Malcolm and the Rent Boy - 1. Chapter 1 'Back on Track Again'

Malcolm glanced down at the kitchen table where his favourite magazine Young and Horsehung lay open. He flicked casually through the serried, fleshy delights, until a vague stirring in his pyjamas signalled that it was time to break from this penile perusal, and have breakfast. Unpeeling his banana, the old Yorkshire man reflected on how much his life had changed recently; he was now free!

Free, but not at ease! Malcolm had been devastated by his parents’ shock decision to quit the family home; those first few days without his mum and dad had been tough. Was living with him really so boring that a couple of octogenarians preferred sheltered accommodation? The answer, it seemed, was yes.

But Malcolm, a retired teacher, decided to make the best of things. His new found freedom meant he could take delivery of endless postal porn, pass the afternoons with binoculars trained on the local boys' school, and spend evenings watching railway films so dull they’d send a glass eye to sleep.

Trains were Malcolm’s thing. But, following a number of incidents at the city railway station, involving him, the police and small boys, he’d curtailed his visits there. All of which meant the elderly rail enthusiast had become something of a recluse. But today, he decided, it was time to snap out of it: he needed socialisation, and a trip to the supermarket was just the thing to cheer him up.

Malcolm went to the bathroom to freshen up; the sight of his parents' hastily abandoned possessions tugged at his heart strings. But being a true son of Yorkshire it never occurred to him to throw anything out, much less give it away. He rummaged idly through his mother’s toiletries, then he picked up a box of her hair dye, eyeing it wistfully. It was some time before he emerged from the bathroom, ready for his trip to the retail park.

A trip to the supermarket was a mixed blessing. Malcolm hated crowds, and as an educator had hated children; for good measure he also hated women. And so, when visiting the supermarket he always made a point of parking up in parents and toddlers reserved spaces. But today, he wilfully parked up his little runabout too close to the door of a people carrier whose driver was struggling to extricate her child from the vehicle. She glared at the old curmudgeon. He glared back. Then her anger turned to amusement, and she got on with her task, every now and again glancing back at him, and smirking.

Malcolm's supermarket drill was simple and routine. His first call was the shelf where the date-expired food lay festering. He always managed to secure some bargains, even if it meant rugby-tackling some of those heavyweight women from the council estate. Then came the depressing business of hunting out those necessities he’d have to pay full price for. Finally Malcolm would retire to the cafeteria to stuff himself with as much full English breakfast as they'd give him for £2.95, whilst reading the local advertiser paper.

But today the paper was not the idle purchase it usually was, far from it. This morning Malcolm had a plan. Settling himself into a corner seat in the restaurant - as far away from the other diners as possible - he located the page that contained personals, and the section headed Him for Him. He found what he was looking for, it read,

'Escort, genuine 18, fit and hot, discreet home visits'

Egg ran down Malcolm's chin as, with trembling hand, he wrote down the contact number on a napkin. He folded the advertiser paper neatly. He'd return it to the kiosk and get his money back. There was no need to be silly about these things.

The Polish waitress busied herself clearing away Malcolm’s dirty dishes; she was smiling broadly at him.

'These Eastern Europeans are much friendlier than I thought' Malcolm muttered audibly, returning her smile,

‘Was everything alright?’ she enquired,

'It was fine, thanks. What's your name?'

'Zytka' replied the waitress, beaming,

'Poor girl' thought Malcolm, 'having a name like that! And why’s she smirking so? learning difficulties probably!'

--------------------------------------------------

Before long Malcolm was back home. He'd observed in the car that some of the bargain purchases were beginning to leach offensive smells, especially the macaroni cheese: it would have to be eaten first. Five minutes in the microwave and the meal was ready. The macaroni cheese smelled no better, but now, if nothing else, it was hot.

Tea over Malcolm got down to business; he took the napkin and rang the number that he'd written down, reflecting, with irritation that, it being a mobile, it would cost him more. The reply came at once.

'Hi, Stryker here'

'Who'

'Stryker! Who's that?'

'Erm, I'm just replying to your advert in the Advertiser'

'OK. I'm Stryker. You can call me Stryke if you like'

'Well, em, I was wondering about your services...'

'What like?'

'Well, for a start, how much do you charge?'

'£80 a night, and £240 for the weekend'

Malcolm felt faint. His first motor car had cost less than a night with Stryker. He choked back the urge to ask if the escort did concessions for the over 60s, and continued,

'How about if we say £20 for quarter of an hour?'

'How about if I say forget it?'

