CHAPTER EIGHT
I continued to work hard and, on the whole, genuinely enjoy myself at The Pav. At the same time, a succession of meaningless but fun brief encounters at The Half Moon helped compensate for my loneliness. I now carried a packet of condoms in my pocket with all the familiarity of a tube of mints.
Increasingly, I gathered the loose ends of self-confidence together even if this meant making a concentrated effort to distance myself from everything I did and everyone I met. This way, I felt safe. Moreover, if I worked as hard as I played, I managed somehow not to get too personally involved in either. Mistakenly, I thought this gave me control of my own fate (or something like that) and was protected from the worst life could throw at me. If the prospect that I might hurt others entered my head at all, it was but fleetingly, and I was inclined to dismiss it with indecent haste. It was easy enough. I only had to tell myself I couldn’t risk having to endure the kind of hurt that losing Billy had inflicted on me ever again.
This least-involvement-equals-maximum-pleasure philosophy saw me through both daily grind and a long line of shared intimacies under various duvets besides my own. I congratulated myself, on both acquiring a new maturity and taking London W1 in my stride. Meanwhile, Steve Murray failed to turn up for work one day and, to my knowledge, was never seen or heard of by anyone at The Pav again. Bo wasted no time taking his displeasure out on me. Fuming, he called me into his office. He neither invited me to sit nor sat himself. Instead, he gave me an earful while he paced the room gesticulating like a madman. I had never seen him so angry and half expected him to start foaming at the mouth.
“If there is one golden rule in business, Robert, it is one that you must never but never break!” I winced. No one called me Robert except my mother. “Never but never mess with staff! Mess your pants for looking if you must, but keep your paws off the goods!” I felt the blood rush to my face and began to bluster. Bo cut me short. “And don’t go all coy and indignant on me. Don’t you dare! It goes without saying, I trust, that you will cover for Steve tonight?”
“It’s my night off,” I protested.
“You should have thought about that before you started your sordid little liaison with one of my best members of staff. It wasn’t even that if the grapevine is to be believed. By all accounts, you used him, dumped him, and then ignored him.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I mumbled defensively.
“Oh? Then perhaps you’d like to make a public declaration to that effect? Frankly, dear heart, I don’t advise it. Nothing fuels gossip like denial. Don’t get me wrong. Your personal life is your own affair, but not when it upsets the running of this establishment. Never, do you understand? Never, never, never! Do I make myself clear?” He was shouting now and waving his arms about like a demented evangelist.
I nodded miserably.
“I am taking Gabby to the opera tonight. I can but trust, for your own sake, that covering for Steve until I can find a replacement will not inconvenience anyone else too much.”
“How was I to know he’d up and go without a word?” I felt aggrieved and meant to flare but could only manage a flicker.
“Perhaps if you’d been a little kinder instead of playing the drama queen, he might at least have worked out his notice. I mean it, Robert. The Pavilion is its staff and the needs of its clientele always but always take priority. Our customers are la crème de la crème, which is more than can be said for your average punter at the Half Moon.” I winced at the jibe. Had I blown it, I wondered? “Now go, dear heart, and let us not have this conversation again or I will not be responsible for my actions!” his voice rising to a crescendo, the habitual endearment spoken with a savagery that made me cringe.
I worked a double shift only to spend a tortured night speculating about my sexuality being the subject of rampant gossip. At the same time, I was bemused. The fact that everyone knew, but no one had ribbed me about it spoke volumes for tacit boundaries. I was so glad I had inherited my father’s sense of humour. Oh, it may not have won me many friends, but I suspected it had kept a good few enemies at bay. Even so, I agonized over ways by which an enemy might choose to put me down. Finally, I drifted in and out of a nightmare during which Bo announced from centre stage that, for the next floorshow, Rob Young and Steve Murray would have sex.
Curtain up.
It appeared, much to my relief, that I had not blown anything. The next day, Bo was his customary cheerful, if affected self. But he had given me a fright I would not forget in a hurry.
