Be Careful What You Wish For - 11. Chapter 11 'Home Thoughts from Abroad'

Life’s not fair, never was.

Greene Carter was one of the quieter types, and, for as long as he could remember, people had judged him for it. His silence was construed as timidity by some, sullen scheming by others: he had either nothing to say, or too much too hide: and in our era of frenzied communication his quiet introspection was deemed reticence, disinterest, even arrogance.

Fact is that Greene was none of this. He was shy, insecure and often tongue tied, but he was also guileless. He thought, spoke and did none harm, and, beyond that, knew not what more he could do. If he had a fault, it was a harmless vanity in choosing career paths that were frivolous and unproductive, and a weakness for Vivienne Westwood fashion, which may have appealed to his taste, but exhausted his wallet.

Greene had confided in Gordon Chapman about Roberto and, Gordon, realising that he and his informer were both sharers in a twin deception, had revealed his betrayal by Kris. In his heart Greene hoped the big man would develop feelings for him, but for the moment he suspected that that was just wishful thinking. Gordon’s twenty year relationship was all but over, he needed support more than anything.

Greene knew about Justin, and – initially at least - saw him as no more than another of Gordon’s rescued young men, not a rival. But the incident in the men’s washroom at the club changed that. He’d seen with his own eyes how good Gordon and Justin seemed together. Which gay man doesn’t want some pretty young thing on his arm, especially if he’s bright, sexy and witty? But Justin wasn’t simply young; he had attributes Greene would never possess. He was smart, lively, and capable. Nothing appeared to faze him, nobody overawe him.

Youth of itself is pretty worthless; we all have that at one time. But Greene ached to know why this boy was the possessor of all the other good things; why he?

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Brad Chaytor walked over to the window of his hotel room and stared at the slate grey sky. He was puzzled: an hour earlier the sunrise was so bright it had wakened him. But now the scene was changing before his eyes. No country on earth does cloud better than Britain, and in less time than it took the young American to shower and breakfast, an unrelenting altostratus had crept in from the Atlantic and reduced the sun to a pale lemon disc. Brad had never been further from the west coast of America and right now it had never felt closer to his heart.

The young FBI agent was acclimatising fast to English life. His expensive Brookes Brothers suit hung undisturbed in the wardrobe. Beth explained he’d not need it – anymore than he would the $400 loafers. In the UK, even the men who can afford to dress well rarely do. He glanced nervously at his mobile once more and her text. She’d advised him he could do worse that join Justin on a shopping expedition to the city centre. He’d know what did and didn’t work in Manchester.

Brad was apprehensive yet curious about meeting the youngster: he already felt some respect for the seventeen year old, who’d posed as a battered step son, inveigled his way into a household occupied by two middle aged homosexual men, and gained so unreservedly their confidence.

He checked the mirror, and got ready to groom his voluminous Californian hair. He recalled Beth’s words ‘Most men in the UK are bald by 30, you might like to consider losing some of that, unless you want to show out’ He’d decided that was a bridge too far. Applying product, he flattened his thatch of mid brown hair and brushed it back. Preppy or not, he was good to go.

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Kris sprang out of bed, stretched and broke wind. Giggling like a girl, he held a hand to his mouth in feigned outrage. He turned to Roberto, recumbent on their lately-soiled bed of lust,

‘You know, the great thing about holidays is that you can forget work, sleep when you like, get up when you like, and generally do nothing’

Coming, as he did, from a part of the world where that was the norm Roberto couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Languidly, he combed through his pubic hair arranging it to best advantage,

‘You Anglo-Saxons and your ridiculous work ethic, what’s it ever done for you? Life is first and last about the pursuit of pleasure’

Kris could not argue. He’d sampled some of that pleasure during the last hour and, now that his mangina had stopped buzzing, was preparing to shower and freshen up. Roberto was preoccupied with comb,

‘Do you think if I thinned out the bush my cock would look even bigger?’

Kris pretended not to hear, and prattled on,

‘Speaking of pleasure, tonight I’ve booked us into El Comedor Rodrigo, over in Campo Amor. It’s the best restaurant for miles around, especially their fish. Nothing’s too good or expensive for my lover’

Kris leaned over and planted a kiss on Roberto’s flayed tool. The Latino grimaced as though dog faeces had just been smeared across the upper reaches of his goatee,

‘You might have consulted me first! I’m allergic to certain fish, especially here in Spain. I think they ship the shrimp in from Viet Nam. The stuff smells. I so miss the wonderful seafood we have at home’

Kris wasn’t sympathetic,

‘Fish is fish, the smell doesn’t bother me. And anyway, you know what they say: there are only two things that smell like fish, and one of them is fish’

‘And what is the other?’

Kris brayed with laughter and cast down his eyes on the Hispanic’s throbbing portion, Roberto looked stricken,

‘You British are inexplicably coarse at times’

Taking that as a compliment, Kris continued,

‘They know me at El Comedor. It’s safe to say that I made a real impression when I visited last summer. Rodrigo the owner actually said, ‘we don’t get many like you in here’. And the cuisine was amazing! I complimented the chef on some of the best pork I’d ever tasted. He told me ‘I can see you know your way around a piece of meat’ ’

But Roberto’s mind was elsewhere, flitting between the white sand and topaz water of his native land, and a tiny, gloomy mountain church nearby where he’d soon realise a lifelong dream. And the only face he could see was not Kris’s, but that of a stony faced woman with a cruel smile and eyes wide with scorn.

