The Enemy of the Good (6 page)

The chairman dispensed the usual pleasantries, after which Clement
presented
his design. He began by discussing his choice of subject and its relation to the building and then unwrapped the painting, sending the Dean, who had hitherto seen only pencil sketches, into a paroxysm of delight. He sat down to a chorus of approval, which experience had taught him to distrust. Moments later the dissenting voices broke out although, unlike those in the Chapter, they were concerned less with the orthodoxy of his naked Christ (he
wondered
slyly whether they had failed to identify the olive tone as flesh) than with the formal qualities of the image. True to type, it was the local artist who spearheaded the attack, his trifling objections making it clear that he had
earmarked
the commission for himself.

‘It’s very bright,’ he said.

‘That’s because it’s two foot rather than twenty,’ Clement replied,
struggling
to sustain his smile. ‘It would have been very dull if I’d painted it any other way.’

‘I’m not sure about the blue. There’s so much blue in the building already. I prefer purple.’

Clement stretched the silence to breaking-point. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was that a question?’

The artist retired hurt and the accountant took his place. ‘Any idea how it’ll reproduce on a postcard?’

‘No, nor on a tea towel either.’

The Dean, unable to stomach any further attacks on his monument, rose to his feet. ‘Gentlemen… and lady –’ He bowed his head to the archaeologist, an afterthought which Clement feared might cost him dear – ‘Mr Granville is one of the most distinguished… some would say
the
most distinguished artist working in the field today. We’re extremely fortunate to have secured his services. It’s not for us to question his integrity.’ Although Clement was more conscious of the sparseness of the field than of his own eminence within it, the committee appeared to be chastened. The archaeologist, glaring at the Dean, raised the question of biblical authenticity and the architect of the scale of Hell, each of which Clement neatly parried. The chairman then asked him to leave the room while they deliberated. He picked up the painting and went out. The secretary looked nervous as he paced the office, examining first a set of Roxborough landscapes so bland that they might have been jigsaws and then a devotional image of Christ astride a cliff of clouds. Just as he was turning to the ledger-laden shelves, the Dean ran out and pumped his hand.

‘We’ve won!’

If Robert Louis Stevenson were alive today, Clement reflected, he wouldn’t use a drug to effect Dr Jekyll’s transformation but simply stick him in a traffic jam on the A4.

‘What the fuck is this?’ Mike asked. ‘A car park?’

‘Don’t worry. It won’t stretch far.’

‘Thank you for that, Pollyanna! Do you have X-ray vision as well?’

‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘Well you’re not,’ Mike said, venting his frustration on the horn.

They were spending the bank holiday on a retreat in the wilds of Wales. It was an offshoot of the one on which they had met, although over the years much had changed. Medical advances had reduced the participation of gay men, who preferred to take their pills and spend the weekend clubbing, and increased that of African women, who lacked peer acceptance to offset the stigma of the virus. Mike had felt honour-bound to remain as facilitator, but Clement suspected that, despite his maxim that
HIV
did not discriminate, there was a part of him that pined for the long-lost camaraderie of a
community
under siege.

‘If this goes on much longer, we’ll miss dinner,’ Mike said.

‘I’ve got some biscuits in the back.’

‘I’m not hungry!’ Mike snapped, and Clement knew better than to comment. Gazing out of the window, he feigned an interest in the
featureless
landscape, refusing to counsel the patience that would be dismissed as the easy virtue of a non-driver. He felt both cramped and useless. With a five-mile tailback and a well-signposted road, he wasn’t even called on to read the map.

The traffic began to move and Clement was relieved to be spared a further outburst before reaching the retreat, where his praise for having made up so much time was met with a grudging grunt. They unloaded their bags and entered the hostel, whose spartan decor made him yearn for the quirks of the Scottish ‘bean’ rooms. In the hall they were greeted by Mike’s two
co-facilitators
, Blossom, a plump Nigerian social worker with hidden prickles, and Brian, a rebirthing practitioner with designs on Clement since he had yet to work with a twin. Bedrooms were shared and, while Brian and Blossom lamented the drop in numbers which showed how
HIV
had ‘slipped off the radar’, Clement was grateful that he and Mike had a room to themselves.

At seven o’clock, they went down to a dining room which reeked of Jeyes Fluid. Having assured a nervous newcomer that any resemblance to the first day at school was deceptive, Clement was appalled to find his words belied by the food: toad in the hole, with a vegetarian option of macaroni cheese (and an apple and crisps for the solitary vegan), brusquely doled out at a hatch by two blistery cooks. After the dispiriting meal, the nineteen-strong group
gathered
for an introductory session in a drab lounge dominated by a poster of the solar system and a relief map of Wales. They arranged the chairs in a circle, and Blossom played several choruses of
Kumbaya
on a tinny upright, urging the company to sing along with the fervour of a pantomime dame. Brian then asked them to take turns stating their names, where they lived and, in one sentence, what they were hoping to gain from the retreat: a process Clement dreaded, less for the profusion of Proustian sentences than his dire memory for names.

