Call Me (4 page)

Kensal Green.

Hi,

My name is Anthony Beckett, (Tony to my friends). I'm twenty five and as you can see from the photo I'm blond, blue eyed. It's no big deal but I've never answered a personal ad before, I guess one's never really caught my attention—until now that is. (It's a bit of a shock having to enclose a cheque for £1.50p!) You see, I really get turned on by bike-gear!—Really! Especially those very shiny, black skin-tight lycra shorts your ad teased with so well. Kinda feel like a dirty old man writing all this but, what the hell …

Me—well, I don't ride bikes that often. My passion is canoeing. I do it every other day. I live near a canal and so after work me and my single kayak go onto the canal for an hour or so to clear my head.

I really like those narrow
Bike
jockstraps too. There's a shop in Covent Garden which I go into on the weekend for my weekly “fix”. The photo enclosed was taken in Spain recently. I would be grateful if you could return it with your reply. Anyway, I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers,

Tony

Verdict:
On the one hand he sounded a bit naff, on the other there was this image of him canoeing along in the shadow of the Harrow Road which appealed to the romantic in me. A
Maybe.

Black ink on top of the range beige aroused the whore in me. First class stamped addressed envelope plus a ten-unit phone card enclosed.

––––––.

–, ––––––Avenue,

South Harrow

0181 422 ––

Dear Bike Boy,

Your advertisement in
Boyz
has certainly struck a chord in this committed mountain bikist. Although 52 I'm passionate for everything to do with them and believe your form of dress to be the only civilised one!

Do come and see me as soon as poss'. Tel: 0181 422 ––. (As above.)

I've lots of other interests too: music, photography, videos etc. I commute to London daily on my Muddy Fox Monarch or my Saracen, (improved!). I travel to and from Hong Kong a lot on business.

I've been thinking about you ever since a friend rang, informing me of the ad. It's a fabulous advertisement, you make yourself sound perfect.

I hope to hear from you soon, you delicious horny devil!

Greetings,

Phu Mok

PS Garden is big.

Verdict:
Yes. I fancied seeing the garden.

The glossy colour photograph might have been the Bike Boy I'd imagined when writing the ad. A Stephen from Richmond, standing alongside his Saracen in full gear, displaying thick muscled legs and small hips. Though suffering from an unfortunate hairdo, perhaps betraying a leaning towards heavy metal, he managed a smile, bottom lip glistening in the sun. Two silver chains in a tangle around his neck. Quite a cock, judging by the shiny contours of his cycle shorts. Untidy writing on paper which bore the imprint of a previous, longer letter. Enclosed, a second class envelope.

–
B
, –––– Avenue,

Richmond.

0181 940 ––

Dear Bike Boy,

I am writing to you because of our similar interests.

I am also into skin shorts, lycra, smooth muscular legs, horny action.

I am quite a keen cyclist as well!

I train a lot when weather permits so I am reasonably fit.

I am 23 years, 5′ 11″, slim built.

It would be nice if you replied, you can phone me in the evenings and I enclose an SAE.

I hope to hear from you soon, one way or another.

(Sorry about the writing.)

Stephen.

PS Photo was taken one year ago. My hair's a lot shorter now.

Verdict:
Yes. A safe enough start, I thought. He turned out to be the first person I called.

Oh, there were more; page after page, life after life. Letters scented with risk and the rawness of possibility. Invariably these absolute strangers wanted to do those four-lettered verbs: lick, suck, bite, fuck, wank, chew, kiss and—in the case of Charles from Brockley—
draw
Bike Boy. I decided to deal with a few, do some phone tests—maybe meet one or two. The cheap little cartoon gay slag/Adonis I'd invented had become the object of much frenzied nocturnal contemplation.

I could picture them busy behind piles of stationery, with chequebooks and postal orders at the ready. Folding replies neatly, tucking snapshots in carefully. Paper clipping, stapling, moistening stamps, pressing down, licking envelopes, sealing themselves in.

Ages ranged from the sixteen-year-old schoolboy (was that to be believed?) to a fifty-six-year-old barrister's clerk recovering from a heart by-pass op'. A medical student from SE17, leaning back against a radiator—jeans around his ankles—had a particularly nasty spot of ringworm, guess where. A solicitor from Parsons Green sent three used, cellophane-wrapped tissues for me to sniff.