One free evening during my last days at The Pav found me perched on a stool at one of the smaller bars in the Half Moon. I had spent the greater part of an hour chatting to a freckle faced type in a pin striped suit and white shirt with blue collar and cuffs. A hand painted necktie completed the yuppie effect. At first I thought he was with a couple of friends but they quickly drifted away and we got talking. My attention, I have to say, had been subtly divided most of the time. He told me his name was Adam but didn’t ask mine. I only caught some of what he was saying… something about high finance and how few people appreciated the stresses of working at the Stock Exchange. Blinded by jargon, I tried to look suitably impressed but couldn’t keep my eyes from frequently straying to the long bar mirror over Adam’s right shoulder.
Behind me, sitting apart from a noisy group occupying a bay window area, sat a broad shouldered, chisel faced young man a few years older than me. He had close-cropped fair hair. The hairs on his arms glistened like flecks of sand against the blue of his tee shirt.
This face in the mirror fascinated me. It was a strong face, neither particularly hard nor gentle. Nor was it unattractive, although handsome was not a word that sprung to mind. Framed in shoulder length sandy hair, it could hardly be described as nondescript either. Cute ears, on the small side, made me smile. A full humorous mouth made me think of Billy. I started guiltily and tried to pay attention to Adam’s earnest monologue on the everyday stresses and strains of living and working in London. Fat chance!
I avoided meeting those eyes in the mirror head-on. Nevertheless, I sensed from time to time that they were taking my measure. There was nothing remarkable about them. Where Billy Mack’s, for example, had been a vivid blue, compelling and mischievous, these were bland by comparison. Even so, there was a hint of laughter about them, as if at a private joke and the laugh on everyone in sight. On me, too, I wondered?
A notable pause in Adam’s flow of conversation in one ear hauled my attention back to the suave, designer stubble chin and pursed lips. “Err, yes, absolutely,” I chanced and was rewarded with a solemn nod and what might have been a smile or a pensive frown, it was hard to tell. His voice had begun to jar on my nerves, but he was a handsome man and I found myself entertaining the notion of sleeping with him with growing enthusiasm. As he headed for the Gents with strict instructions that I should not only stay put but also get in another round, I saw the man in the mirror weaving a path towards me.
“Two more pints of lager please,” I called out to the nearest barman as soon as I caught his eye. But he made a beeline for the customer standing next to me. I would have complained if the sight of a familiar sandy head and slightly mocking gaze hadn’t left me speechless - but not for long. “I was first,” I mumbled. At the same time, the back of my hand brushed casually against his bare arm where it rested on the bar. A vibrant tingling sensation passed through me.
“You could be right,” agreed the mirror man lightly. The barman proceeded to serve him with the air of favouring a regular customer. “By the way, I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Oh?” was all I could think of to say. He turned his full profile on me and I saw that his eyes were a very pale blue, almost grey. “I beg your pardon?” I managed to stammer, too taken aback even to feel annoyed.
“Your friend with the freckles, he’s bad news. Can I buy you a drink?”
The barman hovered expectantly while mixed emotions performed various physical jerks in my stomach. “No, and I’ll thank you to mind your own business!” I snapped. Immediately, the barman retreated to run up the till, returning only to dispense change before moving further along the bar, deliberately turning a deaf ear to me. My companion attracted the attention of a pretty barmaid, gesturing towards me with two-fingered ambiguity. Suddenly, I was being served. I dare say I should have been pleased, grateful even. Instead, I felt small and ineffectual.
“Matthew Jordan,” he coolly held out his hand.
Try as I might, I could not ignore the outstretched palm or issue the snub that sprung to my lips. “Rob Young.” I muttered. His grip was sure, confident. “So why do you say Adam is bad news?” I couldn’t resist asking. Reluctantly, I withdrew my hand from the subtle pressure of friendly fingers.
“Adam here, Charlie there, our boy’s a real chameleon. A bastard and a half with it, believe you me.”
“And if I don’t?” I was angry but curious.
“That’s your problem, not mine.” His tone, like his manner, was light and easy. At the same time I thought I detected a warning glint in the pale eyes. Warning or threat, I wondered? Suddenly, a familiar chatter was back at my elbow and I welcomed an opportunity to turn my back on Matthew Jordan. Even so, Adam’s return felt like an intrusion. I took a long drink. By the time I glanced over my shoulder a few minutes later, Jordan had disappeared into the crowd. Unobtrusively, I searched the mirror but in vain.
