Murder Most Fab (16 page)

‘Right
next door. There’s the beauty of it. We’ve been neighbours for thirty years.
If I knock three times he knows I’m on my way over.’

‘How
convenient. Well — show me the way!’

‘Excellent,
excellent. Oh, Georgie will be pleased! And perhaps you’ll call in later and
tell me how it went?’ Sammy’s eyes were sparkling.

‘Will
do.’

I left
Sammy’s, stepped over the flowerbeds to the front door of number sixteen and
pressed Georgie’s buzzer, as instructed. The door opened within two seconds. Georgie
was a rotund, balding little man of around seventy who had clearly not enjoyed
Sammy’s blessings in the looks department. He wore blue linen trousers with a
short-sleeved white shirt, also linen, and smiled nervously as he stood behind
the door. ‘You must be JD,’ he said.

‘And
you must be Georgie. Very pleased to meet you.’

‘Come
in, my dear.’

We went
into a flat laid out in exactly the same way as Sammy’s, but the opposite way
round. It was strange to be somewhere that felt so familiar yet looked so
different. It took me only a moment to realize that Georgie had lived a
theatrical life — the sitting-room walls were covered with black-and-white
portraits of past theatre stars, many of them autographed — ‘
To darling Georgie,
for making me look so fabulous! Much love, Vivien’
— and framed posters of
West End shows from the fifties and sixties.

‘I was
a dresser,’ Georgie said, watching me observe his photographs. ‘I did all the
big theatres, all the great shows. I had quite a following. Yul Brynner
wouldn’t let anyone else take his trousers off, you know.’

I
laughed. ‘Talking of taking off our trousers … shall we?’

I went
up to Georgie, whose eyes became a little more bulbous and cheeks a little
pinker as I approached. He smelt of aftershave, gin and toothpaste, for which I
was grateful. A happy, clean punter was always a relief in my line of work: BO
and smegma were hazards so difficult to cope with that I would make my excuses
and a hurried exit.

(On the
other hand, if someone with a fetish requested it, I could arrive sweaty and
unwashed for their delectation. A nose would be thrust into my groin or my
armpit. Sigh would follow sniff For a while I sold my own soiled underwear to
this specialized group in sealed plastic bags. A lucrative and surprisingly
popular sideline.)

‘Oh,
yes, please …‘ sighed Georgie, obviously thrilled, and we went to his bedroom
at once.

On that
first occasion, the sex would not have been classed as kinky. When he pulled
off my boxer shorts he murmured, ‘Oh, happy day …’ but I knew Georgie wanted
more than was on the conventional gay-sex menu. I could tell almost at a glance
the client who wanted it rough and the one who preferred vanilla.

‘JD,
you’re manna from heaven,’ Georgie declared, after forty wholesome minutes of
wrestling, pumping, jerking and, finally, satiation.

‘I
might put that on my calling card,’ I said. ‘Delighted to have been
satisfactory.’

‘Oh,
you were, you were. Sammy’s been a very naughty girl, keeping you to himself
for so long. I only managed to wiggle out of him what he’s been up to when I
saw you leaving last week —the wicked miss! Of course, it’s shaming to have to
pay for it. In his time Sammy’s been wooed and won by lords and bishops, ‘Georgie
confided, ‘and I’m no stranger to the armed forces. We have tales between us
that would have you panting like a queen in a lorry park.’

‘I can
well believe it,’ I said, pulling on my clothes.

‘I take
it you cater for … all tastes?’ Another little blush crept over Georgie’s fat
cheeks.

‘Oh,
yes. All tastes.’

‘Goody!
Then perhaps we could come to an arrangement … I’d love to do this again, you
see, and if you’re coming to see Sammy anyway … perhaps you could pop next
door for a little rough-and-tumble with me afterwards?’

‘I don’t
see why not. As long as I do Sammy first.’ Sammy’s impatience to reach his
climax would mean I’d have a good half-hour to recover my resources — I had a
feeling I’d need them with Georgie.

