Murder Most Fab (23 page)

I took
down the details of each new booking with a weary heart. I even failed to turn
up for a couple that had sounded particularly unsavoury over the phone. Catherine
was furious when she found out. ‘That is not on!’ she shouted at me. ‘We need
cash.’

‘I
couldn’t face them, Catherine,’ I protested, trying to defend myself. ‘I’m
depressed.’

‘Oh,
well!’ she said indignantly. ‘I’ll call the fucking emergency services, shall
I? You’ll be depressed when you have to move back to Brownhill Road and eat
nothing but baked potatoes!’

I could
tell she was building up to a lecture. I reached for the kitchen cupboard and
our secret stash. ‘I need a line,’ I said.

Catherine
dropped her voice to a tone that was almost menacing. ‘I’m telling you
something, Johnny’ — she almost never called me that — ‘there’s no way I’m
going back to how we used to live. I haven’t spent the last few years on my
back for nothing. We’re going on, and that’s all there is to it. So you’ve got
to keep your end up — literally. Do you understand?’

I
nodded. I wasn’t really looking for a way out — in fact, I wasn’t looking for
anything right at that moment but a big, fat line of Charlie . It was the only
thing that took away the fear and fug that were consuming me. I felt as if I
was standing on a window-ledge high up on a city sky-scraper, teetering,
hanging on for dear life, resisting the temptation to fall asleep and then to
oblivion.

It was probably this
feeling, with a certain recklessness that had possessed me since Georgie’s death,
that led me to shed many of my regular customers, despite Catherine’s
admonitions. Sammy was gone, of course. And then I got rid of another, more
significant client.

It was
only a few days after Georgie’s funeral when I turned up for my regular session
with the silent Mr Brown at Claridges.

By now
our routine was set in stone. I arrived at room 510 at nine p.m. precisely on
the first Monday of every month. He opened the door, naked and unsmiling, then
handed me two hundred pounds. I undressed and got on all fours. He would spank
me with his hand, belt or shoe, explaining in a low but colourful growl what a
bad boy I was. He set the alarm for nine fifty to give him time to ‘finish up’.
This meant a royal fisting with one hand while he masturbated himself to a
furious climax with the other. I was then told, ‘Get out at once!’

I would
dress as quickly as I could and leave, uttering the obligatory ‘Remember me,’
once I was safely in the lift.

In all
this time, I had never so much as hinted that I knew he was not Mr Brown. I
wouldn’t have given him so much as a whisper of a clue that I was aware of his
true identity. I was willing to suffer for this ‘special’ customer because
being with him, I told myself, brought me closer to Tim, whom I missed more
than ever.

I don’t
know why I suddenly decided to provoke Mr Brown. Perhaps I was trying to take
out on him my anger with his son. Whatever it was, I couldn’t help myself.

As
usual, nothing was said when I arrived. I took the money, undressed and got
into my doggy position. Mr Brown had only administered three or four
preliminary slaps across each buttock when, as if from nowhere, I did a bad
Barbara Windsor impersonation: ‘Ooh, Mr Brown, whatever are you thinking of?
Supposing someone should see us?’

His
raised hand froze in mid-air and his eyes, fiery and familiar, glared at me. I
turned and pulled his head towards me, then kissed him hard. He tried to pull
away but I held him firm, swishing my tongue over his lips, which opened
momentarily. I moaned encouragingly but without sincerity.

He got
away, stumbling in his efforts to escape. He wiped his lips on the back of his
hand and spat three times. ‘You disgusting boy,’ he said. ‘Get out! And don’t
ever come back.’

I got
up and began to dress. ‘Thank you, kind sir. You don’t know what it means to
hear such words from a toff like yourself. A true gent, that’s what you are,
sir.’ I sat on the edge of the bed to tie my shoelaces. ‘I’ll fink of you
whenever I splatter me spunk on a gentleman’s noble brow, so I will, sir, I—’

He shut
me up with a vicious slap round the face. The force knocked me to the floor on
my hands and knees. His bare foot then pressed on the small of my back. I lay
there, stunned, and felt the electric sensation of a stinging face against a
nylon carpet. I heard it before I felt it, hot and wet, like blood. Mr Brown —
or Lord Thornchurch, father of my one true love — was urinating on me.

