Murder Most Fab (15 page)

Since
he had dumped me so cruelly in the summerhouse nearly three years before, I had
progressed from the hurting and the longing to acceptance of our separation. I
put him out my mind as much as I could, although I sometimes wondered what he
was doing. His time at Cambridge would almost be over — perhaps he would make
his way to London to take up some respectable career suitable for the heir of Thornchurch
House. Sometimes I imagined meeting him by chance, in a tube carriage, a café
or shop, but he had lived for so long in my imagination now that seeing him in
the flesh would have scared me.

Instead,
I kept the memory of Tim hidden, taking it out to treasure when I was alone. I
trained myself to feel a cold indifference to any emotional stirrings when I met
new people. I had confidence now, born of my skill as a prostitute, and found
it easy to meet men who desired me for myself and didn’t expect to pay for it.
When I wasn’t fucking professionally, I went to bars and clubs, then home with
men who were eager to attempt more than a one-night stand, but I always got
rid of them pretty swiftly. And even if, despite myself, I was attracted to
someone, the sensation evaporated if he referred to his feelings. A bit of
rapture, an occasional heartfelt compliment or plain old-fashioned expressions
of lust were acceptable, but if there was a whiff of neediness or a hint of a
meaningful stare it was curtains, I’m sorry to say.

As for
declarations of love — they were most unwelcome. Any revelations of this nature
caused a tickle at the back of my throat that was part suppressed laughter and
part nausea. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I didn’t want to know.
Love had caused me enough pain, thank you very much. Not only that, my love for
Tim still had me in its grip and there was nothing left for anyone else.

I came
to prefer my encounters with my clients. They paid for my time, so I was
prepared to indulge any fantasy — even a romantic one. If they wanted to talk
about love, that was fine by me because it was only an act. My body was their
plaything and I would absorb their emotions with brilliantly disguised
indifference.

But I
had one little habit that had started during my very first encounter with
Assam. My last words to every customer were always ‘Remember me.’ The punter
never heard them — often they were asleep. I muttered them quietly under my
breath as a parting gift.

‘Remember
me,’ I would say, as I left another businessman snoring on his hotel bed, his
great naked body supine on the duvet.

‘Remember
me,’ I entreated the whimpering little man I had flogged to three different
sorts of orgasm.

‘Remember
me,’ I whispered, as I broke free of the loving married man who wanted to leave
his wife and family for me.

If they
remembered me, perhaps Tim did too. Maybe somewhere he was thinking of how
great and indestructible our love had seemed. Did he ever recall our embraces,
our love, and that it had felt like the most perfect, pure thing in the world?

‘Where are you off to this
afternoon, Cowboy?’ asked Catherine.

‘I’ve
taken the day off. Got to recharge the batteries. I’ve been fucked fifty ways
in the last two days and, boy, do I need to recover. My fanny’s like cake mix.
Fancy a face pack and some cranberry juice?’

‘I
can’t, I’m afraid. It’s my Barnes afternoon. I won’t be late back, though.’

‘Oh,
yes. Your dear old queen.’

‘Sammy.’

‘Can’t
let him down. He might be dead soon. Cornering the market in senior citizens,
aren’t you?’

‘The
market is there to be cornered. Sammy’s one of my favourites. One of my best.
And he’s promised me a little surprise today.’

‘Maybe
he’s going to shit himself.’

‘Sammy’s
not the sort. He’s a gentleman. And very educated. He taught me what talaria
are. Do you know what talaria are?’

‘I
can’t imagine.’

‘Talaria,
I’ll have you know, are the little wings you see on the feet or ankles of the
fleet-footed messenger god Mercury. And sometimes Perseus and Minerva.’

‘Thank
you, Stephen fucking Fry,’ said Catherine.

In the early days, when I
advertised in the trashy gay magazines, I was hired by all sorts. It was a
tricky business: time-wasters, telephone-wankers and false-address-givers were
commonplace. I learnt quickly to value my regulars.

Older
queens soon became my preferred clientele. They had used such services before
and appreciated my superior ministrations, the pride I took in my work and the
seemingly genuine satisfaction I displayed. I didn’t sigh or even appear to
notice if they couldn’t achieve an orgasm, and I greeted premature ejaculation
with celebration.

Sammy was
one such client. He phoned me one day and I liked his voice at once: he sounded
gentle, well-spoken and polite. ‘Might I possibly bother you to visit me at
home?’ he asked, after the preliminaries were over, lowering his voice as if
someone might overhear such an improper suggestion.

‘I’d be
glad to. Where do you live?’

‘Eighteen
Castlenau Gardens, Barnes.’

‘Lovely,’
I said, writing it down. ‘Any preferences? Shall I bring anything special with
me?’

‘Oh,
no, no, no. I’m very easily pleased. All straightforward and no nonsense. Just
bring yourself. Tomorrow afternoon might be convenient?’

‘I’ll
see you about three, Sammy.’

The
following day, a dreary Friday in February, I rang the doorbell of a red-brick
mansion block, with a faded 1930s glamour, and Sammy buzzed me in, then opened
the door to his ground-floor flat. He was a tall man who stooped, as so many
tall men do, and I put him in his late sixties. He had kindly eyes and a full
head of silvery hair.

‘It’s
very good of you to come,’ he said, with a shy smile.

I
followed him down the corridor, registering his pressed corduroy trousers and
the welcome fact that he seemed sober, not psychotic. He led me into a clean
but cluttered kitchen-diner and asked if I’d like a drink.

