ yelled George at the top of his voice.
Justin, it seemed, was on the receiving end of his second surprise of the evening. He’d been shouted at. He stopped.
‘Right,’ said George. ‘You can presumably guess what’s bloody happened. Some bastard’s nicked my clothes, my phone, my wallet, even my bloody towel. I need to use a phone, and I need something to wear. Have you got any dressing gowns anywhere?’
Justin shook his head. ‘We only do towels,’ he said.
George glared at him. A few months previously in a bid to cut costs Shannon’s had stopped supplying complimentary towels, thus encouraging members to bring their own. And those that could still be acquired for a pound a go were little more than hand towels, in George’s opinion.
‘Well, get me two or three of them, then,’ said George.
Justin hesitated.
‘Now, Justin!’ commanded George.
Justin passed George two towels. George threw the Mr Tickle suit to the ground, wrapped one of the towels around his shoulders and the other around his waist, thanking God he was just slim enough to be able to do so.
Clearly, he needed help. His first thought had been to call Greg, who had a van and moved around central London with both speed and apparent ease. But Greg had no way of getting into George’s flat. Bob, on the other hand, hopefully still had the door key from when he’d looked after George’s collection of potted orchids while he was away in panto over Christmas. Without asking Justin’s permission, George used the club phone to call Bob, thankful that he could remember his phone number. To his relief, Bob answered straight away. George explained briefly that his clothes and valuables had been stolen from Shannon’s changing rooms.
He didn’t mention the Mr Tickle suit. And after Bob had murmured the appropriate commiserations he cut to the chase.
‘Look, you do still have my door key, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Bob had obviously guessed what was coming next and did not sound very enthusiastic.
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes,’ said Bob.
‘Well, look, could you nip round to mine and pick up some clothes for me?’ George continued doggedly.
‘What about that girlfriend of yours – Carla. Couldn’t she do it? I’m having my supper.’
‘I don’t ever let the women in my life have a key to my place. It gives the wrong impression.’
‘Oh, George, you’re impossible.’
‘Please, Bob.’ George put a long drawn-out emphasis on the word ‘please’. ‘I’m begging you, mate.’
‘I’ll have to find the key first,’ muttered Bob. ‘It must be here somewhere . . .’
‘I bloody well hope so,’ said George.
‘Hold on,’ said Bob.
George held on. He could hear footsteps and rummaging sounds. After what seemed like ages, Bob came back on the line.
‘Got it,’ he said.
‘Thank you, God,’ said George.
‘All right,’ said Bob, positively enough, though George was pretty sure he heard him sigh. ‘Soon as I’ve finished eating I’ll head for your place. I should be with you in forty-five minutes or so, maybe less.’
George fervently hoped it would be significantly less but didn’t think it wise to say so.
Instead he just thanked Bob, adding: ‘You’ll bring your key with you, won’t you? My keys have gone, along with everything else. I’ll need yours to get into my own home.’
‘What do you think I would do with it? Throw it away?’
Bob ended the call before George could think of a suitable response.
While he waited, George sat down on one of the benches at the back of the reception area. Justin made a big fuss of clearing up the place. He picked up the Mr Tickle suit from the floor and spread it carefully over George’s bare knees. The scanty Shannon’s towel around George’s waist didn’t reach nearly that far.
‘Don’t want you to catch cold, do we?’ Justin remarked.
George wasn’t sure if Justin was being solicitous or sarcastic, but he didn’t have the strength to respond. In any case the Mr Tickle suit was actually quite warm over his legs, and he was still shivering.
He fixed his eyes on the big round clock that dominated the wall above the reception desk, willing its hands to move faster. The last stragglers filing out of the gym could not fail to notice George and his Mr Tickle suit. Every single one gave him a long hard look. There was usually silence as they passed but audible tittering by the time they reached the double doors leading onto the street.
Justin began to huff and puff, reminding George almost by the minute just how long he was staying beyond his time.
George in turn reminded Justin frostily that he had been burgled from a Shannon’s locker, and Justin had better watch himself as George would certainly be questioning the club’s security and quite possibly filing a claim.
‘In any case, what exactly do you expect me to do?’ asked George. ‘Trot off down Endel Street wearing a Mr Tickle suit?’
‘Oh no,’ said Justin. ‘I wouldn’t want you to look ridiculous, George.’
George watched him mince his way back to the counter. He thought Justin might be the only gay man he’d ever met who really did mince, and that the term had probably been invented for him. Whatever happened to a bit of respect for the customer, George wondered.
It was, however, well known that Justin didn’t do respect. On a good day his offhand manner could be amusing. Right then George would have liked to throttle him, but his fingers were numb with the cold.
So instead he sat still and waited.
Bob arrived precisely forty-three minutes later. George knew that because he’d been virtually counting the seconds. It had been a very long forty-three minutes.
With great relief he watched Bob, holding a Tesco carrier bag, burst through the double doors. Literally. Bob caught a toe in the door jamb, dropped the bag and went flying, only just recovering his balance enough to prevent himself falling full length onto the tiled floor.
‘Shit,’ said Bob. Then his eyes focused on George.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘What is that you have wrapped round you?’
‘What does it fucking look like?’ asked George.
‘It looks like a Mr Tickle suit to me. My Da
n used to love those Roger Hargreaves books,’ said Bob. ‘Oh my God, you’re wearing a Mr Tickle suit!’
‘Not exactly wearing,’ said George.
‘Near enough,’ responded Bob, starting to laugh.
George glowered at him. ‘I hope those are my clothes in the bag you’ve thrown on the floor – and if so, do you think I could have them?’ he said. ‘Now!’
He realized he was snapping and had raised his voice. He couldn’t help himself.
‘So that’s the thanks a good friend gets for bailing you out, is it?’ enquired Bob. But he didn’t look offended. By then he was laughing so much he could hardly get the words out. Pretty much like Justin.
‘This is not fucking funny,’ snarled George.
‘Oh yes it fucking is,’ responded Bob.
Bob kicked the carrier bag across to George, who grabbed it, removed the jeans and sweater Bob had brought, and hastily pulled them on over his still-damp Speedos. There was also a leather jacket. He slipped that on too, grateful for its heavy warmth.
Then he turned his attention back to the laughing Bob.
‘I did tell you that my phone and my wallet including all my credit cards are also missing, didn’t I?’ enquired George frostily. ‘Oh, and my door key. I shall have to spend the rest of this evening cancelling my cards and getting a locksmith in. I’m so glad you find that funny.’
Bob made a big effort to pull himself together.
‘Of course I don’t, George,’ he said. ‘It’s just, seeing you – you of all people, you vain bastard – wrapped up in a Mr Tickle suit . . . well, nobody could help having a bit of a laugh, could they?’
He stifled a final giggle.
George glared at him and returned his attention to the carrier bag. He looked up at Bob.
‘Tell me you brought a pair of shoes?’ he enquired.
‘Eh?’ responded Bob. ‘What?’
‘Shoes, Bob. Obviously you brought me a pair of shoes, didn’t you?’
‘Uh, no, I’m not sure that I did, actually. I sort of didn’t think of it . . .’
Friends to Die For Page 4