Marc Jesmond - 1. Chapter 1 'The Will'

Marc paused at the doorway to his bedroom, and lit a cigarette. His eyes lingered on the back and broad shoulders of a muscular young man who was busy dressing.

‘That was quite a hammering you gave me last night’

‘Three. It was three hammerings!’

Marc flushed to recall it, his face crumpling like a melting candle,

‘Tell me about it. God, my manhole looks like a blood orange!’

If the rather tasteless observation was designed to lighten the mood, it didn’t. The young escort was busy rummaging in his night bag; Marc’s eyes never left him,

‘You didn’t tell me your name’

There was no reply.

‘Well?’

‘Figure it out. You hired me’

‘Well I can’t exactly call you Serendip-it-in-me’ or whatever it is you trade under’

The visitor spun round, hair gel in hand,

‘What does it matter?’

‘Only that I need your name for the cheque’

The rent boy stopped abruptly, glaring; and features that, only the night before, had made Marc’s heart ache with joy were now utterly transformed,

‘You’re fucking kidding me? Cheque! It’s cash. I made that clear’

‘Yes I know, but I imagine you’ll want more than we agreed. I’m not sure how much cash I have on me’

His guest resumed grooming, and spoke decisively,

‘Last night was your call. I told you cumming would be extra. AND it was three fuckin’ times. There’s a cash point less than a minute away. We’ll walk round and you can get me my money there’

Marc felt sick and foolish at treatment like this from a man so much his junior. Just minutes earlier he’d planned to gift his well-endowed visitor with a pair of skimpy briefs – parting treat and inducement to return - and watch as the rent boy wedged his ample genitalia into them. Now the whole idea seemed ridiculous and inappropriate. How quickly and uncontrollably the mood of this encounter had changed!

Marc silently gathered shoes and coat from his closet and put them on. In no mood for a fight, he reckoned that just another minute or two and this embarrassing ordeal would be over. A small range of trendy bistros, sandwich shops and a bank that served office workers lay close to the apartment. Both men walked towards the ATM. Marc handed the escort less cash than he wanted, but more than he was worth, then the couple parted in silence, tacitly signalling that if their paths ever crossed again it would be by accident and not design.

Marc couldn’t bear to return to his duplex. Instead he sat down on one of the stone benches that fringed the waterside and gazed into the murky river as it swirled and eddied. The tide was turning; water that, just minutes before had been flowing into the sea was now being driven relentlessly back by the might of the ocean. If only his own life could turn around so easily. The humiliation he still felt burned his cheeks, but more painful yet was the feeling that he’d brought it upon himself. This was his life.

Just then his mobile phone signalled a text. It was from the family lawyer reminding Marc of the meeting scheduled for three that afternoon. His widowed mother had died recently and her estate had to be settled. Easily the most forceful presence in his life, her passing now offered Marc a degree of freedom he’d never enjoyed. Yet, even as he dwelled on the prospect the self doubts flooded back. Was he, even in his late thirties now too set in his ways, too powerless to break free from the vapid, secretive life he led; a routine of casual encounters and rent boys? Would he ever find the one man to give his life purpose?

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The life of Leon Sadowitz, on the other hand, was a matter of open record. It seemed that everyone either knew him or everything about him. In fact, he’d grown used to social workers, medics, police and counsellors knowing more about him that he did. Leon didn’t even know his own surname, other than it ended in ‘witz’ And since he could neither read nor write adequately that hardly seemed to matter.

He’d spent his 18 years on this planet in care, school, detention, or gay bars. Despite the harshness of his upbringing he’d developed a pleasant, unthreatening personality and sought to treat people as he wished to be treated. His opening ploy, whenever he met men, was to smile, say thank you, and modestly request a sparkling apple juice. And it usually worked: for although Leon was no looker, sporting tight, curly brown hair over a Thunderbirds face, in one respect he was above average, and, as it happened, that particular endowment was the only thing that mattered to most of the men he met.

Leon lived in the gay village, in a city centre apartment provided and paid for by Social Services. He shared his home with Glen Roberts, a young man who figured that since Leon was paying nothing for the accommodation then he needn’t contribute anything either. For Glen, the issue was simple. Leon was a retard who should be grateful to have such a hot, sexy flatmate as he, even if only to look at; and for Leon? Well, sadly that’s how he saw it too. He was endlessly patient with the arrogant Glen, whom he quietly adored, and today was no different.

The apartment door clashed. Leon stopped what he was doing. He could hear rummaging in the kitchen; then Glen shouted,

‘Don’t tell me we’ve got no fucking cold beers!’

The fridge door slammed shut.

Leon nervously approached,

‘We’ve got some ice, if that helps’

Glen walked over to him and stood right in his face,

‘No, it doesn’t help, moron! It makes the beer taste like piss. Make yourself useful, pop over to the off licence and grab me a couple of chilled ones’

So saying he thrust cash at the hapless Leon and walked into the living area. Leon pocketed the money and headed for the door; then he stopped,

‘How was last night?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get back. Now fuck off, Lee and get those beers’

As Leon made his way submissively to the door his churlish companion softened,

‘Hey, get yourself something while you’re there. I’d go myself but I’m knackered. What a fucking night, the guy couldn’t get enough! Bit of an old slapper too. Don’t suppose he’s one of your exes, is he?’

Leon looked confused; Glen slumped into the sofa,

‘’Cos I thought to myself ‘I just hope this old fucker’s not had Lee’s big old tool in him, or I’ve got no chance’

Then he laughed hysterically.

