Be Careful What You Wish For - 7. Chapter 7 'Men at War'

Midday in Manchester, and Spurtz opened its doors to the lunchtime trade.

During the day, the clubdidn’t ‘spurt’ so muchas dribble. In fact, if the semen analogy is to be pursued further, the discernible daytime activity rarely amounted to more than a moist Jap’s eye*.But the bar opened all the same, providing toasted snacks to a blindly loyal clientele who neither minded waiting endlessly for their food, being overcharged when it came, nor ignored when they complained about how shitty it was.

If customer service - possibly worse in the United Kingdom than anywhere else in the developed world - reaches its nadir on the gay scene, then Spurtz deserves the Oscar!

But today, like most days, the club witnessed another transformation - that of drag star Luce Morales into plain, anonymous Harry Hind.

Harry took his accustomed place at the end of the bar and lit up. Taking several deep draws to secure a sufficient hit, he threw back his head, and held aloft the cigarette, ensuring that even the least observant must recognise that – gowns and greasepaint aside - he was she. And to be fair most did, including Greene Carter, who’d ventured to the club, secure in the knowledge that Harry would be there.

Like all divas Harry required deference,

‘What’ll you have?’ asked Greene timidly.

‘Large vodka and soda. Whatever’s good enough for Chelsea’s good enough for me’

The defrocked star looked around as though awaiting applause, but none came. He took the drink, without thanks, and gave Greene a sickly smile,

‘So how are you love, not seen you in ages?’

‘Actually, things haven’t been that great, and I’ve got a real problem right now’

Harry took another deep drag on the rapidly shrinking cigarette, blew smoke, and looked away,

‘Well, we’ve all got a story to tell’

But Harry had never been known to give a hearing to anybody’s ‘story’ save his own.

‘You know Kris Karton, right?’

‘Yes, lover, I do. As do you; you were serving behind the bar here when Kris and Gordon used to come in. That must be twenty years ago now’

Greene gazed abstractedly at the spirits optics, as though he’d discover on the nicotine stained glass shelves where the years had gone,

‘Yeah, but I didn’t know either of them well. My sister teaches with Gordon these days, so I know him better. Somebody was telling me the other day that a dead fancyable Latino was in here recently’

Harry looked arch,

‘I don’t know where you get your info from, but they should have reminded you of Rule Number One’

Greene imagined the drag artiste must be referring to the ‘don’t grass’ policy, but he overlooked the fact that most of Harry’s principles were liquor based. He ordered another large vodka in readiness, and the star’s throat, unlocked by the promise of more alcohol, gained momentum,

‘Yes, he was in here. And he was gorrrgeouss! He did ask a lot of stuff about Kris, but I was the soul of discretion. I couldn’t tell him that much anyway, I hadn’t seen Kris in ages’

Greene, unpractised in the art of interrogation, stalled and ran dry: the old artiste took pity on him,

‘So, like I was saying, I hadn’t seen him in ages, but funnily enough I did see Kris walk past here, last week, and the hot Hispanic guy was with him, so they must have hooked up’

Greene remained silent, Harry continued,

‘You’re not very good at this, love, are you? Well, the hottie has an apartment just along the canal from here, and it looked like they were both heading in that direction’

Greene was embarrassed, Harry unconcerned,

‘Aren’t you staying for one?’

‘No, I’d love to but I’ve things to do’

‘Yeah, I bet you have’

* Jap’s Eye = hole at end of urethra, tip of penis

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Judith Openshaw was late thirties, slightly built, with dyed blond hair and a pale complexion. Looking nervously about her, she sipped the coffee she’d just ordered. Whose crazy idea was it to meet at a supermarket café in Ashton, and one situated outdoors right beside a railway and canal? Café society, huh?

‘Mam!’

The sound gladdened her heart and she smiled, transforming her appearance. Standing up, and embracing Justin, his mother kissed him on both cheeks, and buried her head in his mop of curls. Fighting back the tears, she mock-scolded him,

‘What do you think you’re doing, bringing me all the way over here?’

‘It’s safe. And I wanted to give you a treat. They do fab tuna melts here’

‘Never mind that, I’ve eaten. So how about you, how are you?’

‘Great, the guys I’m hanging out with have kinda said I can stay there as long as I want’

His mother looked unconvinced,

‘I’d feel better if I met them’

‘Look, Mam, I told you before, why don’t you listen?’

His mother raised her hand to drop the matter. She knew too well the quick temper her son possessed; and she was chilled by his maturing, deepening voice - so redolent of his long absent father’s. Judith knew she was treading that agonising line between alienating or appeasing her son, and that this morning, once again, he’d win.

‘I just need to know you’re happy as well as safe’

‘Yeah, well I am’

Moodily, Justin got up and went to get himself a Coke.

When he was out of sight his mother rummaged in her bag for her purse, ready to give him all the cash she could afford, and some she couldn’t.

In that way mothers do.

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Gordon answered the door to his guest.

‘Come in Greene. Sorry about the change of plan, but Kris rang me earlier to say he’d be very late tonight. I’m sure we’ll be OK at home here. Would you like to come through to the back garden?’

The two men made their way through the immaculate house, with its tasteful 1930s furniture and expensive soft furnishings, to the garden, where Gordon had set out a table with two wine glasses.

Gordon and Greene made quite a contrast. The older man resembled an explosion in a vintage clothes shop, the younger was dressed impeccably in khaki pants, linen shirt and Seersucker jacket. Greene declined the wine, but Gordon took his, and spoke,

‘This could take forever, Greene, but I’ll try to make it brief. You’re aware that a company like Canis exists to do research and develop drugs. Well, for some years the British operation had been following a particular line of enquiry. It seems that about two years ago they referred their data to headquarters in the States. The news that came back wasn’t good. Basically, the Americans said, ‘You’re on the wrong track here, drop it’

Gordon took a gulp of wine, Greene intervened,

‘But they didn’t drop it, did they?’