Then he
was gone.

If my inclination to
endure being pawed, poked and punished by all and sundry was fast evaporating,
then Bernard was next in line for the chop. He was as maddeningly needy as ever
calling me all the time and trying to arrange dates when we could meet. Georgie’s
last wish had been that I should give him a good run for his money, so I went
along with it for as long as I could, but it was getting a bit serious for my
liking. I wasn’t required simply to go to his flat any more, he liked to show
me off in fancy restaurants. Rather embarrassingly, he had taken to clutching
my hand at every available opportunity. I think this was partly to comfort
himself: he, like Sammy, had taken Georgie’s death very hard, and I had been
given the irksome part of chief listener and amateur counsellor.

‘The
silky, silly queen,’ he kept repeating, while sighing and shaking his head.
‘It’s such a cliché, and he’d have hated that! We all like a bit of
slap-and-tickle but the source and pedigree of the slapper-tickler are
obviously of paramount importance. You, for example, are a nice boy but so
adorably butch with it. Georgie always had to have the
real
thing.
Someone dragged up as a builder or a policeman didn’t do it for him. Oh, no.
He’d have to cruise the Underground staring at people’s feet until he saw a
convincing spattering of plaster dust or a nugget of Tarmac. Then he’d stalk
him, the
bona-fide
builder on his journey, until success or failure won
the day. I know he was punched on the District and Circle several times. I
thought he’d grown out of all that at his age, but evidently I was wrong.’

‘He got
bashed on the towpath as well,’ I added.

‘Did
he? Oh dear. He would have loved that. I do miss him.’ His voice would crack,
and his pale blue eyes would fill with tears and he’d drag a handkerchief
across his nose in way I particularly disliked.

Bernard
was irritating at the best of times, but Bernard the bereaved was worse. The
constant references to ‘poor Georgie’ were more tactless than he, of course,
could understand. It was hardly appropriate to keep changing the subject. My
nerves were bad and my patience was wearing thin, but I couldn’t seem to get
out of those meetings. Bernard was driving me crazy. For my own sanity
something had to be done. I tried to explain how I was feeling to Catherine.

‘He’s
just a harmless old boot, Cowboy,’ she said. ‘You cannot afford to lose a rich,
elderly boyfriend. He doesn’t pay in the conventional sense, but he bought you
a love bangle with diamonds for your birthday and that bloody well counts. If
you think your life’s tough, I’m off to star in a Bukake evening with the
Lowestoft rugby team. Very good for the complexion, I’m told, but my hair will
look like crème brûlée in a couple of hours. Now, go and earn an honest crust.
Get some money out of Basil Fawlty before we have to resort to shop-lifting
from Woolworths.’

I had learnt early on in
our relationship that I ignored Catherine at my peril. She didn’t give advice,
she issued orders. But I was feeling so deeply unhappy that I was determined,
for once, to do what I wanted. I had to finish with Bernard, and if Catherine
was going to be cross about it, that was her look-out. She didn’t really do
happy or unhappy: she just was.

That
night Bernard had invited me for dinner at a chic and discreet hotel called the
Fox in Parker Street, Holborn. ‘I’ve taken a room,’ he said, with a leer.
‘Well, it’s been ages since we were … together.’

We were
dining on the veranda and I had decided it was my solemn duty to dump Bernard
once and for all. I was about to begin what I knew would be a difficult
conversation when he reached across and squeezed my hand. ‘Look at the moon,
darling. Quite stunning.’

It was
full but partially covered by a solitary, lingering cloud stretched across its
face, like a cat asleep on a window-sill. He sighed, happily for a change. Now
was the time. ‘Bernard,’ I began, ‘I need to talk to you.’

He
turned to face me, alerted by my portentous tone, the serene expression slowly
fading from his face.

