The Liar (25 page)

About two months later he was picked up by an actor.

‘I know you,’ Adrian said, as they sat back in the taxi.

The actor took off his sunglasses.

‘Christ!’ Adrian giggled. ‘You’re –’

‘Just call me Guy,’ said the actor. ‘It’s my real name.’

A famous trick! Adrian thought to himself. I’ve turned a famous trick!

He stayed the night, something he had been warned against. Guy had woken him up with smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and a kiss.

‘I couldn’t believe you were trade, honey,’ he said. ‘I saw you walk from Playland to the Dilly and I couldn’t fucking
believe
it.’

‘Oh well,’ said Adrian modestly, ‘I haven’t been at it long.’

‘And Hugo, too! My favourite name. It’s always been my favourite name.’

‘One does one’s best.’

‘Will you stay with me, Hugo baby?’

The invitation couldn’t have come at a better time for Adrian. Three days before he had caught sight of himself in the mirror of the Regent Palace Hotel cloakroom and been shocked to see the face of a whore looking back at him.

He didn’t know how or why he had changed, but he had. Only the tiniest amount of bumfluff grew on his chin and when he shaved it off he was still as smooth as a ten-year-old. His hair was shorter, but not coiffured or poncey. His jeans were tight, but no tighter than any student’s. Yet the face had screamed ‘Rent’.

He smiled engagingly at the mirror. A cheap invitation leered back.

He raised his eyebrows and tried a lost, innocent look.

Fifteen quid for a blow-job. Nothing up the arse, his reflection replied.

A couple of weeks out of the Dilly would give him a chance to bring back some of the peaches and cream.

Guy lived in a small house in Chelsea and was about to start shooting a film at Shepperton Studios. He had been cruising Piccadilly for a last treat before throwing himself into five weeks of rising at six and working till eight.

‘But now I’ve got a friend to come home to. It’s wonderful, honey, wonderful!’

Adrian thought that to have someone to answer the telephone, do the shopping and keep the place tidy for him was indeed wonderful.

‘I had an Irish cleaner once, but the bitch threatened to go to the press, so I don’t trust anyone to come in now. I trust you, though, cutie-pie.’

The public school accent. If only they knew.

‘I may be right, I may be wrong,’ he sang to himself in the shower, ‘But I’m perfectly willing to swear, That when you turned and smiled at me, A prostitute wept in Soho Square.’

So Adrian stayed and learnt how to cook and shop and be charming at dinner parties. Guy’s friends were mostly producers and writers and actors, only a few of them gay. Adrian was the only one who called him Guy, which added a special and publicly endearing touch to the friendship. Guy was thirty-five and had been married at the age of nineteen. The child from this marriage lived with the ex-wife, an actress who had taken Guy’s announcement of homosexuality very badly, instantly remarrying and denying Guy any access to his son.

‘He must be about your age now, couple of years younger perhaps. I bet he’s a screaming madam. It would serve the bitch right.’

One evening Guy’s agent, Michael Morahan, and his wife Angela came to dinner. They arrived before Guy had returned from Shepperton so Adrian did his best to entertain them in the kitchen where he was chopping peppers.

‘We’ve heard a lot about you,’ said Angela, dropping her ocelot stole onto the kitchen table.

‘Golden opinions, I trust?’

‘Oh yes, you’ve done Tony nothing but good.’

Michael Morahan opened a bottle of wine.

‘That’s a seventy-four,’ said Adrian. ‘It’ll need to be decanted or at least breathe for an hour. There’s a Sancerre in the fridge if you’d rather.’

‘Thank you, this will be fine,’ was the blunt reply. ‘I understand from Tony that you’re an O.H.?’

Adrian had already noticed the Old Harrovian tie around Morahan’s neck and had his answer prepared.

‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘that’s a rumour that I sort of allowed to get around. Security,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I may as well tell you that Hugo Bullock isn’t my real name either.’

Morahan stared unpleasantly.

‘So. A mystery man from nowhere. Does Tony know that?’

‘Oh dear, do you think he should?’

‘I’m sure not,’ said Angela. ‘Anyone can tell you’re trustworthy.’

They went through to the sitting room, Adrian wiping his hands on a blue-and-white-striped butcher’s apron he liked to wear when cooking.

‘I have to look after him, you see,’ said Morahan. ‘Under age and anonymous is worrying.’

