The Beat (14 page)

“See you in an hour,” Mark called. Tony preened as he bounded up the stairs. “See you in an hour.” They would all see Mark in an hour, picking him up. The sense of humiliation was replaced by triumph. The Tony who could hold onto his lovers. He swung through the doors into the gym and straight past the desk to the changing-rooms. He flung his gear down without even seeking out a locker and re-emerged within minutes fully changed. The class was in position. Linda stood at the front poised to commence. She gave him a smile of acknowledgement as he took his place near the front. There was no time for his usual warm-up. They all stood poised, the tape started up and the class began. He didn’t need his usual warm-up, today he was in top form. He would make it through the session without any preliminaries. The initial stretching exercises went like a breeze. The music swelled around him and he followed time subcon-sciously. The line of his back felt proud and perfect, his balance was steady and the placement of his hands and feet gave each gesture a grace he was proud of. He held a low squat perfectly for the arm exercises and was then ready for the more invigorating run. How different it felt from the night before when he had been over-critical and defeatist. The first run passed with him feeling warm and comfortable. His timing and precision had improved and his breathing was relaxed and natural. During the whole class his mind failed to wander. He worked his body until he became an outsider watching it reflected in the mirror before him. It stretched and bent, it jumped and kicked, it sunk into the splits or balanced inverted as was dictated. The second run came and went without his interest diminishing. When the class finished it took him by surprise. He discovered that his clothes clung to him and he was coated in a layer of perspiration, yet his body felt fired up to start all over again. All around him the class left the floor and a new group eagerly shuffled into place. It was over. He completed a few final stretches, more for ego than necessity, then, holding his body erect, strode between the waiting figures and away from the floor. Linda caught his eye as he past and again she nodded and smiled to him. The changing-room was crowded. He threw off his clothes and went, towel in hand, to the showers. He was proud of his body today and was unconcerned about other eyes upon him as he waited his turn in the crowded shower block. Once under the shower he suddenly remembered that he hadn’t phoned Peter. Peter was still expecting him that evening and was completely unaware of the changes that had taken place. Tony would have to explain that Mark was back. He had no idea how Peter would take it. He should phone the guy at once. It would be better from the gym than within Mark’s hearing. There was no reason why Mark should know about Peter. Tony felt no shame about the whole affair but there seemed little reason to complicate matters when Peter meant so little to him anyway. The whole affair had only been something to turn to for reassurance in a time of desperation. Tony would like to have been able to say that Peter was just a nice guy, but that wasn’t true. He suspected Peter wasn’t even nice really, just very keen. And on what? He hardly knew Tony. Once they had seen each other, only the once. They had committed a desperate and rather unsatisfactory act of lust — no, not that, just sex. For one week now Peter had phoned nightly building up his own expectations. Tony had not over-encouraged it. He had promised nothing beyond dinner once and that was only under duress. He wasn’t sure they would even recognize each other on a second meeting, let alone have anything real to offer each other. It had all been part of that night-sweat of an evening. The park, the waiting in the cold, the disinterest. Then that young queen rushing back into the bog being attacked. Something had snapped and the men had acted as one. Not one of them understood what had happened although all had taken part. Peter had later capitalized on that impulse to give Tony a lift home. They had tried to recreate that feeling of strength and unity through sex. It hadn’t worked. It had taken something more than that to combine six strangers into a common act. Peter alone seemed to misunderstand the bond that had been forged that night. Now Tony would have to ring and tell him that any further meetings were off. Any continuation of what had been so unfortunately triggered off was now out of the question. He considered a valium to make the call easier but decided it wasn’t necessary. He could do it anyway.

Peter was preparing the oranges when the phone rang. He didn’t like working in the kitchen and the interruption annoyed him. He had already severed the tops off the oranges and was in the process of scooping out the flesh. His hands were messy. The recipe book had recom-mended you prepare the fruit well in advance and rechill the mixture. Placing the ice cream scoop on the damp chopping-board, he wiped his hands on the paper towel and headed towards the hallway and the buzzing machine. Again it went through his mind that he must order a more up-to-date model. His voice was crisp and articulate as he spoke into the receiver. Any hint of animosity or annoyance over the interruption was well concealed. Peter always prided himself that he was well under control. It was one thing that he was careful to observe always amongst his friends. No matter how much he felt the prick of their goading and bitchiness, he never let them know. It would be the same when he presented Tony to them. Tongues would wag but Peter belonged to a world that both thrived on pettiness and denied its existence. Every friend was a hidden enemy, every dinner party a well-concealed battlefield.

“Hello, Peter?” the voice called down the phone.

