Friends to Die For (6 page)

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 Dan 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 . . .’

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 composure, 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.’