‘I’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.’

‘You’ll still be under age by three years. A man’s career can be ruined. It nearly happened last year.’

‘It wouldn’t exactly do
my
career any good either, would it? So we’re in a position of mutual trust, I’d’ve thought.’

‘What do you have to lose exactly?’

‘The bubble, reputation.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Angela intervened.

‘It’s just that we have to be sure … I’m sure you understand, Hugo darling … we have to be sure that you’re not going to … to
hurt
Tony.’

‘But why on earth should I?’

‘Oh come on, man!’ Morahan snorted. ‘You know what we’re saying.’

‘You’re saying that Guy, who is thirty-five years old, rich, famous and experienced in the ways of the world, is a poor trusting innocent to be protected and I, half his age, am a corrupting devil who might hurt him? Blackmail him, I suppose is what you mean.’

‘I’m sure Michael never meant that …’

‘I shall go to the kitchen and crush a garlic.’

Angela followed him in.

‘It’s his job, Hugo. You must understand.’

It might have been the garlic and the onions that he was chopping, it might have been anger, it might have been nothing more than performance – because it seemed dramatically the right thing to do under the circumstances – but for whatever reason, tears were in Adrian’s eyes. He wiped them away. ‘I’m sorry, Angela.’

‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous. Everything’s going to be fine. Michael just wanted to … find me a cigarette would you? … he just wanted to be sure.’

They heard Guy coming up the stairs.

‘Yoo-hoo, honey-bear! Daddy’s home.’

Adrian winced at the language. Angela squeezed his arm.

‘You love him, don’t you, darling?’ she whispered.

Adrian nodded. He might as well have this awful woman on his side.

‘Everything’s going to be fine,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Adrian displayed just the right kind of affection towards Guy over dinner. Not whorish, but adoring; not clinging or possessive, but happy and trusting. Michael and Angela went away full of praise for his cooking, his wit and his discretion.

Guy was very touched. He nuzzled up to Adrian on the sofa.

‘You’re my very special puppy and I don’t deserve you. You’re magical and wonderful and you’re never to leave.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘What about when I’m fat and hairy?’

‘Don’t be a silly baby. Come bye-byes with Guy-Guy.’

On the evening before his last day of filming, Guy asked Adrian to take an envelope to a house in Battersea and bring back the reply. Zak, the man to whom he was to deliver the envelope, would be expecting him, but he was a famous Dutch pop-star, shy of publicity, so Adrian shouldn’t be surprised if he behaved oddly.

Adrian couldn’t think of any Dutch pop-stars who needed to be shy of publicity in South London, but Guy’s manner and lack of soupy terms of endearment suggested that this was a serious business, so he said nothing and next morning went happily on his way.

Zak was friendly enough.

‘Boyfriend of Tony? Hi, good to meet you. You got something for me?’

Adrian handed him the envelope.

‘Guy … I mean Tony … said there’d be a reply.’

‘A reply? Sure, I’ve got a reply. You wait here one moment.’

The envelope containing the reply was sealed and Adrian walked back over Chelsea Bridge, debating with himself whether or not to steam it open and read it when he got back to the house. He decided against it. Guy trusted him and it would be exhilarating to be so honest for a change. Instead he pulled out his copy of
Antigone
and read as he walked. It was something of a pose, he liked the idea of being seen reading a book in French, but he also wanted to keep fluent. It always caused a sensation in the Dilly when he was able to give directions to French tourists or, indeed, to do business with them.

He reached the King’s Road and turned left. There was some kind of a scuffle going on outside the King’s Tavern. A group of glue-sniffers was fighting with spray cans. One of them sprayed red paint over Adrian as he tried to hurry past.

‘Oh, look what you’ve done!’ he cried.

‘Oh, look what you’ve done!’ they shouted back, mimicking his accent. ‘Fuck off, arsehole.’

They were not in a mood to be spoken to, so Adrian moved smartly away. But they decided to abandon their game and give chase.

Oh shit, Adrian thought to himself, as he ran into Bywater Street. Why did I say anything at all? You idiot, Adrian! You’re going to get twenty types of crap beaten out of you now. He could hear them catching up with him. But then … joy of joys! He heard the wee-waa, wee-waa of a police car drawing up.

Two of the kids scattered, with an officer sprinting after them. But the other three were pushed against a wall and searched.

