Be Careful What You Wish For - 2. Chapter 2 'Who's Out There?'

Kris’s head was spinning with excitement as he sat down at his laptop. The first message received was from someone still online. Their profile name was one of those made up of punctuation marks and letters, the message read,

‘Hi. You up for it, in half an hour?’

Kris puffed in disgust, then typed frantically, his bony fingers hammering on the keys like tiny, demented woodpeckers,

‘tempted as I am by your exciting offer, I work in a fish gutting plant in Grimsby, and by the time I get home, and wash the smell of rotting cod out of my hair, I may be running too late to meet your punishing deadline. Why not give me ten minutes next time?’

He was just about to check the next message when a reply popped up,

‘No need to be so fucking obnoxious, a simple ‘no’ would have done’

Kris had learned his first lesson; not everybody out there was as dumb as he imagined. Moving swiftly on to the next message, he saw that it came from ‘Ridiculously-large’ - just the sort of member he liked! But as Kris read the contents, the colour drained from his face,

‘Are you really 39? I like your pics, but judging by the back door shots, I’d say you’ve been around the block a few times’

Kris fished around wildly for the ‘delete’ button and consigned the extra-large dick to cyber oblivion. This was not going well!

‘One more attempt, then I’m done’ he snarled.

But the next message looked little better. It was from nineteen-year-old ‘FitYungHungChav’

Kris wasn’t optimistic. A swift survey of the profile revealed scant detail, no photographs, and – Kris hated himself for this – ‘FitYung ..’ too had described himself as ‘extra large’

‘Hi’ said ‘Fit...’

‘I think I might be a bit old for you’ Kris countered, suppressing hope,

‘No probs, I just like old guys with really hairy ars...

Click, and he too was gone.

Kris’s optimism was evaporating fast: Lady Gaga could read the signs, she’d seen those angry eyes before, and the way he pushed his specs up onto his brow. It was time to clear out.

Kris slammed shut his laptop and walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a stiff gin and tonic, stood by the window and stared blankly into the garden. This wasn’t what he’d planned.

Sipping the drink, he looked back over his life.

He’d been raised in a rough part of Manchester. His parents, already quite old at the time of his birth, were kind and well meaning, but Kris, bright, wayward and sharp tongued, had often been too much of a challenge for them.

School had been a particularly difficult time for the boy, even before he came out. His neat clothes were envied, his academic ability resented, and his ‘posh accent’ mimicked. Wearing specs had earned him repeated beatings from the other boys, and when, one day, he foolishly let slip that he liked the Carpenters, that would have brought certain death but for the intervention of several girls, who proved more practised with knives than the bullies. Of course, these fearsome females didn’t find Kris attractive, but they did value him as someone who could do their homework, and give occasional much needed advice on cosmetics and colour co-ordination. Kris should have learned then the value of friends.

It was at university that he met the man who’d change his life, and prove to be the truest ally he had. Gordon Chapman was reading English and wanted to be a journalist. And his inventive mind, ready wit, and prop forward’s frame would have equipped him perfectly for that, except that he lacked the rhino hide that such people need. For, sad to say, Gordon was sensitive beyond words. He’d met Kris at a college gay-lesbian disco; he’d first encountered the slightly built young man crawling around on all fours in the gentlemen’s washroom. Kris had explained he was simply looking for a lost contact lens. Gordon couldn’t understand why, in such circumstances, Kris should have his jeans and shorts around his ankles, but he settled for complimenting him on his ‘cute bottom’. The kind remark had been like aloes to a scorched brow, and Kris was smitten by the man who was destined to be his knight in shining armour, lover and protector.

Kris jolted himself back into the present. ‘But that was then’ he thought, pouring himself another extra large gin. ‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since and I need to make a new life for myself’

And with these thoughts he returned to the laptop and the cornucopia of carnal delights that is Mince-Meet

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‘Fancy a ciggie? Come on, let’s go outside. I’ve got to get away from parents for at least ten minutes, or I’ll scream’

Alison smiled manically and Gordon took the hint, picking up his folder and following her towards the emergency exit on the ground floor of Levenshawe High School. Parent evenings could be a grind at the best of times, tonight was no exception.

They exited the building and stole over to the cycle sheds like a couple of kids making out for the first time. Alison stopped, then lit two cigarettes, handing one to Gordon.

‘You would not believe what Natasha Wright’s mother just accused me of’

But Gordon laughed out loud and squeezed her around the waist,

‘Remember our deal, you don’t mention any parents to me and I return the favour. Just chill, only six more weeks till the end of term’

‘How on earth do you manage to remain so positive about everything?’

Gordon suddenly looked serious, his brow wrinkling, as if in sympathy with his unfashionably wavy hair.

‘What’s the alternative? Life’s short, brutish and rough, or tough, or something like that, as someone once said’

‘Thomas Hobbes’

‘Smart Arse!’

‘No, it was Hobbes, Arse came later!’