‘Then
here’s your money — cheap at the price!’ Georgie handed me a roll of notes.
‘And I’ll see you next week, you gorgeous thing.’

‘Thank
you. Until next week, Georgie.’ He closed the mahogany door behind me.

I stood
three inches from it. ‘Remember me,’ I whispered.

‘Did Georgie
enjoy himself?’ Sammy said anxiously, his head poking out of his front-room
window.

‘Yes,
he did. In fact, he wants the same again next week.’

‘Oh.’
Sammy’s face fell. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do both of us … I’ve
got so used to our Friday-afternoon encounters and I’m such a creature of
habit.’

‘You
underestimate me, Sammy,’ I said gravely. ‘I’m perfectly happy to look after
both of you. Stamina is one of my selling points.’

Sammy
smiled gratefully. ‘I’m so pleased! How lovely. Now we can all be friends
together.’

The next time I went to
Barnes, I spent the first hour with Sammy and the second with Georgie. This
time, Georgie wanted me to tie him up and bite his neck. Just as Sammy had
hinted, Georgie was much more adventurous than his friend.

As time
went by, we fell into a routine. I visited Sammy first, as he was the least
demanding. He rarely lasted long, I gave him a cuddle, we had a cup of tea
together, I collected my cash and my thoughts, then popped next door to Georgie.

While
Sammy was organized and business-like, almost in a hurry to get the sordid
proceedings over with, Georgie wanted to savour every moment and made sure he
got his money’s worth. He’d be excited and a little tipsy when I arrived and I
never knew what he’d have in store for me. He got into the habit of handing me
a piece of paper with instructions on it when I arrived, and then he would go
upstairs to prepare himself while I digested his requirements — burglar,
pizza-delivery boy, sex fiend on the run following a prison escape, whatever
the mood of the day demanded. It wasn’t always sex as we know it. In fact,
within a few months it was fairly full on S and M, with verbal and physical
abuse, candle wax, clothes pegs, hoods, masks, and so on. Georgie always wanted
to go one step further.

After
we’d finished and tidied ourselves up, we would go next door to Sammy’s for a
drink and a chat, which became the part of the evening I most looked forward
to. Often, when the weather was fine, we sat out on Sammy’s veranda. The old
boys would be giggly and relaxed in their dressing-gowns, telling me stories of
their youth on the underground gay scene of fifties London and candidly (or, in
Georgie’s case, bitterly) analysing their current status in the spectrum of gay
desirability.

Gradually,
through these post-coital chats, I gleaned an insight into gay life in their
heyday.

‘There
used to be a pub in Percy Street that was wall-to-wall guardsmen,’ said Georgie.
‘I was voted “Fuck of the Week” for two months in a row — and look at me now! Opening
my purse before I can open my legs!’

‘Do you
remember that man called Rob?’ asked Sammy, drunk but not delirious. ‘He drove
a cab, but if he didn’t have a punter at the end of the evening he’d drive you
home. “I’m not queer,” he’d always say, “but I need some relief.” He epitomized
the type of man I liked in those days. Straight, but willing to engage if all
else failed. After a come-on like that you were home and dry …’

‘The
glass collectors were always up for it at the Marquis of Granby,’ added Georgie,
‘but you had to follow them out to the dustbins with two pound notes at the
ready. No money, no honey. I remember seeing John Gielgud standing in the
saloon bar with spunk on his bow-tie.’

‘Do you
remember the police raids?’ asked Sammy.

Georgie
groaned appreciatively. ‘Constables in those days knew how to take down a
girl’s particulars! Those Bow Street boys spit-roasted me in the snug on more
than one occasion.

Sometimes
their conversations escalated into animated spats that left me all but
forgotten.

‘I’ve
been lucky in love,’ said Sammy, ‘but Georgie … let’s just say the
hummingbird of love hovered over her upturned trumpet and moved swiftly on.’