‘Just
some tap water; please,’ I answered.

‘I
guess you’ve done this sort of thing before?’ he enquired, then sneezed nine
times in rapid succession.

‘Are
you all right?’ I asked.

‘Excuse
me,’ he said, then immediately sneezed another seven times. ‘You’re not wearing
Angel, are you? It has a very unfortunate effect on me.’

‘Yes. I
am. Terribly sorry.’

‘I’m
the same with strawberries. You’d better have a shower while I clear my
passages.’

Somehow
this unexpected drama relaxed us.

‘That’s
better,’ said Sammy, when I walked naked out of the shower, rubbing my hair
with a faded peach towel.

‘I
suppose it’s one way of getting my clothes off,’ I said, presenting myself to
my clearly appreciative client.

‘Most
acceptable,’ he said, in a deep, syrupy voice. ‘Now come and lie down.’

The
next hour went by perfectly pleasantly. His sexual demands were very
straightforward, his kind eyes clouded only momentarily with lust. I gave of my
heart and soul, as always, and the job was done in twenty minutes. After that,
we sat chatting easily over cups of tea in his sitting room until my time was
up. Sammy counted out my money in twenty-pound notes, adding two extra ‘for
your trouble’.

As he
showed me out, he enquired, ‘Would you be available again next week? Same
time?’

‘Absolutely,’
I said. A repeat booking was always a compliment. I had warmed already to this
polite, generous old man and felt that the weekly hour would be an oasis of
calm in my otherwise frenetic diary.

I was
right. Sammy was the ideal client. He was intelligent enough to know that our relationship
was fuelled only by the financial transaction, which allowed him to enjoy his
time with me without fear of rejection. We understood each other, the deal was
mutually agreeable, and neither of us had any complaints.

‘Everyone
should have a JD in their life,’ he mused one afternoon, a few months into our
arrangement. ‘You fulfil all of my needs, and I adore you.’

I
learnt that Sammy was a retired English literature teacher and that, while
modest and unassuming, he was proud of his silver thatch. ‘Quite a feature, my barnet,
in the sixties. I had long hair before the Beatles.’ He seemed to be at one
with his life, enjoying a comfortable retirement, busy with bowls, bridge and
an active social life. But occasionally he felt the need of youthful company
and sexual release. Booking me was the way he got it, and it seemed perfectly
sensible, as far as I was concerned. I looked forward to my Friday afternoons.

‘You’re fond of that old
man, aren’t you?’ said Catherine, as I got ready for my trip to Barnes.

‘Sammy’s
as sweet as apple pie.’

‘Bit of
a father figure for you, perhaps?’

‘There’s
no need for that kind of talk. Ours isn’t a father—son relationship. More like
a dear old uncle with fuck privileges.’

‘Just
don’t waste too much time on him, that’s all. I’ve spent all the time I ever
want to waiting on the elderly. Most of them are as tight as a choirboy’s arse.
Now get going or you’ll be late.’ Catherine shooed me away, obviously keen to
have the fiat to herself.

When I
arrived in Barnes, Sammy let me in as usual but instead of letting me lead him
to the bedroom straight away, as he normally did, he sat down in the sitting
room and gestured to me to do the same.

Was he
calling a halt to our arrangement? I wondered, surprised. Or was he about to
attempt something unconventional on the hearth-rug?

‘Now, JD,
do you remember what I said the other week —about how everyone should have a JD
in their lives?’ he began.

‘Yes,’
I said warily.

‘Well
this week, out of the kindness of my heart, I’d like you to visit my dearest
friend, my neighbour, Georgie. Would you mind awfully?’

‘I
suppose not.’

‘He’s
my oldest and best friend. He lives next door and we call each other sisters. A
visit from you would do him the world of good. I’ve been worried about him
lately. We’ve both been struggling with the ageing process, you know, but I
fear it’s been worse for Georgie. We were cruising companions when we were
younger, and we know absolutely everything there is to know about each other.
We were lovers very briefly when we first met —for about five minutes — and
then became friends, helping and supporting each other through the trials and
pains of love and life.’

‘I
could do with a friend like that,’ I said, rather envious.

‘Oh,
yes, Georgie’s the tops, he really is. But we’re beginning to realize that the
excitement is pretty much over for us. The thing is, though, we still have that
gnawing itch for sexual happenings —it’s just that the gay scene doesn’t seem
to want us any more. We’re too old, washed up, finished. No, no, we are, JD.’
Sammy put up a hand to silence me as I tried to protest. ‘Imagine — we were
once spoilt for choice, the toast of the underground gay world, and now …
Well, we’ve been put out to pasture. At first we tried to outstay our welcome,
lingering in the pubs and clubs, but eventually the snubs became too difficult
to bear. We turned to videos, but there’s only so much excitement you can get
from those.

‘In my
opinion, sex is an area of life that has to be dealt with as any other, if a
man is to stay healthy and sane. That was when I made the decision to hire boys
like you, JD, just as I might a housekeeper or an accountant. And it was the
best I ever took! ‘‘Thank you, Sammy, I’m glad I’ve been worthwhile.’

‘You’re
most welcome. And that’s why I’d like to ask you if you’d be terribly kind and
consider offering your services tonight to dear Georgie instead of me. He’s a
bit livelier than I am, if you know what I mean, but he’s a darling.’

‘I’d be
happy to,’ I said, rather moved by the account of the friendship between the
old men. ‘Where does he live?’