All kinds of names for all kinds of games. Photos of men in rubber, leather, baths, showers, not forgetting Anthony Beckett in Seville. A newsagent from Birmingham, an acupuncturist over in Hammersmith, a bored school teacher in Nepal, a curly-haired hypnotist and an Anglican priest. Holy cock. All felt like pawns for me to control as I wished.

I thought graphology was a pile of shite until the fan mail started. The slant, slope, pressure, spacing, choice of pen—all gave an impression. Even the final signature to a word-processed piece held a message as it diminished into threadlike strokes or pierced the page with fierce triangular loops and stabbing “i” dots.

Few were genuine friendship seekers, but then the ad
was
of the raunchy variety. I neither liked nor disliked these needy characters, all after a spot of reasonably safe sex at little expense. What remote feeling I did have might be likened to the dispassion with which non-animal lovers view cats and dogs.

Tearing the corners off the stamped-addressed envelopes, I soaked them in a small bowl of warm water. With a dab of Pritt Stick, they could be recycled.

*   *   *

I'd never had a problem with my Yamaha. I kept it dry, cool and dust free, cleaning the exterior with a soft cloth. It had never been jolted or dropped. I took the greatest of care when plugging cords into the rear panel jacks, as excessive force can damage the terminals.

I knew it was going to rain, I could feel it in the air, cumulonimbus clouds approaching eastwards.

My Yamaha looked so black against the fresh whiteness of the balcony door, venetian blinds angled just so to protect it from the early morning sun. All numbers and symbols on the buttons of the
VOICE
/
STYLE
group had faded away from wear long ago, its only imperfection. The stereo headphones were always plugged in; I'd only used the internal speaker system once and I didn't like it. The internal circuitry featured a maximum polyphony of twenty eight notes which could be played simultaneously, with extra notes when the automatic accompaniment, split, or duel voice features were used. I'd never used more than ten notes in any of my home recordings.

The PSR 300 had touch response—that is, the volume of the sound could to a certain degree be controlled by how hard you played the keys. I preferred sliding the master volume control right up to a position which would win over the Goswell Road. That day I didn't slide the volume up too high. I wanted to hear the rain when it fell. Even with the headphones on I could hear background sound like white noise. I hoped for thunder.

When I pressed the
SUSTAIN
button, the indicator lit up welcomingly. I selected the fretless bass sound, then improvised on the lower end of the keyboard. Sounds decayed gradually as my fingers lifted from the keys. I liked the way the notes hummed and slurred. The
SUSTAIN
effect could not be applied to accompaniment or rhythm, which was a shame. I always imagined the drums treated. Unfortunately the
SUSTAIN
effect didn't sound as deep as usual when it was used during accompaniment.

When I heard thunder I opened the door, emptying out paid-for heat to smell rain on cold wet concrete. Pulse slow, I stood steady and cold against the wind, in awe of the day. My hanging arms, limp and heavy, conducted a low dull tune in my head. A cigarette tossed from the balcony would have have gone out before reaching the ground.

I like the rain in cities, angled in headlights, backlit by advertising and silly windows, raindrops like long silver needles. I saw a woman running for the number 4 bus, handbag on head, left hand holding her wet skirt away from her body so it wouldn't cling. The bus made a rare exception, pulling up fifteen yards or so from the stop and I smiled and shivered as she looked for loose change.

When it rains I like to think of rivulets refreshing bugs under logs, stones and pebbles, sinking down to roots … dragging Kentucky Fried Chicken packaging and shit down efficient drains.

I'd sat down again by the time the woman would have reached The Angel. I searched through my favourite sounds for something suited to my mood: synth piano, synth strings, cello. F
ANTASY
1
AND
2 were particular favourites back then. The rhythms I used most often were N
EW
J
ACK
S
WING
and E
URO
B
EAT
. Awful names. I usually set the tempo, ranged from 40-240 beats per minute, to low. Nice and slow. It was a rare occasion when I didn't use the out jack to deliver the output to the tape recorder in my stereo.