I had
given little thought to how best to proceed. It wasn’t going to be easy, I knew
that much. Bernard was blissfully happy and adored me . My words had to be
final and leave no room for negotiation. Maybe that way I could get it over and
done with as quickly and painlessly as possible. ‘It’s over, Bernard. I’m
sorry.’

‘Don’t
say that, JD.’ His lower lip trembled, as I’d feared it might. ‘You’re the only
thing that’s right about my life. Without you, I’d be devastated. Don’t do this
to me. Not after losing Georgie and …’ There was a pause. I looked at him and
his eyes turned cold. ‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ he said, softly but finally.

I held
Bernard’s gaze dispassionately as tears rolled down his cheeks. I could do
nothing but plough on, my only concession being to choose my words with a
little more compassion. ‘I’ll always care for you, Bernard,’ I said. ‘I’ve
really enjoyed our time together — but it’s over. I need some space.’ I placed
my napkin on the table and went to stand up.

‘No,
no, no!’ Bernard shouted, pushing me back into my seat. Then he covered his
face with his hands and proceeded to rock backwards and forwards like a
distressed child. Other diners turned to kook, then leant towards each other,
whispering animatedly. Bernard whimpered and sobbed louder still.

The
waiter came over and asked if there was a problem. ‘He’s had some bad news …’
I muttered, hoisting Bernard up by his armpits. ‘Come on, let’s get you up to
your room.

I put
an arm round his shoulders and led him, sobbing, out of the restaurant and
towards the lift. Halfway across the tiled foyer, he let out a scale of sobs
that culminated in a wolf-like howl of distress. A couple checking in jumped in
alarm and the receptionist rolled her eyes, no doubt assuming he was drunk.

‘There,
there. He’ll be fine in a moment!’ I reassured her, rolling my eyes too. We
understood each other — she nodded.

Upstairs,
in the suite Bernard had booked for our fun and games, he pulled himself
together somewhat. ‘Oh dear.’ He wiped his eyes with a tissue from the bedside.
‘I really am a worry, am I not?’ He tossed it into the bin with a flourish. ‘Now.
We’ll have no more of this silky talk about it being over.’

‘But,
Bernard—’ I tried, determined he wasn’t going to put me off my mission.

He
carried on regardless. ‘We’ve both had a very nasty shock and we’re not
behaving rationally. We must make allowances for our bereavement and not do or
say anything rash. I realize I haven’t been particularly good company lately.
I’ve been in mourning and that can’t have been very jolly for you. But we
belong together, you and I.’

He was
gathering pace and confidence with this speech and my shoulders were slumping
in surrender.

‘Besides,’
he said, clearly deciding the time was right to play his trump card, ‘I have
plans for you. You, Johnny Debonair, are going to be a huge …
television
star!’

I put on
my jacket and made for the door.

‘Hear
me out, my sweet. I’ve been working on this for some time.’ He leapt up from
the bed and blocked my exit, arms outstretched.

I
stopped. ‘Bernard, I’ve been hearing about this since the day we met. You’ve
been telling me endlessly about how I’m going to be a television presenter and
nothing’s come of it. Forgive me if I simply don’t believe you.’

‘No, JD,
listen. Please! I’m telling the truth. I’m the executive producer on a very
top-secret project. The final casting decision is mine. We’re looking for a
bright, attractive young presenter with a certain
je ne sais quoi.
You
are that person. I shall guide you, mould you, coach you. It’s a huge
opportunity and I’m utterly convinced of your suitability.’

I
stared at him suspiciously. He sounded genuine, even though I’d long since
decided that offering his young studs a job was Bernard’s stab at foreplay.
‘Bernard, you’ve said this before. How do I know that you’re serious?’ I asked,
exasperated. This was obviously his last desperate ploy to keep me where he
wanted me — in his bedroom for the night.

‘I’ve
never been more serious. I can spot star quality, you know. I discovered Lilly Goulden.
She was working in my local Oddbins when I walked in for a bottle of Harvey’s
Bristol Cream and came out with the cream of British light entertainment for
the next two years. I knew at once that the public would take her to their
hearts. But you — you have far more potential, JD. You have charm, wit,
personality and, above all, sex appeal by the bucketload.’