Heartbreaker (23 page)

Tommy’s in his forties, thickset, dark, hairy, with a weakness for studded denim. Pathetically macho, he reads magazines on guns whenever he isn’t sweating over hard-core porn. He ought to be terminated—and I say that not because he’s gay but because he’s scum of the worst kind, just as bad as anything hetero.

“I was asking Tommy for the videos of your session with Sir Colin yesterday,” Elizabeth’s saying, “but he hasn’t yet picked them up from Austin Friars. Can you pop over and get them, Tommy dear? As it’s Saturday there’ll be no traffic and it won’t take you long.”

The shit-for-brains filth slouches off just as the bell rings and I open the door.

“Good morning, my dear!” says Asherton, all smarmy charm, and snakes forward over the threshold into my home.

“But of course Gavin must go to the opera!” says Asherton twenty minutes later.

We’re drinking coffee in the living-room. Elizabeth and Asherton are sitting facing each other in the white leather armchairs while I’m perching on the matching footstool at Elizabeth’s side. There’s a CD playing softly in the background as if we need to be tranquillised with Muzak, and some ancient American warbler’s droning about how he left his heart in San Francisco. Elizabeth adores all that mulch. I suppose it reminds her of her youth.

“I don’t want my boy overworked by doing escort duty,” she’s saying toughly, but adds: “He’d need compensation.”

“Of course!” says Asherton, very soothing. “But surely Sir Colin will be all too ready to pay?”

“I think we’d need some compensation from you too, dear! After all, this’ll be a big boost for GOLD, won’t it?”

They haggle away, enjoying themselves.

“Well, as Gavin likes opera,” says Elizabeth at last, “I’ll be content with that sum from you, but if Sir Colin wants more escort duty, I’ll want more money.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” says Asherton, and they loll back satisfied in their armchairs.

“Gavin pet,” says Elizabeth, “pour Mr. Asherton some more coffee.”

“Thank you, my dear,” says Asherton to me, and as the coffee streams into his cup, he remarks to Elizabeth: “I must say, the thought of Sir Colin’s quite whetted my appetite! Are there any other exciting new clients?”

“Gracious me!” exclaims Elizabeth. “How greedy can you get? A new client did come our way this week, as it happens, but he’s got no long-term potential. Poor Mr. Tucker’s only a social worker, so he’s hardly in our financial league.”

Asherton’s spoon pauses over the cream-streaked mess in his cup. “Wasn’t there someone called Tucker,” he says, “who was mixed up in the Betz fiasco?”

“This is a different Tucker,” Elizabeth answers at once. “This man’s Gilbert. The Tucker in the Betz fiasco was Eric, and he was involved with that blonde bitch of a second wife Betz had, the woman who called herself Carta Graham.”

Coffee jerks out of my cup and runs all the way down my sweatshirt to my jeans.

By some miracle neither Asherton nor Elizabeth pays any attention to this giveaway that I’ve been zonked. Elizabeth’s watching Asherton, and although she must be aware that I’m trying to mop up a spill she’s obviously assuming I’ve just had a routine accident.

It’s only when I’m able to draw breath again that I realise how startled Asherton is. That’s why he and Elizabeth, immersed in their dialogue, are paying me no attention.

Swinging to face me he demands: “Is Gilbert Tucker fortyish, tall, dark and good-looking?”

Disaster. All I can think is that I daren’t lie again about Gil’s appearance or I’ll really be up shit creek when Elizabeth sees the tapes of the Tuesday wake-up slot.

Swallowing quickly I mutter to her: “I’ll explain everything later,” and before she can comment I’m saying to Asherton: “Yes, sir.”

“Well, well, well!” says Asherton with a little smile, and bright-eyed he takes a sip of his coffee.

Meanwhile Elizabeth’s grasped my iniquity but she’s not going to interrogate me in front of Asherton. Instead she looks straight at him and says: “You’ve met this man?”

“I have indeed. Do you remember Bonzo, who was so good at recruiting chickens for me?” (Asherton’s not, of course, referring to birds but to the victims in his S&M games, the poor sods who end up in cages in his dungeon.)

“You mean that steroid-junkie who got AIDS and popped his clogs? But what’s Bonzo got to do with Gilbert Tucker?”

