Marc Jesmond - 3. Chapter 3 'The Clinic'

Gay men could have it all. Unfettered by wife, kids, family and the tedious observances of mainstream society, talented, able, hard working gay men could have it all, and lead the kind of life that their ‘straight’ counterparts could only aspire to. And Gerald Campfire and his partner Robin Parnaby did appear to have it all. Their home lay within the estate of Brandon Hall, approached by means of a long drive, through mature, beautiful parkland. Here, the two men shared a rented cottage - although calling it a cottage was rather like calling San Francisco’s Golden Gate a bridge!

‘The Dower House’, as it was pretentiously, though not inaccurately called was a dwelling that boasted the finest design, decor, and furnishings that money could buy. Neither Gerald nor Robin denied himself anything, cars, holidays, clothes. Even the gin that Gerald was – right now - so generously pouring out was the best. With the precision of a law clerk he tipped exact numbers of ice cubes and slices of lime into the two glasses and walked through to the conservatory.

Five minutes earlier the thunderous throbbing of a Harley Davidson had announced the arrival home of his partner. After parking up, the barrister de-leathered in the utility area; then walked through to the kitchen, dishevelled hair the only clue to his bizarre mode of transport. In the UK the average age of a Harley owner is 56. Robin, it seemed had reached his mid-life crisis ten years early! Gerald sauntered up, drinks in hand,

‘Christ Almighty, love, tell me you didn’t go to work on that bike!’

Gerald’s voice was 90% mockery, 10% concern. They exchanged kisses.

‘Don’t be so stuffy, it’s just a bit of fun’

‘And the leathers?’ asked Gerald, as he handed Robin a gin,

‘What about them?’

‘What must they think of you at chambers when you arrive on a Harley, clad in black leather?’

Robin, with barrister’s mental agility dodged the question. The men walked through to the sun room.

‘The bike’s perfect for carving through that God-awful traffic. I reckon it saves me at least ten minutes. And it’s economical! It uses far less than the Jag. Anyway, darling, how’s your day been at good old Haddaway and Crappe?’

‘Same old, same old, but there was one interesting moment, though it’s highly confidential’

‘Of course’

‘Well, you know we were talking about Marco Gabrielle the other evening’

‘Marc Jesmond?’

‘Absolutely’

Both men giggled into their drinks.

‘Well, I’ve got the job of selling off the remainder of the family’s property, including his duplex by the river’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you get it? We could buy that’

‘Not legally’

‘Exactly, that’s where you come in’

Robin put down his drink, and settled his bottom into the seat, as one preparing to give a lecture. His years at a Surry preparatory school, Charterhouse and Oxford, together with a smug accent that could shatter glass were all he’d ever needed to talk down to all comers,

‘Listen Gerry, I don’t think you quite understand. I can’t get involved, or be seen to be involved in that sordid horse trading. And quite frankly, I can’t think of anything I’d like less than dealing with estate agents. This obsession that the British currently have for using property to generate money nauseates me’

He stopped to refuel with Tanqueray, Gerald continued,

‘Estate Agentswon’t be involved. It’ll be auction, and I’ll square the auctioneer, the room, everything. We just need a ‘behind the scenes’ telephone bidder. Don’t you see?’

‘Well, even if it works, what do we want with a riverfront duplex?’

‘We sell it on and make a profit’

‘Didn’t you hear a word I said? Haven’t you got enough money?’

Robin’s upbringing had ensured that he was he a stranger to hardship: he could scarcely even grasp the concept. Gerald scowled and looked away. The men sat silently nursing their drinks for a few moments.

Unknown to anyone on this earth, other than himself, Gerald kept a small, crinkled photograph in his wallet. It showed a small, tearful boy, standing at the back gate of a house, little better than a slum, about to be demolished. The house may long since have disappeared but the boy was still around, and he’d grown into a man who lived each day determined neither to look back nor allow anyone to impede his progress.

Robin turned on the television in time for the six o’clock news; while Gerald, determined to say no more for the moment, went to prepare dinner. But he’d done enough for the moment; the seed was planted.

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It was like Groundhog Day as Marc gazed around at the panelled walls of the law firm’s chambers. Finally Haddaway bustled in with a folder of papers, looking flustered and busy. Marc couldn’t help wondering if he was genuinely rushed off his feet, or if it was simply a ruse to justify those monstrous fees.

‘Just a few papers to sign, Marc, and we can get those properties on the market’

The two men could have hardly been more different. Terence Haddaway, red faced, bloated and stretching almost to destruction a three piece suit that Marc doubted had ever been dry-cleaned, while Marc was casual in linen slacks and a Cashmere sweater, and still trim, though he’d put on some weight in recent years.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ asked the lawyer, handing over his pen,

‘No thanks, I’m en route to another appointment’

Marc scanned rapidly the papers he was to sign then added his name.

‘While I’m here Terrence, may I pick your brains?’

Haddaway frowned in that way legal men do when they suspect their services are being tapped for free,

‘Erm well,

‘It’s about the will, obviously, and the actual logistics of me sharing accommodation with another person. I mean, how are we going to divide the place up? Who’s to know what either of us gets up to?’