‘No, they didn’t. Such a direction couldn’t easily have been ignored in the US, with all their openness, but here, in the UK, well, Kris was senior pathologist, in charge of everything. Nobody was prepared to question what he said’

‘But why would he want to persevere with worthless research?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out, Greene’

Both men fell silent. Gordon poured out a glass of red for his abstemious visitor. Greene took a deep breath,

‘Gordon, there’s something I just have to tell you. I can’t tell you how bad this makes me feel, but..

‘It’s OK, I know. Kris is cheating. That’s what you’re going to tell me, isn’t it? I can save you the awkwardness, I know already. It’s not the first time anyway’

Greene longed to reach out and touch Gordon. The big man’s face was a mask of pain, only his mouth retaining its handsome line. Greene broke the silence,

‘Alison’s probably told you about this guy Roberto. He runs a media course at uni, and I’m one of his students. I stupidly thought he was singling me out for special treatment, so when he suggested a ‘special project’ involving Canis Carcinoma I jumped at it. I did hear him refer to Kris once or twice, but when I found all that material on his laptop it was a surprise; seems he had done a load of research on him. Then I conducted some enquiries of my own, down in town, and found out what I’d suspected, that Roberto was a bit of a player as well’

‘And he was playing with Kris?’

‘Yes’

‘And this upsets you, why?’

‘Because Roberto was playing with me too’

The two men stared at each other.

‘We’re a couple of schmucks, aren’t we?’ said Gordon.

He turned away, hiding his tears. Greene rose, and stood behind his new ally. He laid one hand gently on his shoulder and the other on his wavy greying hair.

The two men had to acquaint themselves with the wretched new dynamic of their lives. And, unknown to them, an unfamiliar element, who would play his part in the chaos, had just joined them: Justin had returned and, startled by what he’d seen from the kitchen window, he’d retreated to his bedroom. There he struggled to use seventeen years life experience to make sense of the drama he’d witnessed in the garden.

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The thought of six months exile in the United States had driven Kris Karton almost to despair. There were many aspects of life Stateside that Kris admired; the affluence, modernity and of course consumerism. But, for reasons now becoming clear, he didn’t wish his professional life to be submitted to too close a scrutiny by his American colleagues. Somehow he’d have to dodge this planned trip, but he knew not how.

In the midst of this cloud of gloom he received probably the only news that could have alleviated his depression, a call from Roberto arranging a hook up. In his urgency to meet the Hispanic stallion Kris decided that a diversion home would be a nuisance best avoided, so he took full advantage of Roberto’s suggestion and agreed to dine at his apartment around seven.

Arriving early, Kris checked in at the door intercom. He was relieved to hear Roberto’s velvety tones inviting him up. Once inside, the visitor attempted a welcome kiss with his host but the reception was cool. Roberto ungraciously took the flowers Kris had brought and dumped them on the kitchen table. He returned a minute later with two glasses of powerful Chilean Merlot. He handed one to Kris.

Walking over to the window of his fourth floor apartment, he looked down into the canal,

‘How rundown and grubby everything looks here!’

Kris tried to make light of things, smiling,

‘You ought to have seen it when I was a child, if you’d fallen into the canal then, and swallowed any water, you wouldn’t have survived the night’

‘So how’s that changed? The whole place looks a toilet to me, not just the canal’

Kris bridled, a true son of Manchester he was only prepared to take so much of this,

‘It was the first major industrial city in the world, it’s entitled to be a bit tired around the edges, things are much improved today’

Roberto sneered,

‘And look the legacy, the mess the environment is in now, thanks to your Industrial Revolution’

‘Our Industrial Revolution? I think you’ll find that Germany, France and even Belgium were only a heartbeat behind’

‘Yes, but it was this poisonous country that first contaminated the world with capitalism’

‘The world was happy enough to lap up the material benefits when it suited’

Kris’s voice was shrill and domineering. Roberto responded in kind,

‘So tell me, if it was such a great idea why is your country fucked now?’

‘Well, pack your bags and get the fuck out if you like it so little!’

Roberto could feel the hairs on his neck rise. He’d been in this position before, only it had been in some hotel on 42^nd Street, New York. Then, he’d longed to rip his combatant from her sofa and hurl her out the window. Now he was staring at a diminutive man in specs, and he wasn’t giving an inch.

Kris met his gaze with adamantine resolve. And he wasn’t prepared to bow to this arrogant upstart, regardless of whether their argument should involve something as arcane as Manchester’s canals, or a defence of the capitalist system.

‘So, you leave my city alone and I will try very hard not to allude to whichever shit infested barrio you managed to crawl out of’

The men were now eye to eye. Kris spoke very slowly and deliberately,

‘Because, however tough you consider yourself, by the time I was nineteen, I’d been gang raped by my boyfriend and his mates, and made to spend the night with their total spunk and piss inside me. If you want to fight me, remember I’ve met you and your kind a million times before, and dealt with it’

‘Is that it?’ asked Roberto, bravado dented but not totally spent,

‘Just know this. Mamacita might have taught you one or two nifty tricks with blades, but I’m a time served senior pathologist. There’s nothing I can’t do with a knife, and I can have your cojones sliced off and stitched in your mouth in under a minute’

There was nowhere else to go. The men exchanged mutual looks of hatred, the one wild and flashing, the other, cold and clinical, but both lethal.

After a minute or two to cool off, they agreed to have a drink and to change the subject. And they took some comfort in that other enduring truth known the world over; that whatever their differences, and however bitter the enmity, they’d still end up having sex with each other that night.

Nothing was more certain.