“Well, when I first went to see Bonzo in his AIDS hospice he spoke very highly of Mr. Tucker, who specialised in visiting people there. Then on a later occasion, just as I was holding Bonzo’s hand and wondering how long it would be before The End—” Asherton sighs, perhaps genuinely moved by this creepy picture he’s painting “—this Mr. Tucker arrives at the bedside and introduces himself to me. He was a very attractive man, which is one reason why I remember him, but there was also another reason why I remember him so well.” As Asherton pauses for full dramatic effect all the hairs stand on end at the nape of my neck. “Mr. Gilbert Tucker,” he purrs, “is a clergyman in the City with a Guild church not too far from St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall.”

Instantly I say to Elizabeth: “I never suspected. He gave nothing away.”

Elizabeth ignores me. She just says to Asherton: “All right, I’ll take care of this. I’ll cancel the Tuesday appointment.”

“But my dear, I’m not sure I want that at all!”

“Too bad! I’m not having my boy mixed up with anyone who knows that man Darrow!”

“Aren’t you being a touch paranoid? Do you seriously think we need to be afraid of Mr. Tucker, a gay clergyman who’s been so very, very unwise as to fall for our beautiful boy?”

Sweat starts to prickle on my back.

Elizabeth says: “I’m not sure what you think’s in it for you, Ash, but I’m not doing blackmail.”

“Who said anything about blackmail? You’ve told me he has no money! But he’d be wonderful fodder for GOLD.”

There’s a pause while I feverishly try to work out what “fodder” means in this context, but at last Elizabeth says: “He’d know Darrow’s the specialist in fighting organisations like GOLD. He’d run to him straight away.”

“Not after I’d finished with him.”

Elizabeth says after a pause: “If you want to use my boy to hook this fish you’ll have to bloody pay.”

“My dear!” says Asherton fondly. “Did you seriously think that I wouldn’t?” He glances at me as if I were no more than a trained animal. “All right, my lovely—off you go. I want to talk further to Elizabeth about GOLD.”

Elizabeth says roughly, pressing a hand down on my shoulder to ensure I remain seated: “You don’t order my boy about in my house. I give the orders here.”

“My dear, forgive me! I’m so excited by the thought of the divine Gilbert that I was quite carried away!”

“Gavin,” says Elizabeth colourlessly, “wait upstairs in your sitting-room.”

I spring to my feet, muscles aching after being clenched so hard for so long, but I’m feeling nauseous. My head aches and my mouth’s dry.

Stumbling upstairs I try to prepare myself for the big scene with Elizabeth.

Nigel’s out. On Saturday mornings he takes Elizabeth’s car and drives to Austin Friars where he restocks the liquor cupboard and the fridge, cleans the flat and picks up Friday’s dirty linen for the laundry service which calls at the Lambeth house. Tommy does the linen pick-up Monday through Thursday when he collects the day’s tapes and checks the video equipment. I used to do all the housewife stuff myself, but the more successful I became the more Elizabeth rewarded me by delegating the chores elsewhere and nowadays Nigel’s weekend time off doesn’t begin until Saturday lunch-time.

So I’m alone as I sit in my living-room upstairs and try to get my brain to work. I feel as if everything’s suddenly veered right out of control, and it’s not a good feeling. In fact I soon work out that the only way to kill the nausea is to throw up, so I go to the lavatory and stick my finger down my throat. At least I can control my stomach contents even if I can’t control anything else.

Meanwhile Asherton’s still downstairs, probably viewing the latest instalment of the Colin tapes. I wouldn’t have thought there was anything there to amuse Asherton, but I suppose he can’t resist the chance to gloat over the big fish while he dreams of GOLD’s future bank balance— if he isn’t too busy dreaming of Gil Tucker.

I start to feel sick again despite the barf-binge, so I divert myself by marvelling at the coincidence of Carta having a leading role in the Betz fiasco. But I come to the conclusion it’s not such a coincidence after all. We’re all connected to the City, that tight little area at the heart of sprawling metropolitan London, we’re all simmering in the same Square Mile stockpot, and “coincidence” is just the word which means our lines of connection have suddenly snapped tight.

The only real coincidence here is Asherton knowing Gil, but no, even that’s not such a surprise when you think about it. Asherton’s in vice, a world where AIDS is a big risk, and there can’t be many clergymen in London who specialise in AIDS sufferers. Yes, we’re all connecting, we’re all starting to form some kind of horrifying pattern, but does this mean there’s a malign designer who’s trying to hijack the canvas belonging to the old man with the paintbrush in the sky? Not necessarily. The old man could have just made a balls-up, the way painters do sometimes—but for God’s sake, mate, have another lager and bust a brush to put the bloody thing right PDQ . . .