They both laughed, then drew on their cigarettes, creating tiny red semaphores in the blackness,

‘So how’s Greene doing? Has he got a job yet?’

Alison’s smile evaporated,

‘You are joking! He’s the laziest thing on God’s earth. Why couldn’t I have had a sister? The latest craze is media and tourism. He goes to this night class, all free of course as he’s unemployed, a complete waste of time.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘What can he do with media and tourism? I thought he only signed up for the course ‘cos he fancied the tutor’

‘Sounds a good enough reason to me’ laughed Gordon,

‘You would say that! Well, I’ve met the guy. Greene invited me to join them for a coffee. He’s called Roberto’

‘Oooh, se--xy!’ quipped Gordon,

‘You better believe it! Broad shoulders, great smile, eye lashes any woman would kill for, but I don’t trust him’

‘That’s a bit harsh. What’s the guy done?’

‘Come on Gordon, you know what it’s like when you’ve got a bad feeling about something. This guy’s 28, or something, years younger than Greene, but he’s way more streetwise’

Alison cast a nervous glance at her watch,

‘We’d better be getting back’

‘So what’s this guy done to get under your skin?’

‘Nothing I can put my finger on, obviously, but he just has to clap his hands and Greene jumps.

‘Are they dating?’

‘No, but they’ve had sex’

‘I’m not even going to begin to ask you how you know that!’

‘Good, ‘cos I wouldn’t tell you,

Alison stubbed out her cigarette and turned to go back in,

‘Hey not so fast, I was meaning to pick your brains’ countered Gordon,

‘That shouldn’t take long’

‘I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s Kris’s and my twentieth anniversary coming up and I wanted to surprise him. He’s the sharp, switched on, stylish one. Just for once I wanted to knock his socks off with a really wild, sexy present. That’s where you come in’

‘Listen Gordon, if you’ve both made it through 20 years and are still happy that’s pretty much the best present you could have’

‘I knew you would say something sensible like that. But give it some thought, won’t you?’

‘I can do better. Why don’t we go for a drink after this is done and we can talk about it then?’

‘Great! I’ll give Kris a call’

It was time to return indoors and face the hordes of breeders.

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Manchester. Night approached and the great metropolis began its daily transformation. Shops closed, workers left, traffic eased and even the birds retreated to the trees. Then the lights appeared, gently at first, like a carpet of stars, but growing in intensity as the darkness deepened. By late evening they strafed the night with garish brilliance. And somewhere amidst this kaleidoscope of neon was the club Spurtz.

The club was at capacity but it was two people, seated on high stools at the end of the bar, who were commanding most of the attention. A barman approached them,

‘Miss Morales, you’re on in ten minutes’

The recipient of this intelligence threw back her head by way of acknowledgement, and blew smoke into the air.

Luce Morales was a tribute act, homage à Dusty Springfield, and no-one did the late, much loved diva better. Luce, though past her prime - nobody quite knew her age except the GUM clinic and the Inland Revenue – could still give an account of ‘Yesterday when I was young’ that moistened many a hardened, Mancunian eye.

But for once, all eyes in the room were turned not towards her but her companion. Relaxing, with all the assurance of one who knows he’s the most attractive person in the bar by a factor of ten, Luce’s new friend looked casual in his oatmeal linen suit and white shirt. His eyes were blacker than her mascara and his smile, when it came, was dazzling. For nearly half an hour the two sat, chatted and sipped sparkling water.

Getting into rôle, Luce’s voice developed a sort of Diana Dors sultriness as she turned to her handsome neighbour,

‘Will you stay to watch the show?’

‘Of course, and once again thanks for all your help’

‘Glad to be of help, sweetheart. Kris and I go back a long way. There’s nothing about him I can’t tell you’

So saying, the diva stepped down off the stool and headed off to the washroom to re-apply.

The vision in linen didn’t waste a second. He glanced rapidly at his Tag, adjusted his cuffs, took one contemptuous scan of the room, and strode out, confident in the knowledge that all eyes were on him.

On the street, the stranger hailed a cab, and, as it drew up, made a call.

‘I’ve managed to get most of what I wanted, though he couldn’t be sure which house Karton lives in. I’ll get that tomorrow. See you later’

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We don’t know what we don’t know. Kris’s day, which had started out so well had ended drearily. The stellar evening he’d planned online had not materialised. If Mr Right was out there he was lying low, and most of the messages Kris received were depressing if not outright insulting. As the night wore on the contributors to Mince-Meet appeared to be drunk, drugged, demented or desperate, and in some cases all four.

Kris got ready for bed; his own bed in his own room. He was spikier than usual because Gordon had rung and explained he’d be late because he was having a drink with Alison.

Would Kris have been kinder had he known that his partner was planning an anniversary surprise for them both? Possibly not.

Would he have replied a little less sharply to Gordon if he’d taken time to reflect on just what he’d been doing all evening? Probably not.

And would his sleep have been just that little bit less disturbed if he’d known exactly what someone out there did have planned for him? Certainly not!