‘Excuse
me!’ protested Georgie. ‘I’ll have you know that more men have declared their
love for me than have for you!’

‘But
isn’t that my point?’ argued Sammy. ‘I deal in quality, not quantity. Your
statement alone points to your foolish promiscuity.
You
cannot sustain a
relationship so you move on. It’s not a question of conquering and collecting
hearts engorged with passion. The pursuit of real love means delving somewhat
deeper into the bowels of an intimate relationship than you appear capable of
doing.’

‘Oh, do
shut up. Just because you’ve wasted your life hankering after the unattainable
it doesn’t give you the right to pity me.’

‘I have
no right to pity you. I just have the inclination. Based purely on the
observations of forty-odd years. Face it, darling, you’re an emotional cripple!’

‘You talk about the
pursuit of love, Samuel …‘ said Georgie. He stood up, moved behind my chair
and cupped my head between his hands as if it was an exhibit in a court case
and he the prosecuting lawyer. ‘… but how do you explain
this?’

‘Being
in love doesn’t mean you stop appreciating the aesthetic beauty of those around
you.’

‘Around
you and
inside
you, I expect you mean,’ said Georgie, with disgust.

‘I see
no point in us trying to score points over each other. ‘Sammy flicked him away.
‘We’re both in the same boat, quite literally. Don’t be so annoying. We’ve
been round the block enough times to have — finally — separated love from lust.
Our lovely JD here,’ he gestured towards me, ‘must not be confused with the
real thing. His carnal deliveries may keep us going, but he’s just the irrigation
system while we await the inevitable, deadly drought.’

‘From
the look of your skin that drought arrived some time ago,’ spat Georgie.

Sammy’s
eyes were full of tears. ‘You always have confused wit and cruelty,’ he said.

So they
went on, with their Oscar-Wilde-on-gin dialogue. Every week I gave them exactly
an hour of my time each, rarely interjecting, then stood up and said how
lovely the evening had been.

‘See
you next Friday,’ Georgie would say.

‘I’ll
see you out.’ Sammy would pat my shoulder and lead the way to the front door.

I
suspected that the conversations continued long after my departure, never
resolved, never producing a victor, never giving way to silence.

‘More
whisky? You might be dead tomorrow.’

‘You
might be dead in half an hour, sister.

‘What
on earth happened to you, Georgie?’ I said, horrified by the swollen black eye
he was sporting when he opened the door.

‘Oh,
don’t.’ Georgie rolled his other, still mobile, eye to heaven. ‘Come in. We
might have to be rather gentler than normal tonight. I’ve been in the wars.’

‘What
happened?’ We sat down under framed photographs of the sparking eyes and
perfect complexions of Greer Garson, loan Greenwood and Hermione Gingold.

Georgie
looked rueful as he crossed his ankles. ‘I was feeling a bit frisky so Sammy
lent me some of his old videos. His tapes are never quite to my taste — he
likes straight men being seduced by gay men, the less romance the better. I
favour a story I can believe in. Call me old-fashioned but I like to see car
mechanics understandably overcome with lust while working overtime in a greasy
garage, or Ancient Greek slaves forced to perform sex acts in front of their
sadistic but nevertheless gorgeous young emperor, that sort of thing.’

‘Very
plausible,’ I said.

‘Well,
I watched a few of these with a bottle of Gordon’s London Dry by my side and,
after a while, it occurred to me to relive my glory days and go trolling.’ He
sighed heavily. ‘I know it was stupid. Even in my youth, I wasn’t exactly the
pick of the bunch. I was never as good-looking as Sammy. But I went out pissed and
took a walk along the towpath by Barnes Bridge, and when I saw a really lovely
big chap, I asked him how about it. It turned out I’d misjudged the situation.
He wasn’t in the market for fun and games. In fact, he took offence.’ Georgie
touched his big purple eye. ‘Ouch.’