'No please, wait a moment, this is the first time I've done anything like this, I'm inexperienced'

Tightfisted,was what Stryker was thinking but he relented, took the elderly man's address, and a date was made for that very evening.

Malcolm was flustered. It should have occurred to him that, now he was in his sixties, it wasn't his best plan to make a date with an 18 year old - Should have but didn't. He was now committed to spend £80 and he was determined to get his money's worth.

It remained only to smarten up. Was there time to put the immersion on and have a bath, or would some discreet washing at the sink do? Tough call, but the Yorkshire gene kicked in and Malcolm let cost win over hygiene. Sitting down on the bed, he pulled off his support stockings. As he did so, the sun’s rays spotlighted a cloud of dead skin particles dancing free of the tired hosiery. No, it had to be admitted, legs weren't his best feature, and they reminded him of that Stilton cheese in the supermarket - only his veins were bluer!

Next problem, what underwear? The thong he'd bought in Benidorm in 1973 no longer supported his sagging nuts, and while his M & S trunks were reliable they were hardly sexy. Eventually he settled for an orange Tanga he'd not worn in years. And imagine his surprise and delight when he discovered, wrapped up in the underwear, a small parcel containing a tiny blue pill. This would give the forthcoming encounter its best chance of success.

Presently, the doorbell rang. Malcolm took a gulp of Dubonnet, rapidly swallowed the pill, and went to the door. The sight that met the old man’s eyes took his breath away. The escort was very young indeed, appearing more like 16 than 18. He was slim, with dark cropped hair and a pale though handsome face. He wore a tight fitting T-shirt and anti-fit jeans. The two males stared at one another before Malcolm invited his guest in. They went through to the front room and sat down.

'Can I get you a cup of tea?' suggested Malcolm

'Haven't you anything stronger?'

Malcolm DID have alcohol on the premises but clearly the young man didn't realise that it was easier to thread a needle with cooked spaghetti than get a drink out of his miserly host.

'Then tea it is' said the escort gloomily.

Malcolm went into the kitchen and reappeared several minutes later with a tray of tea and biscuits. The young man was looking about the room, and especially at the bookshelves.

'You like trains a lot' he suggested.

'I like lots of things' added Malcolm, guardedly. The mention of trains by people was usually the harbinger of ridicule and condemnation.

The escort continued his perusal of the room to the increased irritation of the older man. Malcolm knew that the blue pill he'd taken earlier had a period of efficacy and that was running out.

'There's some tea and biscuits here. Why don't you sit down?'

The young man did as he was bidden, but kept his eyes down as he drank his tea. Then suddenly he added,

'My uncle Colin likes that sort of thing. He invited me to see some steam train one day but I was bored stiff'

'Well, it's not everybody's cup of tea' snapped Malcolm.

And the chocolate biscuits weren’t the boy’s cup of tea either. He had just unwrapped one and was inspecting it critically. The biscuit was paying the price for its long imprisonment in Malcolm's damp pantry and the chocolate coating had the confectionery equivalent of leprosy.

'Don't eat it if you don't like it' said Malcolm sourly.

The young man put down the offending item, and Malcolm continued,

'You're not called Stryker are you? What's your real name?'

'I'd rather not say, Stryker's just my working name'

Both males were now beginning to think that the proposed meeting was not likely to go ahead. That wasn't good news. Eighty quid was at stake, money that one of them needed to earn, and the other wanted to keep. Malcolm studied the boy once more.

'You know, I have this really strong feeling that I've seen you before'

'Maybe' added the other lazily

'So tell me, once again, what's your name?'

Malcolm could feel the old school teacher reasserting himself.

The boy looked up and met his eyes directly and defiantly.

'It's Colin Blenkinsop. OK?'

Malcolm sunk back into his chair as if beaten over the head. Eyes bulging, he pursed his lips, looking like a demented circus ringmaster.

The rent boy, now on his feet, grabbed his jacket.

'I'm out of here. Sorry we've wasted each other's time. You won't be seeing me again. And by the way if you're planning to hook up with anybody, here's some advice. Check the bathroom mirror'

And with that Stryker, Colin or whatever we shall call him, exited, leaving Malcolm lost for words. It was some time before the old man summoned the courage to go to the bathroom and discover how he'd come to make people smile that day. His mother's hair dye had not bestowed the desired result on his ‘tache, which had steadily and rather perversely turned green as the day went on.

Still, it wasn't a total disaster; the egg came off with a wipe. But Malcolm wasn’t going to get rid of the image of Colin Blenkinsop so easily. He just had this feeling that he and the rent boy would meet again. How right he was!