‘Thank God,’ panted Adrian.

‘Against that wall,’ said a sergeant.

‘Sorry?’

‘Against that wall.’

‘But I’m the one they were chasing!’

‘You heard me.’

Adrian spread his legs against the wall and assumed the position.

‘What’s this?’

‘What’s what?’ said Adrian. All he could see was a brick wall.

‘This,’ said the policeman, turning him round and holding up an envelope.

‘Oh, it’s a message. Belongs to a friend of mine. It’s private.’

‘A message?’

‘That’s right.’

The policeman ripped the envelope open and pulled out a polythene sachet of white powder.

‘Funny kind of message.’

‘What is it?’ asked Adrian.

The policeman opened the sachet and dipped a finger into the powder.

‘Well, flower,’ he said as he sucked the finger, ‘I’d say it was two years. Two years easy.’

*

A table, two chairs, a door that squeaked, cigarette smoke, no window, yellowing gloss paint, the distant murmur of the King’s Road, the unblinking brown eyes of Detective Sergeant Canter of the Drug Squad.

‘Look, you say it’s not yours. You were delivering it for a friend. You’ve never used the stuff yourself. You didn’t even know what it was. Frankly, Hugo, I believe you. But if you don’t tell us the name of this friend, then I’m sorry to say that you’ll be drowning in a bucket of hot shit without a life-belt.’

‘But I
can’t
, I really can’t. It would ruin him.’

‘It’s not going to do you a lot of good, either, is it?’

Adrian clutched his head in his hands. Canter was friendly, amused, indifferent and tenacious.

‘I’ve got to think up a charge, you see. What can I choose? There’s possession. Let me see … how much was it? Seven grammes of Charlie … bit dodgy, that. Rather a lot for personal use. But first offence, you’re young. Reckon we could get away with six months DC.’

‘DC?’

‘Detention Centre, Hugo. Not nice, but quick. Short sharp shock. Then there’s possession with intent to supply. You’re looking at two years straight away, now. Then we have to think about trafficking. They throw away the key for that one.’

‘But …’

‘The thing is, Hugo, I’ve got a problem here you have to help me with. You’ve already told me that you don’t take it yourself, so I can’t really charge you with possession, can I? If you don’t powder your own nose, you must have been intending to flog it to someone else. Stands to reason.’

‘But he wasn’t paying me! It was just an errand, I didn’t know what it was.’

‘Mm.’ Sergeant Canter looked down at his notes. ‘Rather a lot of cash in your post-office account, isn’t there? Where’s all that from, then?’

‘That’s mine! I’ve … I’ve saved it. I’ve never had anything to do with drugs. I promise!’

‘But I look down at my notes and I don’t see any names. All I see is “Hugo Bullock nicked in possession of a quarter ounce of best Bolivian Marching Powder.” No one else for my charge-sheet. Just Hugo Bullock. I need the name of the man you collected it from and I need the name of your friend, don’t I?’

Adrian shook his head.

The detective sergeant patted him on the shoulder.

‘Lover is he?’

Adrian blushed.

‘He’s just … a friend.’

‘Yeah. That’s right. Yeah. How old are you, Hugo?’

‘Eighteen next week.’

‘There you go. I think I better have his name, don’t you? He corrupts a nice well-brought-up young kid and he sends him to pick up his cocaine for him. The court will weep big tears for you, my son. Probation and sympathy.’

Adrian stared down at the table.

‘The other man,’ he said. ‘The man I got it off. I’ll give you his name.’

‘Well, that’s a start.’

‘But he mustn’t know that I told you.’

He had a sudden vision of a Godfather-like revenge being wreaked against him. Adrian, the man who grassed, beaten to a pulp in a prison, a brown-paper parcel of two dead fishes sent to his parents.

‘I mean he won’t ever know, will he? I won’t have to give evidence against him or anything?’

‘Calm down, Hugo, old lad. If he’s a dealer we put him under surveillance and we catch him in the act. Your name never comes into it.’

Sergeant Canter leant forward, gently raised Adrian’s chin with a finger, and looked into his eyes.

‘That’s a promise, Hugo. Believe me.’

Adrian nodded.

‘But you’d better start talking quick. Your boyfriend is going to be wondering where you are by now. We don’t want him to call his dealer friend up on the blower, do we?’