Haddaway looked uncomfortable as he retrieved his pen from Marc, and filed the papers,

‘How you go about it will be down to you, but I can tell you that your late mother was most thorough. She engaged the services of a firm of private detectives to keep tabs on both you and Miss Robson. But more importantly, she also hired another firm to keep tabs on them! She’s built more checks and balances into this will than there are in the American Constitution!’

Marc looked depressed, Haddaway continued,

‘And imagine how I feel. Out there, somewhere, is another trustee, unknown to me, the Primus inter pares to whom I must defer’

Marc felt it hard to be sympathetic. Haddaway glanced unsubtly at his watch, rose to his feet, and gestured his client to the door,

‘It’s been some days now, have you heard anything from Miss Robson?’

Marc said he hadn’t, and wondered if the relief he felt was showing. The lawyer led him to door and shook hands in that limp way that makes the act seem pointless, even ridiculous.

Marc’s next appointment was at the clinic.

For some days he’d been feeling breathless, and out of sorts. He’d never been one to trouble doctors, but just lately he felt unwell and unable to sleep.

But bad news lay ahead. Marc’s regular doctor was not available and so he found himself ushered in to see Doctor Shields, an elderly medic whose body language and speech seemed to suggest he was in need of some attention himself.

Dr Shields was practised in the art of saying very little; not so much to draw his patients out and express themselves, as from pure laziness. Indeed the wily old medic found that this ploy, if used on an intelligent man or woman would often do most of his job for him, as was the case now, Marc busily self-diagnosing,

‘My mother passed away recently. I’m an only child so had all the arrangements to deal with unaided. It’s all been a bit stressful’

Shields signalled to Marc to roll up his sleeves in preparation for a blood pressure check. When this was completed, the doctor returned to his keypad and tapped in the data.

‘How is it?’ asked Marc,

‘A little elevated. Nothing to worry about really’

Shields, with his back to his patient studied the laptop,

‘I see you were written to about screening. Do you have a problem with that?’

Marc hardly had time to make any association when the doctor stood up,

‘I can do that now. We need to run some tests anyway and take your blood. It’ll take only seconds’

Marc submitted without comment. For days now he’d been feeling that his life was slipping further from his control. Every decision that concerned him was being made by somebody else. This was just one more decision.

The doctor advanced towards him, needle in hand and took the sample with all that painful clumsiness for which many general practitioners are rightly notorious. Marc winced as the blood was drawn. Dr Shields handed him a plaster to cover the puncture wound then busied himself parcelling up the sample. Marc never took his eyes off the blood. It was on its way to the laboratory for testing, routine enough.

Except that it wasn’t routine. The sample would soon write a new chapter in his life, and one he’d never forget.

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For Leon Sadowitz, Newcastle’s ‘Rock Bottom’ gay sauna was a refuge where he could often be found afternoons, reclining in the Jacuzzi. And while some of Glen Robert’s concerns about the cleanliness of that amenity might have been understandable, it was also fair to say that, despite some odd emissions, and even odder seepages the water quality was usually passable. The clientele, especially during the day, were older men whom Leon saw as a comfort rather than a threat. They’d chat, laugh, joke, and, though they seldom addressed him directly, they always make him feel part of the conversation, even if he understood little of what they were saying.

Nor did anyone molest him. They didn’t need; Leon was smart enough to know what was wanted from him. Each visit, after a respectful period of time in the tub, he would announce that he was leaving to have a pee. That, of itself usually prompted a burst of laughter: then he would suggestively ease his naked body out of the water, allowing plenty of time for all eyes to fasten on the pendulous prize, an organ which prolonged submersion in water had done nothing to diminish. Inevitably, somebody would follow him to the steam room where, unless something was badly amiss, a sexual encounter of some sort would take place. And the parties would return to the pool as though nothing had happened; which, in essence, it hadn’t.

Leon’s dream was that one day he would show up at ‘Rock Bottom’ partnered by Glen. He pictured the scene, the two of them sharing a locker, undressing and changing, walking through the lounge area, laughing and carrying on. How all the others would stare with envy as they saw Leon with his special friend, the sharp, the witty, the all-knowing, irrepressible Glen!

But today, he’d come in alone, and taken his place in a fuller than usual foaming tub. The faces were familiar save for one, a man who was eyeing him with interest. The lad’s response was to look away and appear abstracted, but the stranger persisted,

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

‘What?’

‘Are you online?’

‘No, sorry’

The questioner hadn’t expected ‘no’, and he challenged the boy. Before long, the pool erupted in light hearted mockery. Leon not online, who was he kidding? Leon coloured and stammered denials; but he’d had enough. Unable to handle verbal sparring with one man, much less a band of them, he clambered out the Jacuzzi without fuss, headed to the changing room, and prepared to dress and leave. The men scoffed after him, begging him to return,

‘What’s his name?’ asked the stranger,

‘Leon’ replied another.

‘Nice cock’

They all murmured agreement.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen it before’

Laughter.

‘I never forget a cock’

More laughter,

‘Seriously though, just this morning I was online, checking out the escorts, here in Newcastle. There was this one; eighteen, fit and hung, eight inches. No face pic, just one of his dick. And that was it, the one we’ve just seen!

But I’m sure he was called Noel’

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