Fat chance. And I’m going mental, imagining anyone’s in control of this scene. Shit, what am I going to say to Elizabeth about Gil? Just what the fuck am I going to say?

“I know it sounds crazy,” I say, “but he was such a nice bloke and I didn’t think he needed all the aggro of being mixed up with me. Besides, it was obvious he had no money and I just couldn’t believe you’d want to take him on, even for video sales, when his credit was going to run dry in double-quick time.”

Elizabeth decides to keep calm. Austerely she says: “I make the decision, not you, about whether or not someone gets taken on as a client.”

“I know, and I’m sorry I’ve been so off the wall—maybe I was knocked off balance by that funeral.”

“That reminds me, why was Tucker there? What was his connection with Slaney?”

I sweat to be both creative and plausible. “He gave me the impression he was more connected with Moira than with Richard. He talked about being involved with one of her charity projects, and when he said he was a social worker, it seemed natural that he should be helping her.”

“Why didn’t he tell you he was a clergyman?”

“Oh, that’s easy to figure! He’d seen my pics, as I told you, and he fancied me enough to make an approach. Of course he wasn’t going to admit to being a clergyman!”

Elizabeth has no trouble believing this but she’s still bothered by the thought of Gil’s job. “I remember you saying it was Mrs. Slaney rather than her husband who was involved with St. Benet’s,” she says. “Is there a chance, do you think, that she met Tucker through Nicholas Darrow?”

“Maybe she met Darrow through Tucker. I just don’t know. All I do know is that Tucker never mentioned either Darrow or St. Benet’s and there’s nothing to indicate the two blokes are more than just professional acquaintances.”

Elizabeth sighs, relaxing a fraction. “Well, I’d still prefer you not to see Tucker again, but for the moment I’ve got to play along with Asherton. I don’t want him guessing at this stage that I want to wash my hands of GOLD, but I think he’s a fool to mess with someone who must know Darrow—and an even bigger fool to think he can get any mileage out of a bent clergyman! That kind of stuff’s so dated now, but he was always fixated on the writings of—” She mentions a name which sounds like Alice Tecroli “—and I can see there’s no hope he’ll change . . . Is Tucker really such a dreamboat, pet?”

“Maybe he’s got some kind of gay allure that I missed.”

“I suppose he must have, or Asherton wouldn’t be in such a bloody stupid flutter. All right, dear, let’s just get this deal sewn up. You’ll see Tucker on Tuesday as arranged, but tell him you can go on seeing him— say you can get him a big discount. Film every session, of course, to keep Asherton drooling.”

“But what’s going to happen to Gil when—”

“No need for you to worry about that, pet. You won’t be there. Just concentrate on building the sex relationship so that a top-notch duet gets taped. If I give him big discounts on his sessions I want to be sure I get the money back in video sales.”

“I just hate the thought of—”

“Now Gavin, I hope you’re not going to get as sentimental about Mr. Tucker as you were about Mr. Slaney! No more nonsense, please, about him being too nice to be involved with you, and most important of all,
no
more lies.
I shall be very angry indeed if you start lying to me again, but you’re not going to disappoint me as Jason and Tony did, are you, pet? I really can rely on you, can’t I, to be honest with me in future?”

In a rush I say: “Of course you can, darling, I swear it, no need for you to worry at all.”

She gives my hair a quick stroke and leaves me in a room which suddenly seems coffin-cold.

As far as I can see there’s no way I can warn Gil and emerge in one piece. If he now backs off it’ll be obvious that I’ve grassed. At least he’s not being recruited as a chicken for that S&M group, but I wish I knew more about what Asherton’s planning.

At this point I suddenly realise that in her annoyance with Asherton Elizabeth’s let slip a clue. She mentioned a name which sounded like Alice Tecroli and talked of “using a bent clergyman.”

My brain finally wakes up. The name’s actually Aleister Crowley, he lived most of his life in the early twentieth century and he specialised in creepy religion. I know this because Elizabeth’s got one of his books on the shelves in her bedroom where she keeps what she calls her “literary erotica.” I looked at the book once and found it neither literary nor erotic, but it’s probably unputdownable if you’re into pseud’s-corner twaddle.

I now realise that when Elizabeth was talking of Crowley and a “bent clergyman” she was almost certainly referring to Satanism and the black mass. I want to laugh out loud but I don’t. That’s because I know that if Asherton’s involved in this kind of guff, the black mass wouldn’t be played for laughs.