Marc Jesmond - 10. Chapter 10 'The Plan'

Marc stumbled, zombie-like around the kitchen making a coffee he hoped would restore him to the human race. The previous night, depressed and drunk, he’d made his way to bed, and, despite the surfeit of red wine, had managed to complete all his usual routines and ablutions. But foolishly, he’d taken a handful of painkillers before sleeping. Marc hated hangovers and was determined to wake without one. He got his wish, but the downside was that his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

As he waited for the coffee Marc checked his phone, noting with some regret that he’d missed a text just after Midnight; he’d been comatose at the time. The message was from Leon,

‘Sorry Mark. I didn’t mean it. I need time’

Sorry..

that funny little word. It can mean a whole load of things; I was wrong, you were wrong, we were both wrong. But right now Marc was praying it meant,

‘Let’s try again’

Marc read the text over and over again, almost willing the words to come to life and embrace him. He didn’t fully understand the message, but surely it was communicating that mattered.

And whatever they were intended to mean, those few words gave shelter to the flickering candle of Marc’s self esteem, and granted the flame the chance it craved to grow strong and bright once more.

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Jim Appleby didn’t like saunas, gay or otherwise. So it was rather surprising to find him at Rockbottom.

It wasn’t that Jim was fazed by the presence of naked men. After thirty years in the merchant navy, he reckoned he’d seen more cock than all the customers in the sauna put together. Nor was he worried particularly about unwelcome advances. His robust life as a sailor, in the all-male world of tankers and container ships made him resourceful in dodging situations where other men wanted his body, or wanted him to want theirs. No, he didn’t like Rockbottom simply because it was overcrowded, overrated, overpriced, and not overly clean!

So, why go?

All his life, Jim had been looking for something. When he was young, it was how to escape school, and get away from home. Later, it was the search for adventure, travel, good money and girls. But now that he was older, and a little wiser he was ready to settle down. And it was at this point that he found himself on the oddest search of his life.

Twice, at Rockbottom he thought he’d found what he was looking for. He’d even switched around the times of his visits to aid his search, but today he was out of luck. Quitting the tub, he said his goodbyes to the fellow bathers, and returned to the locker room. When he’d dried off, and dressed, he took a detour to the reception. The attendant was busy wiping a glass with a dish towel so filthy the glass was misting.

The teenager saw Jim, stopped wiping, but continued chewing,

‘I’m looking for someone, I wondered if you could help’

The attendant resumed wiping, and raised his eye brows. Jim continued,

‘He’s a guy about your age, six foot, well built, dark, really curly hair, and...

‘Leon?’

Jim Appleby had hoped this would be the reply, but he hadn’t wanted to initiate it.

‘Any idea when he’s in?’

‘He’s always in. Just not today’

‘You don’t know where he lives, do you?’

The attendant stared at his questioner,

‘We don’t ask people’s addresses. The guys wouldn’t tell us anyway, even if we did’

Jim suspected that,

‘But you must have a membership card, or file for Leon. There might be something on that?’

‘I don’t think so. It’ll just show his name and the date he joined, so that we know when his subs are due’

‘I’d appreciate it if you could check’

The attendant languidly put down the glass, and bent down to retrieve a file drawer from beneath the counter. He opened it and withdrew from the section marked ‘L’ Leon’s card. As he’d predicted, the card showed only the name and date of joining. He handed it over.

Jim Appleby surveyed the card, but he noticed that it had stapled underneath it a folded photocopy, proof of age. He opened it up and his heart leapt. It was a copy of a photo ID of Leon’s student card. It showed:

Name: Leon Sadowitz,

Date of Birth: 5^th November 1991

Address: 21 Wellington Square, Newcastle upon Tyne.

But much more than that, it showed a picture of Leon, and not a bad one. And, as he gazed at the sheet, the man’s hand shook slightly; Jim Appleby was looking at the very image of himself as a youngster.

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Marc tried to recall.

The receptionist at the health centre, what was it she’d said?

‘If you’re not working, that makes it easy, and we can fit you in’

Marc wasn’t working, in between careers as they say, but he still didn’t feel he had that much time on his hands, and, even if he did who wants to pass their time in health centres?

But the offer wasn’t unreasonable; they could fit him in today: a short trip to the Queen Margaret hospital, a biopsy, and this whole prostate cancer trial would be over. Marc, buoyed up by his text from Leon was feeling positive. This was the day to clean house, and get some of the crappier things in life out of the way.

The hospital waiting area was a teeming melting pot of humanity, all ages, races, and conditions, united by sickness alone.

Marc leaned forward on the uncomfortable plastic chair, head bowed and hands clasped. Around him, a coughing, wheezing mass of geriatrica muttered and whispered in that unsettling British way. The nurses, in rude good health cut a swathe through these broken bodies, busying themselves and appearing almost like another species.

At one time, Marc would have counted himself among the fittest of people, but just lately medical science had dictated otherwise. He now felt he was sub standard; there was a very real chance that there was something up with him.

His name was called. Tentatively Marc wandered down the corridor till he reached the room,

‘Come in’

The voice seemed depressingly neutral,

‘Hello, I’m Alan Douglas, I’ll be doing your biopsy today’

The medic had a gentle accent, which placed him from the South West of Scotland.

‘Now I see you’ve had a DRE already, so if...’

Marc smiled weakly,

‘That’s right, I know the procedure’

He loosened his clothes and lay on the bed. Facing the wall, he tugged down his trousers and underwear, and brought his knees up to his chest.

Marc broke an awkward silence,

‘So do you have any idea why I’m having a biopsy?’