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Brad made his way to the Triangle Shopping Centre and stood near the big wheel, the spot where he’d meet Justin. The young American was no people watcher, and derived neither joy nor interest from the endless swirl of humanity as it ebbed and flowed around him. England seemed small, densely crowded, with narrow streets, congested traffic and omnipresent noise.

Exactly on time he saw a young man walking directly towards him. Justin smiled broadly.

Brad quickly took stock of his new acquaintance. Justin was pleasing rather than handsome. His nose was small and ‘rétroussé’, as the French say, or ‘pig like’ as we do. His fair skin was peppered with freckles, making him appear even younger than his 17 years, and his grey blue eyes sparkled with fun. Brad was curious about the unkempt curly honey blond hair, and reflected on Beth’s words. If she was right, and Englishmen only keep their hair till they’re 30, then it made sense that they ought to enjoy it while they can!

Brad offered his hand, but Justin reached around and hugged him. At once the American realised that the kid was stronger than he looked. Justin took control of the situation,

‘Let’s go for a Coke, or coffee if you like, in here’

Brad understood instinctively what it takes many of us a lifetime to discover. There are two types of people; those who have no particular plan, and those who have a plan for everything: Justin was the latter.

Inside the shopping centre the youngster ordered and paid for drinks and returned to the table. He handed Brad a decaf coffee,

‘I’ve never met an American before, you’re my first’

‘But you’ve met Beth surely?’ Brad answered,

‘You mean Sister Agnes. She’s Irish, isn’t she?’

Brad laughed,

‘I guess she’s whatever she wants you to think. She did tell me she couldn’t do the local accent ’

‘Just as well, she’d end up sounding like John Lennon or something’

Both laughed, Brad asked,

‘Where’s a good place to talk?’

‘I’ve got that all sorted. Gordon’s at work, we can go back to the house. His desk top is there. I understand you can interrogate his computer, you’ve got the gear’

Brad was a little unprepared for this,

‘What about Karton? Do we know where he is exactly?’

‘Not exactly. In Spain, with some guy. He won’t be around’

‘OK. Sounds good. I’ll need to grab my equipment first, or it’s not happening’

Justin laughed,

‘Yeah, grab your equipment before I do. I bet I could make it happen’

And in a second, the gulf between them yawned as wide as possible, for Brad coloured and did not know what to say. Then he spluttered,

‘Erm, I thought we were gonna pick out some clothes’

Justin stared into the handsome American’s eyes; he knew he was master of the situation. At least for now.

‘No, you look great as you are. Let’s just get over there’

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Wearing more jewellery than the Gabor sisters combined, and smelling like some rancid old dowager, Kris emerged from the bathroom and declared himself ready for the evening,

‘Soy listo’

‘I think ‘Lista’ in your case, and you used the wrong verb ’ Roberto observed humourlessly.

‘Whatever! Taxi’s here’

The route to Campo Amor took them along a series of dusty, litter strewn roads, with the periodic bougainvillea-lined avenue for relief. Building work at every stage of completion engulfed them. Houses, some never used, some abandoned, some derelict sat forlornly in the evening sunshine. Roberto made some observation to the cab driver apropos the colossal and immoral overbuilding, and received a primeval grunt by return.

Kris, of course, was happy to overlook any number of shortcomings, litter, debris, and vandalism included. So what, if there was the occasional exposed power cable, gaping storm drain and unfenced 100 metre drop? Kris was tired of the nanny state back in the UK. He found Spain refreshing in the way it invited visitors to take a more active interest in their personal safety.

Before long they arrived at Campo Amor and the door of El Comedor Rodrigo. Kris was dripping,

‘Keep the change, mi amigo’ he smirked, handing his ride a 20 Euro note.

The cab driver took off faster than you could say ‘been had’

‘I paid him when we left the house’ observed Roberto tartly.

Silently the two men entered the restaurant. Inside, a waiter approached Kris to take his coat, but Dr Karton MD had spotted the proprietor,

‘Rodrigo! hola, cuanto esto?’

Roberto groaned. The bar staff stared. The customers stifled embarrassed giggles. The restaurant owner spun round, stared at Kris, muttered something to his head waiter, and disappeared into the kitchen. But his second in command was the next target,

‘Caballero, la cuenta por favor’

The maitre D looked perplexed. Roberto hissed into Kris’s ear,

‘Why are you asking for the bill, you idiot, we’ve just arrived? Don’t you mean the menu?’

But Kris ignored that and, taking both the waiter’s and Roberto’s arms, minced to the bar,

‘Garçon, let me introduce a very special friend. This is Roberto. I’ve been telling him about my time here last summer, and the special things you and I tried out together’

The waiter looked mortified, but Roberto had recovered the situation and quickly barked at him in his native tongue,

‘You’ve never seen this guy before, have you?’

And the waiter’s reply was quite decisive.

‘No, and believe me I’d have remembered!’

But Kris pressed on,

‘Tonight we’re going to have my usual, and a bottle of your best rosario’

The waiter, who’d have dealt better with an aphasic Mandarin speaker, turned to Roberto and pleaded with him,

‘His usual? You’re going to have to help me here’

Roberto sank into his chair, but Kris was back on his feet, arms waving and nostrils flaring like a pig discovering truffles,

‘No, dos botelias, por favour, dos! We’re going to celebrate’

‘And what exactly are we celebrating?’

‘Well that profound plugging I got this afternoon is a good start’

Roberto had nothing to celebrate. This was turning into a really bad day. At least that’s how it felt.

If only he knew. He was less than twenty four hours away from his worst nightmare!

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