Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  Bob let his voice fade lamely away.

  George glowered and headed for the door, barefoot. Bob followed in silence.

  George ignored Justin, who was leaning against the reception desk watching proceedings with interest.

  ‘And goodnight and thank you to you too,’ said Justin.

  George still ignored him as he slammed the big double doors shut. Bob, right behind him, only narrowly avoided being smashed in the face. Bob wasn’t having a lot of luck with those doors.

  ‘Always remember, no good turn will remain unpunished,’ Bob muttered to himself.

  It was the middle of March, 2013, the coldest March in fifty years, and at 10 p.m. the temperature outside Shannon’s was already below freezing. As George stepped onto the pavement his bare feet did an involuntary dance. It felt as if he was walking on blocks of ice. He gritted his teeth and carried on.

  ‘Thank you, Bob, for stopping everything and helping me out,’ Bob said. ‘It was very kind of you, Bob. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a friend like you. I really can’t thank you . . .’

  George ignored Bob too.

  Two days later, on Saturday morning, George took receipt of a large parcel sent by post. It contained his stolen clothes, his phone, his shoes, his credit cards and his door keys. Nothing was missing. There was also a card bearing a picture of the distinctive Mr Tickle. Inside was a brief typed message.

  Thanks for the loan, it said. If you could return my suit at your earliest convenience the entire Tickle family would be most grateful. You can Google my address.

  George called Bob to tell him the news. And he read him the Mr Tickle message.

  ‘Just somebody’s idea of a joke, then,’ said Bob. ‘Anyway, I’m very happy you got your stuff back. Do I get a thank you, now, by the way?’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said George. ‘You get a bloody ginormous great thank you, mate. I sent you a note yesterday, actually. You not got it yet? A thank you and a sorry. I really am sorry I was so moody.’

  ‘Ummm,’ said Bob just a tad grudgingly. ‘I suppose that’s all right then.’

  ‘Oh, Bob, honestly, you should try sitting in the foyer of Shannon’s wearing fuck-all but a Mr Tickle suit. And with Justin on top effing form.’

  ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, old boy,’ said Bob.

  You’re a good judge,’ said George. ‘It’s weird though. You should see this parcel. Everything neatly folded and carefully packed. Do you want to come over and see it, Bob?’

  ‘Not really, George. No.’

  ‘Right . . .’ George paused. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea who pulled this stunt, do you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Bob.

  ‘Like you said, mate, someone who thought it was one hilarious joke,’ continued George. ‘Mind you, you seemed to find it pretty funny.’

  ‘George, anyone would have found that sight funny.’

  ‘Well, yes, I know, but—’

  ‘No buts, you stupid bastard. You’re not about to accuse me of having nicked your stuff and set you up, are you?’

  ‘No, no, it’s just . . . well, it must be one of our lot, mustn’t it. Surely?’

  ‘Why? The way you treat the women in your life, I’d say it was more likely to be one of your exes getting their own back.’

  ‘Yeah, but only you lot know I liked Mr Tickle when I was a kid. The Game, remember?’ George couldn’t remember which members of the group had been present when he told them about his mum reading him Mr Tickle at bedtime. They hadn’t played The Game the last two Sundays. The last time had been over three weeks ago, that night the entire group were together and it had ended up with Billy and Tiny getting into a domestic and Michelle storming off to the loo in tears. Hardly surprising then that nobody had suggested they play The Game again.

  Realizing Bob was still hanging on at the other end of the phone, he added: ‘I’m sure I’ve never told anyone else. And I wish I’d never let it slip at Sunday Club – Mr fucking Slap and Tickle indeed.’

  ‘Suits you though,’ said Bob, chuckling.

  ‘You sure it wasn’t you, mate?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Bob. ‘I have better things to do than spend my time winding you up.’

  He hung up.

  George hoped he hadn’t offended him too much. He was fond of Bob.

  Then he considered what he should do next. Probably he should do nothing. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was convinced all the friends would already know about the Mr Tickle incident. Bob wouldn’t have been able to resist spreading the news.