I'd never had a problem with my Yamaha, not once.

*   *   *

The merry-go-round of insincerity started off with phone calls, exploratory dialogue.

“He's not up yet but I'll give him a shout. Hold on,” said Stephen's mother.

A bell-ringing budgie could be heard in the background, talking rubbish.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” (Pause) “This is…” (Slightest pause) “… Bike Boy.” I hadn't suffered a three year teacher-training course, specialising in drama, without some gains.

“Oh, hi! Sorry. Just woken up and I'm still half asleep.” Over the next few minutes his groggy voice would steadily climb the scale in camp. “What kind of bike have you got?”

“A Rock Hopper Comp. Cantilever brakes, thick knobby Cannibal tyres and all the gear from Avis in Clerkenwell.”

“Oh, I know the shop. You've got a lovely voice, really … Oh, hold on.”

Mother was on the prowl. “Sorry. You still there?”

“Yep.”

“You went all quiet.”

I took the direct approach: “So, want to meet up? Any suggestions?”

“Do you go to any of the places on Old Compton Street?”

“Not if I can help it. You're in Richmond. Kew Gardens is near. We could meet by the main gates.”

“What if it's raining? And in the gear?”

“If it rains, Stephen, we get wet.”

Then he did it for the first time. His squishy titter. Gluey bubbles of fluid forced and sucked through clenched teeth.

“Well,” I continued, “can you think of an alternative?”

During a silence in which I imagined him enjoying long masturbatory sessions with the aid of three mirrors whenever his mother was out, Stephen's brain ticked over.

“No, that'll be fine. Just hope the weather's good.”

“Okay. Let's say Friday then. Good Friday. Main gates at noon. There's just one thing though Stephen.”

(Quickly/anxious/interested) “Yeah?”

(GBH manner) “I'll only wait till a quarter past. If you're more than fifteen minutes late I'll assume you've chickened out and I'll be off.”

Felt I was botching it up. But he was loving it, he told me so when we met up. Again he laughed. That breathy, soppy-mouthed short inhaling-exhaling gasping laugh.

“Hey,” he said, shifting gear. “What are you, kind of, you know …
into?
”

“Well Stephen, since you ask, I'm an apprentice serial killer. I'm hoping you're going to help me get started with the most
historic
statistic. One of my new year's resolutions was to kill a human being.”

That laugh. Squelch, squelch, squelch. Maybe he hadn't heard of Colin Ireland's realised dream.

“Noon then,” he agreed, smiling. “Come rain or shine.”

“Come rain or shine, Stephen.”

I terminated, pressing a finger down hard. He didn't even know my name. (This is normal.)

*   *   *

Lifting the finger I dialled my next potential victim. 0181-422 ——, Phu Mok in South Harrow. The phone rang for ages before being picked up. The cockney accent came as a shock, I thought I had the wrong number for a minute.

“'Ello?”

“Phu?”

“Just a sec.”

The phone was picked up a minute later. At the other end I could hear someone breathing. Nothing was said.

“Mr Mok?”

“Speaking.”

An aged yet sparkling voice with more of an American accent than Chinese.

“Hi.” (Pause) “This is…” (Slightest pause) “… Bike Boy.” “Well! Hello. Thank you so very much for calling,” said almost gasping, another one at it. “How nice. Er, when can we meet up?” (Keen.) “I am so looking forward to seeing you.” (Very keen.) “I'm so pleased to hear your voice. I really am. When can you come over?” (Desperate.)

He sounded like lots of money.

“When do you suggest, Mr Mok?”

“Right now would be lovely. Would you? Could you?”

Did he think I was a new recruit at his usual escort service?

“Oh, I'm probably rushing you. Forgive me. Um … maybe I should think of a time when we could … you know…”

“How about tea-time on Good Friday?”

Having dispensed with one cycle fetishist I could travel north for a little light refreshment, meeting another.

“Good Friday, yes. Now that would put the
Good
in it. I'll be in all day. All day. It's so nice to hear your young voice. It
really
is. So many of these advertisers are timewasters, you know. Yes, I'm
so
looking forward to seeing you.”