“Who was that?” Adam wanted to know.
“No one, just some creep trying to chat me up.” I laughed nervously and took another long swig from my glass.
“I’m jealous,” he snickered before launching into another string of pecuniary anecdotes to which I scarcely paid any attention. Indignation vied with unease concerning Matthew Jordan’s enigmatic behaviour. If his intention had been to put me off Adam and capitalise on that himself, he couldn’t have chosen a better way to inspire the opposite effect. While his incessant chatter washed over me, I was more than content to admire Adam’s physical attributes and imagine my tongue sliding between the hyperactive lips.
When I ordered another round a good half hour later, I was only vaguely mindful that the previous one had also been down to me and could not entirely shake off a gut feeling that I was missing something here. By now, though, I was drunk. Finally, I could no longer resist stopping Adam’s overworked mouth with a sloppy kiss. He grinned boyishly and suggested we go back to his place and enjoy that peculiar brand of ‘coffee’ for which I was fast developing a passion.
We left, arm in arm, to stagger through a maze of streets. Quiet enough for the most part, these were peopled mostly by sleeping bags stirring in shop doorways, the occasional head just visible. Quiet but by no means empty, even at that late hour. Prostitutes, male and female, lounged provocatively where likely punters walked quickly to and fro, glancing furtively in all directions before giving the nod. A group spilled out of a house party, stumbling in fits of laughter down a flight of steps. Starry-eyed couples wandered along, paused to embrace then wandered on again, oblivious to it all.
Eventually, the pressure on my arm conveyed to me that I should turn right and propelled me into a poorly lit mews overshadowed by high-rise blocks.
“Nearly there,” my companion assured me. At the same time, he removed his arm and left me feeling absurdly vulnerable and alone. A premonition kicked me in the groin. I winced, stopped and half turned, in time to make out two shadowy figures poised to pounce.
A sudden cramp took me. I couldn’t even put one foot before the other, let alone make a run for it. I opened my mouth to shout a warning to Adam. But the expression on his face killed any sound I might have made. It was evil. Worse, I understood in that awful split second that he had deliberately led me into an ambush. He laughed, but the sound he made was unlike any laughter I had ever heard or would wish to hear again. It was harsh, muted, cackle that made my blood run cold. So stunned was I by the realization that I’d been set up, I did not resist the rough hands that grabbed me and pinioned me against a wall. I felt a knife prick my throat.
It was like something out a bad dream. I wasn’t so much scared as petrified. Senses, emotions, these were put on hold for later. Now, I could only gag on a foul tasting scrap of cloth thrust into my mouth while one of the thugs emptied my pockets. At a safe distance, I could see Adam the chameleon. He looked very flushed and was literally dribbling with excitement. His wild-eyed expression brought a rush of bile to my mouth that I was forced to swallow. I closed my eyes in a pathetic attempt to shut out the gravity of my situation. Are they just going to rob me or...Oh, fucking hellfire, what else have the sick bastards got in mind for me? I wondered with a cool detachment that struck me as the weirdest thing.
“Strip him!” I heard Adam say.
The others began tearing at my clothes. It all happened so fast, within minutes, that I scarcely had time to grapple with the reality of what was taking place. I began to panic and attempted to struggle. Almost immediately, a blow on the back of my head sent me spiralling into a state of semi-consciousness. I lay on freezing concrete, as helpless as newborn baby, while they lashed out with feet and fists. Before long, I was reduced to a gibbering wreck.
All this time, I was excruciatingly aware of Adam’s low, hysterical laughter goading my attackers on. At one point, I felt a ticklish scratching sensation across my bare chest. But I kept my eyes tightly shut and silently prayed for dear life to a God in whom I had never quite been able to believe.
I am alone on a vast plain and sprawled near dead on scorched earth, my sight blurred by a blazing sun, my flesh a repulsive mass of weeping blisters. A herd of elephants is charging right at me. Yet, I can’t move a muscle. The lead elephant veers to one side just as I expect to be trampled to a pulp by those massive feet. As one, the herd parts and thunders past me. Choking in their dust, I finally manage to struggle to my knees, bury my head in my hands and sob my heart out. Soundless and scary are the sounds I make. My parched mouth is, oh, so eager for the sticky wetness of tears, but there are none. Nor will my dry, cracked lips frame any call for help.