  Indeed, Michelle and Marlena had called the previous day to express concern and ask if there’d been anything they could do to help.

  But he’d felt that both of them had been stifling laughter, particularly Marlena.

  And when Michelle had asked him if he’d reported the theft to the police he’d assumed she was winding him up. But it turned out she’d been quite serious.

  ‘Insurance, George,’ she said. ‘You’ll need a crime number.’

  Good advice, obviously, which somehow he never did get around to taking. Now there was no need to. However, the thought occurred to him that Michelle, who was after all a police officer, might have taken matters into her own hands.

  He didn’t think she would have done, but all the same he decided to give her a call.

  She answered her mobile straight away.

  ‘George, are you OK?’

  He told her about his stuff being returned.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘All’s well that ends well, I suppose. So it was just a stupid prank then.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said George. ‘The stupid bit anyway. Who could be that stupid, I wonder?’

  You’re not accusing me, are you?’ asked Michelle, just as Bob had done earlier. ‘Is that why you’re calling me, you bugger?’

  ‘No,’ said George quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

  ‘I am a police officer, you know.’

  Yeah, that’s why I thought of you first,’ George fired back.

  ‘Oh ha bloody ha,’ said Michelle.

  Yeah. Yeah. But honestly, Michelle, I just said to Bob, I’m sure nobody outside of Sunday Club knows about Mr Tickle being my childhood favourite,’ George continued, serious again. ‘So it’s one of our lot having a laugh. Who else could it be?’

  ‘How do I know?’ queried Michelle. ‘Anyway, good job you can take a joke, isn’t it?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ said George, forcing himself to sound as relaxed as he could.

  ‘You can take a joke, George, can’t you?’

  ‘’Course I can,’ said George.

  ‘Right. Will we see you at Sunday Club tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Well, maybe. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Hope so,’ said Michelle.

  George did not turn up at Johnny’s Place the following evening. Neither did Alfonso, who had a Sunday shift at the Vine. Nor Ari, who was on a three-line whip for a family dinner.

  Among the seven who did attend there was only one topic of conversation. The prank, as they saw it, that had been played on George.

  Bob told his version of the story in full, even though he’d already called most of the group. Grateful to have the opportunity to be entertaining for once, he made sure he told the story well too. By the time he’d reached the point where a half-naked George was sitting in the foyer of Shannon’s wrapped in little more than a Mr Tickle suit everyone around the table was roaring with laughter. And Bob was thoroughly enjoying himself. He thought maybe he could be funny after all, provided he had a good enough tale to tell.

  Tiny laughed so much he looked as if he might burst. Michelle said even though she was a copper, and technically a crime had been committed, this was definitely the biggest laugh she’d had since her Phil had walked out on her.

  Marlena got the giggles and very nearly choked when a mouthful of braised lamb shank went down the wrong way. However, it was she, upon recovering some compo
sure, who eventually counselled caution.

  ‘I’m not sure George is taking it all that well,’ she said. ‘And I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that he hasn’t turned up today. I don’t like to think of him being upset.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Greg. ‘None of us do, I’m sure. It’s just . . . it would be George, wouldn’t it? We all know what he’s like – prissy bastard. And left with nothing to wear but a Mr Tickle suit? I mean, nobody could help finding that bloody funny, could they?’

  ‘Of course it’s funny, and I’ve laughed as much as anyone around this table,’ said Marlena. ‘But one has to be so careful with practical jokes. They don’t always seem like jokes to the victims . . .’

  ‘Bloody hell, Marlena,’ interjected Greg. ‘George is no victim. He’s George.’

  That brought another laugh.

  ‘But who is the comic genius who played this wondrous prank on the poor bastard?’ asked Billy. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  The group stopped laughing and began to look at each other. Each face registered only blank innocence.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Billy. ‘It has to be one of us, doesn’t it? Surely. George seems certain of it, anyway. One of us on a mega wind-up. Greg, I reckon it was you. There’s always a bit of edge between you and George. I reckon you thought you’d really land him in it and have a laugh at the same time.’

