Malcolm and the Rent Boy - 10. Chapter 10 'A Whole Lot Going On'

‘You’d better answer it’

Colin’s tone was uncompromising. Lorimar didn’t want to get the door, and when he opened it he took only seconds to recognise the pale figure of Rupert, and recall the day he’d seen both Colin and him at the sauna.

The visitor looked Lorimar up and down contemptuously,

‘I need to see my brother’

Lorimar was shocked at the revelation but said nothing and turned, leading the way in; Rupert moved swiftly past him into the bedroom. Colin was hurriedly dressing, but had not yet managed to tuck his large, unruly member into his pants.

Rupert froze.

‘Please tell me nothing happened, you couldn’t have, with that!’ he added gesturing scornfully towards Lorimar.

‘Don’t be such an arrogant shit, he’s a nice kid’ replied Colin wearily,

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t got your bill yet. Does he realise that an hour with you is going to cost him a week’s pay wiping the floors at that scabby sauna?’

‘Rupert, shut up!’

A tearful Lorimar hurriedly draped a chartreuse sarong about his slender frame and flounced from the room.

Colin stood right in Rupert’s face.

‘What’s up with you, anyway? Why are you here?’

‘I heard everything about our father, back at Malcolm’s house. You took off and haven’t answered any of my calls. I’m worried about us; and you ask me why I’m here!’

‘What do you mean, us? There is no us! Our lives are completely different and there’s no point getting them mixed up after all this time’

Rupert looked stricken.

‘Do you really think that? How can you be so fucking heartless? I was made up when I met you, even after we did all that stuff, and now that I know who you are - who we are – I know we can work through these things, if we help each other’

‘Your life’s sorted out already, and it’s better if I don’t get in the way. We’re like chalk and cheese, and I’m not going to upset your cosy life’

‘You know fuck all about my life, you have no idea what I’m facing, that old guy we were staying with has ten times more idea what’s going on than you, and right now he’s helping us sort this out’

‘Then leave me alone and go back there. I feel like shit anyway. I just want to sleep. Go on. Piss off Rupert, and leave me alone’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yeah, it is’

Rupert’s pale blue-grey eyes filled with tears, but he said no more. He turned and left the apartment, not even closing the door behind him.

Down on the street he felt the chill of the night. He didn’t want to return to Malcolm’s but he had nowhere else to go. Three nights, three different beds, this couldn’t go on. Then rummaging in his pocket he remembered he still had keys to the Deanery Bookshop. It was a ten minute walk but at least he could sleep in an armchair in the back room. It was something.

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Morning came and found Malcolm sitting in the city’s main railway station, a place he often came for solace. He looked around the magnificent building and recalled the impression it had made on him sixty years earlier, the day his father first brought him to see the thrilling steam locomotives. In those days all boys wanted to be engine drivers, there was no stigma and scorn then. And what marvellous places railway stations were! These Victorian edifices were masterpieces of Gothic architecture, lofty, powerful and confident; huge cathedrals of brick and glass, where coal smoke hung in the air like incense, and porters scurried about below. The station buzzed and thrilled with whistling and escaping steam, buffers crashed, men shouted, carriage doors slammed; it was so, so thrilling. Why did it all have to end?

A station announcer mentioned the time ‘eight thirty’ and Malcolm snapped out of his reverie. He’d spent a poor night, not least wondering where Rupert had gone. He’d so much to tell the young man, about his interview with Detective Inspector Jameson, and about the meeting both men were going to have this very morning with Judge Bolton, and how everything was going to fall into place. There were things he’d wanted to ask Rupert, but now it was too late. Oh, why were young men so hot headed? He’d never been like that, had he?

But first, he had another important meeting. And rising, creakily from the bench he’d been sitting on, he made his way over to the far platform of the station and the cafeteria where Julie Blenkinsop worked. The cafe was quiet, as usual, and initially there was no sight of Colin’s mother, but presently she appeared, dish cloth in hand, ready to rub down the tables. She stopped and stared at Malcolm.

‘There’s no free hot water!’

‘I don’t know what you mean’ he queried, appearing clueless.

She knew better; she was referring to a time, years before when he’d been asked to leave the cafeteria after producing his own picnic, complete with tea bag, and demanding a cup of boiling water. Well, why not? Malcolm had grown up with his mother’s daily mantra ‘shy kids get nowt!’ ringing in his ears, and as a consequence he’d spent a lifetime trying it on.

‘You’ll have to be quick, I haven’t got much time’ Julie added, continuing to wipe the table.

‘It’s about your Colin’

Julie looked serious, and sat down. Soon the couple were deep in conversation, about Colin, about schooldays, and about Colin again. After a few minutes Julie went to the kitchen and returned with tea and toasted teacake, courtesy of the house. Result! As Malcolm would have put it, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

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The Chief Constable – a bluff, uncomplicated Yorkshire man who didn’t mince his words - stared at the paperwork on his desk, then at Detective Inspector Jameson.

‘I’ve got to tell you, Jameson, when I saw this lot my sphincter went half a crown, sixpence’

He mimicked the grotesque sentiment, flexing his forefinger and thumb to represent circles approximate to defunct British coinage.

‘You realise who you’re dealing with? I’d rather tekk on Al-Quaeda than that auld bitch Felicity Scrope. If this goes tits up you’re back on the beat and I’ll be wiping the Lord Mayor’s arsehole’

Jameson accepted the Chief Constable’s candour and colourful language, but said nothing.

