It upset me. I have to say the finger upset me. Pointed straight at me, like a sign or something, like the whole of the universe was giving it to me, the finger, that is.

A little finger, a left-hand pinkie.

Gnarled it was, with traces of red varnish.

Straight at me, pointing.

Thing was, the fact of the matter being, it came without a hand, an arm, or a body, and whichever way you look at it, that’s kind of freaky.

MEN ON THE VERGE

Sitting in the office manning the ‘Hello, hello’. Monday, early evening, green light lit and all stations go.

I coughed to clear my grimy throat, and, ‘The Honey Trap, how can I help?’

My caller sounded nervous, hesitant, like she couldn’t quite find the right words, though I knew what she was going to say. She was having a trust crisis. As with everyone else who calls
the Honey Trap, she basically suspects her other half, a. has had an affair, b. is having an affair, or c. would like to have an affair, and this is exactly what we specialise in, apprehending men
on the verge.

How trustworthy is your mate? Exactly how faithful? Can he be tempted? Will he succumb? Invariably the answer is yes, but the question remains: How easily? At the Honey Trap we test the strength
of modern-day marriages. The forecast ain’t good, and to date the company has successfully instigated seventy divorces. Quite an achievement. Our success rate is up by twenty per cent on last
year’s score. Since I joined, as a matter of fact.

Sure, we’ve saved a few marriages, but let’s face it: if you’re calling us, there’s a problem. It’s probably just a matter of time, unless of course the client is
actually and certifiably crazy. We have had one such woman. In the end we were forced to get a restraining order. A certain Wacko Wilhemina, who didn’t even have a husband to begin with, but
that’s another story.

‘It’s just . . .’ The caller was snivelling, on the brink of tears. ‘Things haven’t been the same since I had Billy.’

Their second son. I’m privy to much, probably too much.

Marital bliss?

In my opinion a marketing slogan thought up by a gay bloke. And as for
die Kinder
. . . ah children, God bless ’em, but don’t they just go and throw a spanner in the works.
I understand, having one of my own.

So wifey rings us, near cracking point.

‘He’s not there for me. I’m doing everything in the home, holding down a full-time job and seeing to the kids. He just doesn’t seem to understand. It’s so
exhausting, he refuses to pull his weight and’ (wait for it) ‘still expects me to go down on him.’

Nothing untoward so far. I wasn’t listening, not really. I was mulling over the finger. It was cut, or rather hacked, the blood dry and crackly.

Max found the finger. I’d sent him out to the garden to calm down after he’d told me he wasn’t my friend. He’d got into a rage, having repeatedly flung his favourite
video against the wall, only to realise that such actions would, indeed, break it. Sometimes I wonder if he sees me solely as an extension of himself – ’cause he blames me for
everything.

‘Go away,’ he’d screamed at full lung capacity. ‘I’m not your friend.’

So there I was, friendless, or at least with one friend fewer than I’d thought, chopping up some apple, and there he was, red in the face, as I’d refused to acknowledge his anger and
get pulled in. But he wouldn’t let up, so I’d had to open the back door to the garden and push him outside.

‘Out, Max, and don’t come back till you’ve calmed down.’

Immediately I’d reached for my karmic calmers, my pack of fags, and smoked two in a row. Outside, Max wailed for five minutes and then went quiet, really quiet, too quiet. By the time
I’d stubbed out the second fag the thought had crossed my mind that he’d been abducted. I’d raced out to find him bent over and poking at something.

‘Hey, Maxy, what you found?’

Usually it’s stuff like worms, slugs, cat shit or ladybirds.

‘A finger.’

‘Hello . . . you still there?’ asked anxious wifey, sensing my preoccupied mind.

‘Yeah . . . do you have any evidence?’

I could hear her kids in the background.

‘I mean, we’re happily married, it’s just . . . Ned, please be quiet . . . Ned, Mummy’s on the phone.’

My caller was seeking reassurance. She wanted us to reaffirm her and her husband’s bond of trust; she needed to know that he couldn’t be tempted, that he wouldn’t stray. She
also wanted her kid who was throwing a tantrum in the background to shut up, ’cause she couldn’t hear herself think. She said she’d ring back as soon as she could.

‘No problems, but hey, don’t leave it too long. It’s better to nip these things in the bud,’ I, helpful as ever, advised, or rather teased her burgeoning sense of
insecurity.

THE OVERCOAT

The door to the office swung open and Charlie/Fiona, my transgender boss, appeared with my current love interest wrapped around her. Bitch/Bastard. How sad to be so obsessed by
an inanimate object, but it’s sublime. It’s a coat. A beautiful, black, three-quarter-length, cashmere-mix, soft and warm, superbly cut, incredibly expensive coat. I liked the coat.
Fiona looked good in it, but I’d look better. I wanted that coat.

I want, I want, I want . . . my little Maxim . . . his favourite saying, mantra . . . And you know what? Wouldn’t it be awful if one didn’t have any desires?

The coat was, unfortunately, beyond my means. I told Fiona straight out that it didn’t do much for her, the motive being to make her sell it to me at a knockdown price.

Fiona’s tall, with a fine pair of shoulders. First time Maxy met her, he asked why s/he was wearing women’s clothes.

Coolly Fiona stated to my toddler, ‘I am a woman.’

‘Nah, you’re not,’ he grinned, thinking she was being funny.

She wasn’t, and Max looked to me for an explanation. The old adage ringing true that nothing compares to the forthright honesty of a child. However, this had occurred during the job
interview, and I truly thought Max had blown it for me.

‘Does your son have a problem with transgenders?’ enquired Fiona.

‘Not usually,’ I’d replied.

Having hung up the coat, Fiona made towards our cubby hole cum kitchenette, or rather she took one step to her right and then disappeared into what once must have been a built-in closet. The
doors have since been removed, allowing for a mini-fridge beneath a counter and a kettle on top. The office was basic: one room on the second floor of a building on Parkway. Below us were
accountants, and below them, an optician.

Fiona popped her head around the corner.

‘Want a cup of something, Issy?’

BOOK: The Honey Trap

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