He was glad to recognise three faces – and recall two names – from the previous retreat: Dembe, a forty-year-old Ugandan grandmother, with her twenty-five-year-old husband, Augustus; and Bill or Ben or Bob, a
middle-aged
solicitor from Liverpool, whose bittersweet fate was to have outlived all his friends. Among the fresh faces, his eye was caught by two men whose clothes (leather jacket and jeans for the one sprawled in the chair; denim jeans, black mesh T-shirt and studded collar for the one squatting at his feet) would, he felt sure, be the subject of heated debate between Mike and Blossom at the facilitators’ meeting. Two chairs away, but seeming to hail from another world, was a dumpy woman in a dun-coloured suit who looked as if she would find the Jam and Jerusalem of a W.I. meeting racy. Most unnerving of all was a man with an eerie resemblance to his former boyfriend, Oliver, even
allowing
for the twelve-year interval. In a voice that compounded the mystery, he gave his name as Newsom, his home as Bethnal Green, and his hope from the retreat as peace of mind.

Newsom’s position straight opposite him provided the perfect cover for Clement’s scrutiny, while making it impossible to work out if his smile was aimed at him or just at his place in the circle. The confusion was resolved when, after Mike and Brian had outlined the structure of the retreat and Blossom had listed the three cardinal sins (aggressive behaviour; sexist, racist or homophobic language; and smoking), the session broke up. As Clement stood in line at the hot-water urn, Newsom moved to join him.

‘I’ve often wondered if I’d bump into you again.’

‘So it is you!’

‘Who else?’ Clement gazed at him numbly. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’

He struggled to find an appropriate response. This was the man he had met on his return from Paris, the first love that tainted all later ones by its loss. This was the man with whom he had lived for five years, only to find, while painting their anniversary portrait, that he should have been painting a group. This was the man he was convinced had infected him when they gave up using condoms as a token of trust. He was lashed by waves of violent emotion, as anger, bitterness, curiosity and excitement surged through his head, along with a reflex sexual tingle in his groin.

‘Do you hate me?’

‘What? No, of course not.’

‘Well then?’ He held out his arms. ‘Kiss and make up?’

Wary of his easy charm and needing greater proof of transformation than a name, Clement compromised with a hug. The familiar contours of Oliver’s body confused him and he felt faint.

‘I need to sit down.’

‘It must be my fatal charisma.’ The epithet revived all Clement’s suspicions. ‘Would you like some air?’

‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’

Oliver opened the door. ‘It’s a beautiful night. Let’s take a walk. Don’t worry, I’m quite harmless.’

‘I doubt that, but I’m strong.’

‘You always were.’

‘No. Then I was just single-minded. Still, I could do with stretching my legs. I’ve been sitting all day.’

‘Do you mind if I tag along? I’d like to talk.’

‘You can’t expect me to welcome you with open arms, Oliver.’

‘Newsom… But there’s no call to keep me at arm’s length either. It’s been twelve years.’

‘I can count.’ Clement was shocked to find the memory of his betrayal so raw. Resentment of Oliver vied with anger at his own vulnerability. He was determined to rise above both. With Blossom’s equation of disease and dis-ease fresh in his mind, he refused to let Oliver compromise his health a second time.

‘Come if you like. I’ll just tell Mike.’

‘Do we have to ask our leaders’ permission?’

Clement smiled as the misapprehension empowered him. Seeing no sign of Mike, whom he took to be conferring with his fellow facilitators, he joined Oliver for a walk through the grounds. Stinging branches hung above stony paths and, although his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he was reluctant to venture far.

‘So when did you change your name?’ he asked, as they stood gazing into a shadowy paddock.

‘I’ve been Newsom for six years.’

‘Why? Were you wanted by the police or were several ex-lovers after your blood. That is if the blood weren’t…’ Clement could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

‘I never had you down as a vindictive man.’

‘I wasn’t… I’m not.’

‘I went to see a numerologist. I wanted to change my life.’

‘Is it that easy? Jacob becomes Israel. Ba-boom!’

‘No, but it’s a start. Oliver has a three vibration, which was fine when I was young. It’s a warm name that allowed me to harness my sexual and
spiritual
energy, but it left me in danger of spreading myself too thin. I needed a new vibration for the next stage of my journey. Newsom’s a seven – a mystical number – which helps me on my chosen path.’

Clement recalled Oliver’s lifelong quest for an inner child that had never seemed so close to the surface. ‘What about boyfriends?’

‘One or two. No one permanent. I have a dog.’

‘I’d like one but Mike’s phobic. He broke into the Acropolis as a student and an Alsatian bit his leg.’

‘Mike?’

‘The facilitator. We’re an item.’

‘Of course! Camden and Regent’s Park. I thought they were two different places.’

‘Just two different states of mind.’

‘Congratulations! He’s a hunk.’ Clement frowned. ‘You’re lucky to have found someone.’

‘What? You mean now that I’m damaged goods? Don’t think just because Mike volunteers for this that his whole life is a charity!’