It began to dawn on me that the sticky wetness on my tongue was blood. The world spun me a few times then jerked to a stop. A growing realization that my assailants had gone, and that I was still alive, provoked a paroxysm of relief I could barely control. Hands trembling, I yanked the rag from my mouth and proceeded to be violently sick. I thought I heard a shout. Dear God, don’t let it be them. I whimpered as lay there, retching horribly, waves of searing pain all but battering my poor body to pieces. Somehow, I staggered to my feet only to collapse again on all fours. It seemed to me that I left my body for an instant and saw myself from a great height, a pathetic creature floundering about blindly. I returned to it in time to vomit again.
“Bloody hell, you’re in a bad way!”
I thought I heard a vaguely familiar voice. I managed to lift my head and force my eyes open. It took every ounce of concentration to bring the owner of the voice into a focus of sorts. ”They...” I began. But my teeth started chattering and wouldn’t stop long enough to get any another word out. I threw up again and felt a comfort of hands grip my shoulders until the fit passed. Slowly, my mind began to clear. “Jesus, where are my clothes!” I stammered and looked around wildly. but in vain. There was no sign of even a sock “Oh, no!” I wailed in the grip of a fresh wave of panic.
“Here, put this on,” a reassuring voice told me. Obediently, I coaxed my arms into a leather jacket being draped over my shoulders, but left it to other hands than mine to zip it up. “Can you walk if I help you?” The words seem to fling themselves at me from all directions. “Maybe we should wait for an ambulance…”
“No!” I tried to shout but could only manage a croaking sound. “I’m okay. Please, just get me home…” I began to sob.
“Okay? I don’t think so,” said the voice with feeling.
“No ambulance and no police,” I mumbled between bruised lips. “Can’t take any more…”
“If you say so,” said my Good Samaritan with misgivings I shared. But I wanted no fuss. Besides, the police would only assume I’d asked for it once they realized I was gay. (Why waste time on another gay bashing, for heaven’s sake?) True, this was my first time. But I’d heard too many stories about gay men given hassle by the police to risk jumping out of this particular frying pan into that particular fire. Oh, things were supposed to be better now but…
“I can’t take any more,” I mumbled again.
“You may have a point,” the voice conceded dryly. Strong arms hoisted me up by my armpits. I lent my legs what support I could which was precious little at first. The stranger put an arm around my waist and dragged my left arm over his shoulder.
Ouch!” I cried out in agony. My right arm hung loosely at my side and felt as if it might be broken.
First attempts to get me walking failed miserably, my legs refusing point blank to co-operate. “Either you start walking or I call an ambulance,” muttered the voice in my ear, thereby galvanising me into action. Resolutely, I forced a foot forward then the other. Even so, progress was slow and painful.
At last we reached the main road. Suddenly a warning bell clanged loudly in my head. I stopped in my tracks and stared at my companion. For the first time, I found myself able to put a name to the voice. It was Matthew Jordan. Involuntarily, I gave a terrified shriek and wriggled out of his supportive grip, only to tumble backwards and land awkwardly in a groaning heap.
“What the devil…?” Jordan moved as if to help me.
I started crawling away on all fours, desperate to escape what I saw as another trap. Then another bout of retching took me and I hadn’t the strength to shrug off a pair of firm, steadying hands. It seemed ages before I found my voice. “You followed us, you must have,” I panted accusingly, “or what are you doing here?”
“Too right I followed you. Screwed things up good and proper though, didn’t I? I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. I’d have found you sooner if some kamikaze cyclist hadn’t thrown a wobbly right in front of me. Sorry about that, but better late than never, eh? My car’s parked nearby and I’m afraid you’re just going to have to trust me or…Well, you’re just going to have to trust me,” he repeated and helped me to my feet again, shouldering my whole weight in the process. “I really should get you to a hospital.”