  Greg held up both hands, palms outwards. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘Like you were ever a bloody scout!’

  Greg shrugged. ‘And you were, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Mind you, come to think of it, would be a smorgasbord to you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Boys in shorts, lovely,’ said Billy.

  ‘In spite of that dubious assertion and whatever it does or doesn’t tell us about your character, I presume you’re maintaining your innocence in the matter in question?’ queried Marlena.

  ‘’Course I bloody am.’

  Billy looked around him enquiringly. ‘So is anyone owning up?’ he asked, without sounding as if he expected an affirmative answer.

  In turn everyone at the table denied responsibility.

  ‘It could be our absent friends,’ suggested Michelle.

  ‘Umm, Alfonso or Ari,’ mused Marlena. ‘I don’t think Ari has it in him, and I swear to God the Fonz fancies George gutless. Have you seen the way he looks at him?’

  Karen grinned. ‘Who says Fonz is gay? Not him! Come on, Marlena, your claws are showing.’

  She glanced towards her husband. ‘You sure it wasn’t you, Greg?’ she asked. ‘Right up your street I’d say.’

  ‘And that from his nearest and dearest,’ remarked Bob.

  ‘Boys and girls,’ said Greg. ‘If it were me, I’d shout it from the rafters. I’d be fucking pleased to bits with myself.’

  ‘He’s got a point. He’d be so full of himself, no way would he be able to keep shtum,’ said Bob.

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Billy.

  ‘I wish I’d thought of it,’ said Tiny.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘Come to think of it, any one of us would be proud to admit responsibility, wouldn’t we, sweetheart?’

  Tiny smiled his assent.

  Marlena glanced at Karen. Karen shrugged.

  ‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I reckon this is a boy thing.’

  ‘Oh yes, and boys will be boys,’ interjected Marlena, a note of ironic resignation in her voice.

  ‘Billy and Tiny are right, there’s no need to get serious. I mean, what happened to George is just funny,’ said Bob, clearly not wanting to lose his own story-telling momentum. ‘Big-time funny.’

  Marlena turned towards him.

  ‘Yes, Bob,’ she said. ‘But I somehow still don’t feel entirely at ease about it.’

  ‘Marlena’s right, you know,’ said Michelle. ‘When you stop to think, well, you’ve got to wonder what might be behind a prank like that . . .’

  Six pairs of eyes fixed on her.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of me,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s being in the job, I expect. Can’t help looking for hidden meaning and criminal intent all over the place.’

  ‘Criminal intent?’ echoed Greg. ‘For God’s sake, Michelle. George has got all his stuff back. This was a joke. Leaving a flash bastard like George nothing to wear except a Mr Tickle suit was, just like Billy says, an act of total comic genius. I mean, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michelle. ‘’Course it was. Like I said, take no notice of me.’

  four

  The following morning Bob made himself tea, and as usual, except in the very worst of weather, wandered out onto his terrace to admire the urban garden he had created. It might be tiny, but it was, he felt, a significant contribution to what he regarded as an oasis in the concrete jungle of central London.

  Bob lived in Bishops Court, a Westminster Council development tucked away between Charing Cross Road and St Martin’s Lane, just where Covent Garden borders Soho. It was a kind of low-level park complex, unusual for a city centre, comprising three storeys of apartments accessed from shrub-lined communal walkways, and designed so that almost all had at least a small patch of their own private outside space. The lucky tenants inhabited possibly the most valuable public housing in the country. It was a good place to live. Particularly for an urban gardener like Bob.

  Even at this time of year, there was colour on Bob’s terrace. Yellow winter jasmine and a couple of varieties of viburnum grew in the big planters around the perimeter fence and against the wall of his one-bedroomed home, multicoloured winter flowering pansies and assorted heathers filled terracotta pots. Tubs of daffodils were just coming into bud.