‘I wasn’t thinking that at all.’

His genuine bewilderment forced Clement to acknowledge that the only one who had such thoughts was him. ‘I trusted you. Stupid, sure! Naïve, sure! But I felt what we had was good. I never supposed you were grabbing every opportunity to screw around.’

‘Screwing up, more like.’

‘That’s easy to say.’

‘Do you think I haven’t looked back… wanted to make contact?’

‘Don’t tell me you were scared!’

‘Yes I was, of hurting you… of bringing back too many memories.’

‘So why come here now?’

‘It’s not a private view, Clem! Your name wasn’t on the leaflet. Whatever you…’ Oliver’s voice was lost in a hacking cough.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Clement asked, resentment replaced by alarm.

Oliver shook his head until a few words broke through the wheezes. ‘I’m fine… no… used to it… go back.’

Guiding him along the path, Clement was shocked by the erosion of his once muscular biceps. Any qualms about touching him vanished, and his one thought was to see him safely inside. Progress was slow, but they finally made it to the lounge where, with a quick nod to Dembe and Augustus, sole
survivors
of the general exodus, he helped Oliver up the stairs to his room.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? Do you want me to help you undress?’

‘Funny. I’ve often pictured you saying that again. Just not like this.’

Clement felt a disconcerting rush of tenderness. ‘I’m in Room 12 if you need me.’

‘I’m fine now, Clem. Just go.’

‘You asked for a kiss,’ Clement said, unwilling to leave him alone.

‘What was it you said about charity? Just go. Please!’

‘Of course.’

Clement walked down a corridor lined with grainy prints of Victorian miners and entered his room. Finding Mike in his underpants at the
washbasin
, he made straight for him and stroked the warmth of his back.

‘Is that a tall, fair and handsome man?’ Mike asked without turning.

‘That’s for you to tell me.’ He wrapped his arms around Mike’s chest.

‘I’m sorry for being so cunty in the car. I had the day from hell.’ Clement smiled as he wondered what Blossom would make of the language. ‘Forgiven?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ He relished Mike’s toothpaste-tinged kiss. ‘Oddly enough, that’s the second time tonight I’ve been asked the question.’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve just been talking to Oliver… Oliver, my ex.’

‘There’s no Oliver on the list.’

‘He’s changed his name to Newsom. He swears he’s changed everything else. Funny but there are some things I wouldn’t want him to change. I didn’t realise until I saw him there.’

‘Are you OK, Clem?’

‘Sure. Fine. Just a little taken aback, that’s all. Believe me, that chapter of my life is well and truly closed.’

Mike, who knew the story too well to feel threatened, clasped him in his arms and stroked his hair. Clement basked in the restorative touch until a sense of weightlessness heralded the approach of sleep. So he gently extricated himself and, after a token wash, walked over to the clinical beds.

‘Would it be against regulations to push them together?’ he asked.

‘I’ve a better idea. Let’s make do with one.’

‘It’ll be a squeeze.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

With a gusto that prompted Mike to suggest that they come to the country more often, Clement pulled off his underpants and jumped into bed. He
snuggled
up close to Mike, drinking in the warm sandy smell of his skin. All the confusions of Oliver’s return were resolved when they slowly began making love. Fears and inhibitions melted away as he lost himself in Mike’s embrace.

He paid the price the next morning when he yawned through Blossom’s seminar on anger, although he was cheered to see that ‘I can get by on four hours a night’ Mike was equally bleary-eyed. After a lunch in which the toad in the hole and macaroni were replaced by burgers and cauliflower cheese (with a banana and crisps for the vegan), the group split into three for a
workshop
on living with the virus. Against best practice Clement found himself with Mike, and against his better judgement with Newsom, now fully
recovered
from the night before. Their fellow members were Douglas, the nervous newcomer, whose casual attitude to his infection (‘at least I no longer need to worry about catching it’) put Mike’s non-judgemental ethos to the test, and two Botswanan women, Tembi and Linda, who were so softly spoken that Clement missed large chunks of their stories, although the theme of errant husbands and credulous wives was familiar enough for him to fill in the gaps. After three years of life-saving treatment, they faced the threat of its removal, having been refused asylum in a country for which
Commonwealth
was merely a metaphor.

Their final member was Christine, who had exchanged her suit for a more relaxed grey woollen skirt and cardigan, but whose face and body remained rigid. With a voice that gained in confidence as her story progressed, she explained that her father was an evangelical vicar who, at the start of the aids crisis twenty years earlier, had claimed to be on a God-given mission to cure homosexuals. ‘Daddy gathered half a dozen young men… confused and damaged young men, gave them a home – my home – and set them on the path to righteousness. To start with he had some success… one or two girlfriends, even an engagement. Then, little by little, the Devil – what Daddy called
the Devil
– began to assert himself. The men began to break away. And not quietly. There were stories in the papers. Even a report on
Points West
. Daddy was worried that the publicity would threaten the funding. In the end there was only one man left, Luke. The most confused and damaged of them all. Daddy asked me to marry him.’