“No hospital,” I insisted weakly, “They ask too many questions…might call the police…don’t want that…too much hassle…just want to go home…”
“We’ll see,” I thought he said before I lost consciousness.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a stool at a white enamel sink in a bathroom with lilac surrounds. The vivid colours hurt my eyes and I promptly shut them. When I opened them again, I was looking in a mirror over the basin - at homophobic slogans scrawled with a black felt-tip pen across my battered chest Oh, my God!” I sobbed.
Mathew Jordan helped me into a bath and cleaned me up as gently as he could, washing off dirt and blood with relative easy but having to scrub with a soapy pumice stone to remove the ink. I sat docile and grateful, soaking up his kindness as eagerly as I did the hot water and lightly scented bubbles. At first I tried to stifle the yelps and groans his ministrations provoked. But I couldn’t keep it up. Even so, it was with some relief that I managed - in my head at least - to enter into the good-natured if subdued laughter that accompanied my loudest howls.
After washing and shampooing my hair, Matthew dried me all over with a huge yellow towel. I submitted gladly. The towel was soft and warm. By the time he led me to the bedroom, I had all but rejoined the human race. Watching him rummage in a chest of drawers and produce a pair of silk pyjamas, I wondered if he would want sex and laughed aloud. I was in no shape. “I never wear pyjamas,” I protested.
“They’ll make you feel good and help you sleep,” he assured me and helped me into them.
He was right. The caress of silk against my skin was wonderfully relaxing. I yawned. Matthew helped me into bed. In spite of mangled thoughts running riot in my head, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillows.
“No!” I woke up screaming.
“It’s okay, you’re safe now.” Matthew Jordan’s voice cleared a path clear through a nightmare I could not recall but from which I continued to sweat buckets, my aching body thankful for its cocoon of silk. “Here take these,” he said and told me to stick my tongue out before placing first one aspirin then another on it while holding a class of milk to my lips. “Now, settle down and get some sleep. You’re safe now and I’m here if you need me,” he muttered kindly and switched off the bedside lamp. For a long time, I lay listening to the even sound of his breathing until finally it lulled me into a state of welcome dreamlessness.
I woke to find daylight flooding the room in spite of closed curtains stirring in a breeze at a huge window left partly open. There was no sign of Matthew but he had left a note on his pillow inviting me to make myself at home. I would find tea, coffee and anything I might fancy to eat in the kitchen. I was also invited to help myself to any clothes that might fit (or even if they didn’t) from a pile left on a chair beside the bed.
My head throbbed while just about every nuance of my being felt as though it had been tortured on a rack and stretched to breaking point. I felt very sorry for myself, I can tell you. In spite of this, my disappointment at finding Matthew gone was acute. Moreover, it occurred to me as I pulled on a pair of his jeans, with much yelping and groaning, that I hadn’t even thanked him. Oh, but there would be time enough for all that. Putting my conscience to one side, I limped to the bathroom…
Much later, I called a cab. Later still, Bo was throwing a fit at my appearance and insisting I go home at once. He even put me in a taxi himself and thrust a wad of notes at the driver with instructions to see me to my front door and make sure someone was there to look after me. “You should go to hospital,” he said more than once but gave up when he saw I was adamant about doing no such thing. “At least see your GP,” his parting shot glanced off an ear as the cab pulled away from the kerb. I paid little attention, grappling as I was with mixed feelings about going home. As it happened, there was no one in when we arrived.
I swore aloud. I had no key, did I? The cab driver, however, expressed such concern for my welfare that I persuaded him to accompany me to the rear of the house, force open a kitchen window and let me in by the back door.
Once left to my own devices, I called the number I had taken from the telephone at Matthew Jordan’s flat. A female voice answered, crossly informed me that she had never heard of a Matthew Jordan and slammed the receiver down. I dialled again. When the same impatient voice answered, I hung up without speaking. I was puzzled and upset. Had I jotted down the wrong number? An aggrieved voice at the back of my mind refuted the possibility. Never mind, I’ll write instead. Then the awful truth hit me. I hadn’t bothered to make a note of the address. Worse, I knew there wasn’t the remotest chance I could find my way back to whatever part of London I had spent the previous night, let alone identify where Matthew Jordan lived.
My heart sank.