‘And your witness, this fella Malcolm Tripp, where’s he? Mebbe I should have a word with him’

D.I.Jameson, dreading such an eventuality, sprang to life

‘Well, he’s not here yet, and time’s tight. He and I are seeing the judge in thirty minutes’

In fact Malcolm had already arrived and was entering the court complex which was located next to police HQ. This was an important day for the old train spotter and he’d spared no pains to dress and groom himself accordingly.

A security officer approached Malcolm.

‘Just put your wallet, keys, mobile and money in this basket and walk through the gate’

This was an impossible demand. Nobody had seen Malcolm’s wallet since the Queen’s Jubilee in 1977, and then, only because he’d overdosed on free punch at a street party and fallen over.

But something else had caught Malcolm’s eye. Leaning against the far wall was a black security officer. He looked immaculate in his white shirt and epaulettes. He had a zero crop and diamond stud in his left ear. Malcolm was smitten.

‘Do I get a rub down?’ he asked the man with the basket,

‘No, you’re OK, just walk through’

‘But I could be a terrorist, I could be carrying anything under this Mack’

Nobody really wanted to know what was under the Mack but the security officer signalled to the black officer to come over.

‘Just check this guy’

Malcolm walked through the gate, triggering no alarm. He turned to the black officer.

‘I’m a British taxpayer. I demand a rub down. Frisk me now!’

And he got his wish. Just then DI Jameson appeared from within the building, in time to witness the fit, muscular security officer, crouching in front of Malcolm, groping those spindly legs.

‘Ah, Mr Tripp, pleased you could make it’

The security officer, relieved of his unwholesome task, retreated to the washroom to clean up. Malcolm and the police officer walked to court where they were met by the clerk. Judge Bolton had arrived and was in his chamber.

‘Do I have to bow’ asked Malcolm unctuously.

‘No. Absolutely not! And just call him ‘sir’, OK?’

But Malcolm saw this as a lack of deference and had other ideas. After a few minutes delay the clerk returned, led the two men through to the judge’s private office, and introduced them. Malcolm was surprised and disappointed that the Judge was wearing only a business suit. Where were his wig and sash? Nevertheless, he gave a deep bow, making the judge and detective cringe.

The clerk handed Malcolm the bible and invited him to take the oath.

With great theatricality the retired teacher delivered his lines, then sat down and began his account. Both Judge and policeman listened closely as he explained exactly what, when, where and how Miss Felicity Scrope had done what he was alleging. One by one he produced the copy records and photographs he’d taken. From time to time the judge would make notes, confer with DI Jameson, or simply hold his head in his hand as Malcolm variously addressed him as ‘Sir’ ‘My Lord’ and ‘Your Grace’. But at the conclusion of the meeting the judge took the warrants, read them thoroughly and signed them.

‘I’m authorising you to search Baggett Manor and all vehicles on the premises; similarly, the Deanery Bookshop. And of course, should any person or persons therein be arrested you have powers to search them too. Good luck, and may I once again thank you Mr Tripp for your display of public spirit’

Malcolm retreated, making yet another flamboyant bow, this time with right arm tucked into his coat, à la Bonaparte. DI Jameson was glad to be getting out.

‘I told you not to do that!’ he rasped.

‘Well, I for one know how to show respect’

The two men said nothing till they reached the steps of the court and prepared to make their goodbyes.

‘Any chance of me getting a reward for this?’ asked Malcolm.

But the Detective Inspector, already a man of few words, was now speechless.

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Rupert opened his eyes and checked his watch. He could hear voices in the shop. ‘Oh God’ he prayed ‘let it be Roy, not her!’ He listened harder. Two people were talking. One was a man, or was it two men? Rupert removed the dusty old curtain material he’d draped around himself while sleeping on the armchair, and got up. He padded ever so carefully to the door and listened. To his horror he realised that one voice was that of his aunt. Through the closed door he could hear her,

‘Well, he’d better get here soon, I can’t hang around all day’

Rupert slunk back. There were a couple of bookshelves in the room, approximately six feet high; if anybody came in he could always hide behind them. Aching, and his head buzzing with tiredness, he longed for the time to pass so that his aunt would leave and be replaced by Roy. But time was moving slowly.

Just then, the shop door opened. It wasn’t clear whether or not someone had entered or left. Then, without warning the door to the back room was opened. Rupert clambered behind the bookcases, making it in time. As he crouched on the floor he could see someone approach the safe. It was his aunt. Carefully, she turned the combination till the door sprang open. Then she placed a parcel of books inside. Rupert watched fascinated as his aunt closed the door, spun the combination and retreated. Just as she reached the door Rupert felt an uncontrollable urge to sneeze. Whether or not it was the cold, or the dusty curtain material he’d been wrapped in, he succeeded in stifling it. His aunt returned to the shop and he could hear no further conversation.

Seconds later, Rupert’s mobile burst into life with a piercing message tone. His heart thumped. He read the display. It was from Malcolm;

‘Great news, we’ve got warrants to search Baggett Manor and the shop. Everything’s going to be fine’

In utter despair Rupert fidgeted with the wretched object trying to turn it off, but the damage was done. They could have heard that message tone up the street never mind the next room. A voice he knew only too well chilled him to the bone.

‘Well, well, well, the absconder returns’

Then she turned to the two men standing right behind her, men Rupert had never seen before.

‘We’re shutting shop. Put in him the car, now!’

Rupert was no match for the thugs and would have offered them no resistance, but they grabbed him roughly all the same and bundled him out of the shop to a car that was waiting by the street door. He could hardly believe what was happening. But Rupert was well educated and smart, and one thing had become all too clear.

He had to conceal that phone or delete the message as soon as possible.

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