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The village of Deadlock had seen better days. During prosperous times it had been a mining community, but the pit had long since closed, leaving behind it unemployment and depression. It was a far cry from the days when Marc’s family arrived there from Italy and opened the village’s first cafe and ice cream parlour. The Gabrielle family had faced a grim prospect in Italy; remain in their native land - the country they loved - and fight fascism, or flee to the England and make ice cream. It was a no brainer really. And for decades their shop, with its art deco fittings and warm, steamy atmosphere was the most welcoming spot in the village. But hard times had come and the premises now held little allure for a generation of kids who just wanted to get shitfaced on cheap cider, text each other endlessly, puke, and, if they got lucky, get a fuck.

Presiding over this decay was Miss Alma Robson, the sole remaining employee of Gabrielle’s business, and the occupant of the tiny one bed apartment that sat above the shop. Alma had worked for the family for more years than anyone could remember, and she asked but one thing: now her former boss was dead she should be allowed to see out her days in her tiny flat, in peace and quiet.

But today her routine was different. For some days she’d been mulling over the contents of a letter she’d received. Alma picked up the letter and read it once more, but there was no mistaking its directions. She was summoned to the chambers of Haddaway & Crappe in the city of Newcastle upon Tyne to witness the reading of the will of her old employer Mona Gabrielle. Quite why, she knew not. She neither expected nor sought to be the beneficiary of anything from the woman she loathed most in the world.

Dusting her pinched and birdlike features with a suggestion of face powder, she brushed her wiry grey hair, then dragged it back and secured it with a hairpin. Miss Robson wasn’t given to excess of any sort, much less fashion, but she selected the only item from her wardrobe that least suggested ‘charity shop’ and, checking herself in the mirror decided that she’d do.

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Marc decided that instead of driving into town he’d walk along the riverside into the city. It was a smart move as the fresh air and exercise perked him up. In no time he was standing at the reception of Haddaway & Crappe where the smarmy clerk addressed him with unwelcome familiarity,

‘Hello Marco. Just go through there please, and wait. I think you’ll find there’s someone else to keep you company’

Marc barged into the adjoining room, then stopped dead when he saw the scrawny bag of bones in the corner,

‘YOU!’

Miss Robson maintained dignity by simply arching her eyes and saying nothing. Marc recovered,

‘What exactly are you doing here?’

‘I got a letter’

‘My mother gave you work and shelter for forty years; I’m not sure what more you’re expecting’

Alma Robson squirmed and re-positioned her bony little frame on the bench,

‘Well, that’s not for you to say. We shall have to wait and see’

But they didn’t have long to wait. Moments later they were led into a conference room with an enormous rectangular table, at which was seated the junior partner Terence Haddaway. The lawyer struggled to his feet and reached out a soft, bloated pink hand.

‘So nice to see you Marc, please take a seat. And you must be Miss Robson?’

Haddaway resumed his place at the head of the table, while Marc and Alma circled the large table ensuring that they sat opposite, but as far away as possible from one another. Haddaway turned first to Marc,

‘It was your dear mother’s wish that I address you directly in the words she dictated to my clerk before her decease. I am trustee and can vouch for the content of the will and its directions. Shall I proceed?’

Marc leant back and waved his hand airily,

‘Yes, of course’

Haddaway straightened his specs, took a sip of water and began,

‘I, Filomina Mona Gabrielle, being of sound mind, do state as follows: the beneficiary of my will is my only son, Marco Gabrielle, or Marc Jesmond as I understand he now calls himself.

Marco, I derive little satisfaction from the mention of your name. When I discovered you, at the age of seven in the bedroom wearing my shoes I sensed something was not right. I waited patiently for the years to prove me wrong, and to demonstrate that you were indeed a man worthy to inherit a business I’d struggled to build. This was never to be. You made no secret of your distaste for the family business and your determination to find employment elsewhere, though you failed miserably to find any.

You neither married nor dated. I never knew where your tastes or sexual predilections lay. You never confessed to me. But I had my suspicions, and if you had you told me what I suspected I’d have slapped you, but there the matter may have ended. As it is, you chose not to confide in me, so I go to my grave no wiser. But even after my passing I will continue to strive to make something of you’

The room was hushed. Haddaway took another sip of water and turned to Miss Robson.

‘From the first day I met you Alma Robson you were a thorn in my side. They say one rotton apple can contaminate a whole barrel, that thunder can curdle milk. Well I can add that I never knew a situation, either routine or extraordinary that was not soured by your intervention. You were contrary, disagreeable, critical and mean. Your miserable face stretched the days and your whingeing voice made my ears bleed. You worked hard and were cheap. On my passing, you alone will remain, knowing why I was forced to employ you’

Trustee, my directions now are clear and will be adhered to by you. The entire Gabrielle estate must be sold and will be distributed to my son and Miss Alma Robson, but the following stipulation must be observed without fail. The apartment in which Marco is residing at the time of my decease shall be sold, and he will take up residence with Alma Robson in the apartment that she enjoys grace and favour from me. There, the two of them shall live howsoever they choose, for a period of not less than twelve months. It is my profound hope that the two people who caused me so much disappointment and discontent during my life shall manage to be a source of enduring misery to one another for at least a year’

Haddaway paused and looked over his specs,

‘She was what may be termed a character’

‘Poisonous old ....’ spat Marc.

‘This has to be contested’ added Alma.

Haddaway laid down the will.

‘I’m afraid not. The will’s watertight. I understand Mrs Gabrielle was unwell at the end, but her mind was sharp as a needle. She even calculated my fee and said she’d pay upfront in cash if I’d give her a 5% discount.

Alma was on her feet, preparing to leave, but Marc intervened,

‘Going so soon? I’m surprised an old leech like you is baling without first hearing how much money’s at stake’

Haddaway replaced his spectacles,

‘Yes, I thought you’d come to that. Well, not everything’s been sold yet. But the net assets currently stand at two million, two hundred and seventy seven thousand, five hundred and sixteen pounds, twelve pence’

Nobody spoke.