The reply was all too predictable,

‘I’m sorry, you’ve been referred, that’s all I know’

Marc smiled to himself; the way Alan said ‘referred’, with its Scottish burr, amused and delighted him,

‘I love the way you say ‘ree-fáirrrrred’

No reaction, so Marc shut up; and the medic busied himself lubricating.

‘I’m going to insert this in your anus. It looks a little like a flash light. First, I need to line it up with your prostate, and when I get it in position I’ll tell you. I want you to imagine that the prostate is like a wee orange having a needle pushed in, and withdrawn. So let’s get started’

Uncharacteristically, Marc wanted to resist this anal invasion, and he felt his sphincter tighten. But Alan was a practised invader, and he was resolute in driving the hard, unyielding device into Marc.

When the equipment reached its point of effectiveness, the medic resumed dialogue,

‘It’s lined up. You’ll feel a slight stinging as the core sample is taken by the needle. It takes only a split second. Are you OK?’

Marc inhaled deeply, held his breath and nodded. After what seemed like forever, he felt a punch up his rectum, followed by enveloping warmth. It wasn’t the end of the world, but hardly pleasant either.

‘How was it?’

‘I’m OK’

Marc breathed out. There was a pause.

‘OK Marc, now I’ve just another fourteen to take’

Alan Douglas may say little, but when he did it was dynamite!

Marc scrunched his eyes while the medic went about the business of punching out the miniscule tubes of tissue. There was a level of modest pain, but once he got used to what to expect, things got no worse. Marc was impressed to find that, when it was over Alan Douglas spent much more time cleaning him up than his GP had. And the medic’s touch was gentle and soothing.

‘So what happens now?’

‘You can dress’

That wasn’t what Marc meant.

Alan cleared away the equipment he’d used, and logged the sample. Then without further prompting from Marc he gave him the information he really wanted,

‘Right, that goes away for analysis, which is here at the Queen Margaret so it should be done tomorrow. Someone will probably give you a call. Be aware that there’ll be blood in your urine for a few days; and in your semen for about a week. It’ll clear up, and it’s nothing to worry about’

Marc desperately felt the need to lighten the mood,

‘I can’t help how much I pee, but might it be a good idea to shift the semen a bit more frequently?’

Marc took a risk and met Alan Douglas’s eyes head on. He couldn’t be sure, but he imagined that the dour Presbyterian mouth had relaxed a degree or so.

‘Aye, most likely’

Their eyes were now locked in a way men’s customarily don’t; in a few seconds, they’d part and never meet again, but, for the moment, infinitesimal signals passing from one to the other said more than a thousand words.

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Glen Roberts, hands in pockets, slouched onto the concourse of the Central Station and looked around. It was less than five minutes walk from where he lived, but, as a fundamentally idle person, he resented the exercise. Spotting Campfire outside the café he walked over and took a seat,

‘What’s all this about? Couldn’t you have just called?

The clerk ignored the question, in that way of his,

‘Here’

He thrust a small packet containing £100 into Roberts’ hand. The recipient seemed far from grateful,

‘I’ve got plenty ways of making money, I don’t need to come running when you call, just to sit around in fucking train stations’

The clerk remained icily calm,

‘Let’s get this straight; you’ve got fuck all, because you are fuck all. You’re unemployed and unemployable, homeless, and known by nobody of consequence. And in this city it would cost me just £500 to have you rubbed out. Right now, I’ve more than that in my back pocket’

Glen Roberts felt winded, reduced to silence by the clerk’s unexpected excursion into foul language, the devastating assessment of his worth, and that threat. Gerald Campfire allowed the full force of his salvo to take effect, and continued,

‘Things have changed. It was to be a surprise and the plan was to use the Dower House, but that’s off now. My partner and I have talked things over, and decided that we like the idea of us all meeting up in the boy’s apartment’

Glen shuddered, revealing his discomfort. The clerk’s reptilian eyes missed none of it,

‘You have a problem with that?’

‘It’s just that, erm, well right at this moment..

‘...right at this moment you’re living there too. Yes, as I said you’re homeless; and just bunking up with Leon Sadowitz. I’ve done my research. So listen. Because this is what we’re going to do, and you’re going to see that it works perfectly’

Roberts interrupted,

‘Yeah, but what are you planning to do? I mean, it’s an apartment block, there’s guys all around. It’s not really private. I’m just trying to think of what could go wrong’

Campfire, hating the interruption sipped his coffee, and mopped his mouth, replacing the cup with care,

‘Nothing will go wrong. Proper preparation prevents piss poor performance, as they say. And you will play your part. When the boy gets home, ensure he remains there: do whatever is necessary, including restraint, but make sure he’s not marked. We want him looking pristine and untouched. Will he be clean?

Roberts suddenly felt queasy,

‘Yeah, I guess. He’s always at the sauna. Why do you ask?’

Campfire continued,

‘Try to dissuade him from eating. If you can’t, so be it, but we’d prefer him starving a little’

The escort was now feeling nauseous, and powerless,

‘As soon as possible after six, text me with this message ‘My place or yours?’ accept no further calls, and stay where you are until we arrive. Do you understand?’

Roberts nodded.

Gerald Campfire relaxed back in his chair,

‘Very well, you’ve got your money; you’ll get the rest when the business is over’

Roberts laughed nervously,

‘Any chance this could become a regular thing?’

The clerk looked at him with ill disguised loathing,

‘When this is over, you will disappear, and if you go near my partner again, I will make you regret you ever got within a hundred miles of this city’

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