  His perennial and biennial summer bedding plants, mostly pelargoniums and begonias, wintered in a glass frame in one sheltered corner. This year, in spite of persistent rain and the bitterly cold early spring, there had been little snow and ice and temperatures had only rarely dropped below zero. Somewhat surprisingly, as the climate had felt so miserable, the weather had remained temperate enough for even them to provide some ragged cheer.

  Bob, carrying his favourite white china mug bearing in green the slogan ‘stop and smell the roses’, glanced up at the sky as he stepped onto the crazy paving he had laid himself many years previously. There was a break in the rain which had drenched the city over the last couple of weeks, and he was beginning to hope a fine spring might be on the way. Certainly this was a lovely morning. The sun shone with a still wintery brightness, and the sky was blue and clear, except for one fluffy white cloud just drifting past the Post Office Tower.

  Bob prepared to savour that moment of satisfaction as he appreciated the little garden entirely of his own creation.

  Unfortunately some of it was no longer there. The winter jasmine, and the other shrubs which climbed and were entangled with the fencing, the dormant vine, the tangled woody stems of the passion flower, the clematis and the honeysuckle remained, of course. But the majority of Bob’s garden grew in containers of varying sizes and shapes. Several had been removed. The small plastic pots of wintering pelargoniums that had been inside the glass frame were missing, as was the little fig tree which grew in a treasured blue ceramic pot that had been made by Bob’s son Daniel at pottery class.

  Bob closed his eyes quickly then opened them again. Unfortunately his pelargoniums and the fig tree were still missing.

  It was Tiny who found the note. Bob had been due to give Tiny and Billy’s terrace a clear-up that morning. Tiny had phoned Bob when he failed to arrive, and, upon hearing of his friend’s loss and realizing that Bob was more upset than he cared to let on, called round.

  The note, encased in transparent plastic, had been stuck into the planter containing the winter jasmine, fastened to a spike the way florists attach cards to bouquets of flowers. The planter had fallen over, making it easy to miss.

  ‘Many thanks, love Alan Titchmarsh,’ read Tiny aloud.
>
  He passed the note to Bob.

  ‘Well, that explains it then, doesn’t it,’ Tiny said.

  Bob stared at the note. His expression was one of total bewilderment.

  ‘What’s Alan Titchmarsh got to do with anything, for God’s sake?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a lot, I shouldn’t think,’ said Tiny. ‘Though he does get everywhere nowadays.’

  ‘What?’ Bob looked even more bewildered.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tiny. ‘Look, don’t you see?’

  Bob shook his head.

  ‘It’s the same joker who nicked George’s clothes at the gym and pulled the Mr Tickle stunt. It must be.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Sure I do,’ affirmed Tiny. ‘You both got spoof notes, didn’t you? Yours from Alan Titchmarsh and George’s from Mr Tickle. On form, your stuff will be returned to you, I reckon. Just don’t do anything if you hear a noise in the night.’

  Bob pulled a face.

  ‘Come to think of it, it’s pretty extraordinary that you didn’t hear anything last night,’ Tiny went on.

  He looked around the terrace.

  ‘I mean, whoever did this would have had to climb up here from the walkway at the front. The wall’s not very high, I know, but it’s not an easy thing to do, is it? There are the climbers to negotiate, for a start. Then they’d have had to pick up your plants, lower them down the other side of the wall and make off with them. Impossible to think that could be done without a bit of noise. Didn’t you hear anything at all?’

  ‘I’m deaf in one ear,’ said Bob. ‘And I always seem to sleep on my good side, so I hardly ever hear a thing in the night.’

  ‘Right. Who knows that? Amongst us lot, particularly.’

  ‘About my sleeping habits?’ said Bob. ‘None of you. Those days seem to be over for me.’

  ‘But what about the deaf ear?’ Tiny asked.

  ‘I thought you all knew,’ said Bob. ‘Don’t I always try to sit with my back to the wall at Johnny’s? And you must have heard me ask people to talk into my good ear?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Now you mention it, I suppose we do all know, though I didn’t think of it until you said.’