“Yes Tony, my boy.” He was pleased to be able to show he recognized the voice. They might at a future point have to do a little work to modify the accent. There was noise in the background and Tony was almost shouting. Peter held the receiver well back. The words rushed out as Tony unloaded his message into Peter’s unlistening ear. Tony had completed his apology before it started to dawn on Peter what the call was all about. There was silence on both ends of the phone as the meaning penetrated. Tony waited. Then Peter spoke.

“You’re telling me you are not coming tonight?”

“Yes,” Tony confirmed.

“Mark is back with you?”

“Yes.” Peter paused and looked curiously at the phone saying nothing. Tony waited for the response. Nothing came.

“Peter,” he called. There was no reply. He began again.

“Peter, I’m sorry, honestly I am. It wouldn’t be fair to come over now everything has happened. It wouldn’t have worked.” Peter’s face had drained of all colour. His body was shaking visibly with anger. For a few seconds more he could not speak. Finally, when he knew his voice was again perfectly under control, he spoke.

“Thank you for phoning to tell me,” he paused. “You must be pleased your little friend is back with you.”

“Yes, I am,” Tony replied lamely.

“I can’t understand why you are taking him back, Tony. Still, most of us get that which we deserve, and he sounds a bad lot.” Tony made no reply.

“Ethnic, isn’t he?” Peter asked disparagingly.

“I had better go,” Tony tried helplessly.

“Tony,” Peter said.

“Yes?” He awaited what was to come.

“Tony, good luck this time.”

“Thank you.”

“And Tony, don’t phone me when it doesn’t work.”

And Peter hung up. The anger boiled and seethed within him. That upstart of a boy didn’t even have the sense to see what he had to offer. Peter’s plans wrecked by an unappreciative youth with a bad address and no sense of dress or decorum. Sex on the carpet before a gas heater! The boy would never amount to much with these values. Peter returned to the kitchen and scooped the mangled oranges into the wet-garbage disposal unit. He rinsed the pulp off the carving-board and placed it neatly in the dishwasher. He closed the recipe book and returned it to its place on the shelf. He wiped down the bench surface for odd traces of orange juice, then sat on a kitchen stool. At very least Tony could have come over that evening to talk about it. He could have seen the house, shared a meal, accepted his hospitality and his bed, and known what he was renouncing. The boy hadn’t given a chance to Peter and all he had been prepared to offer. No one could do this to Peter. No one could do it and get away with it. He could be both influential and vindictive. He would reek his vengeance. And he had one ace card to play. He knew Tony’s name, he knew the address and where the boy worked. Most important of all, he knew where the boy had been one week before and the police would be most interested. A phone call to the right people and Tony would have little to feel complacent about. Peter rose from the stool and returned to the hallway. He browsed through his embossed directory and found the number he sought. Systematically he dialled with his index finger, then waited satisfied as he heard the digits register and the number ring. Then suddenly he hung up. His face ashen, he replaced the receiver and gazed blankly at the passageway of royal blue carpeting. He couldn’t report anything. The loyalty must remain, for it was his own protection as well as theirs. The conspiracy could not be broken. They were all in it together.

Prissie was frozen as he tried not to mince along in the borrowed denims. Really they did look better on Leigh but they were necessary if Prissie was to cruise without having his head knocked in. He was walking well over in the shadows of the trees that hugged the line of the back of the houses. Over to his right he caught a glimpse of a distant figure in the park. It too seemed to be making towards the toilet block. Further ahead still, a car was cruising past the darkened block. It went slowly but with no sign of hesitation. As he watched, it neared the end of the street. Then a dark red Mercedes was purring quietly past. It appeared silently from nowhere and was suddenly there cruising him. The driver made an obvious inspection of the pedestrian and glided slowly on, pulling in behind the other cars at the bog. He was interested, Prissie thought to himself. The interior light of the Mercedes glowed briefly as a dark figure got out and headed across the road. The second figure coming through the park was nearing his destina-tion too. The two men would meet as if timed so by fate. Prissie walked on. Timing could be the all-important factor. There was a slight hum behind and he became aware of a new car trailing him. He quickened his step, trying to repress both his mincing gait and his nerves. He felt very exposed, very obvious in his purpose, a solitary figure on foot in an otherwise deserted piece of road. Nothing else to do but keep walking and brazen it out. So long as it wasn’t the pigs. Frantically Prissie tried to formulate justifications for being there at this time of night. He felt the car lights dim and the car ease to a stop somewhere behind him. That didn’t seem like a move the pigs would use. Fleetingly he glanced back. The glance was too quick to be sure; he just sensed he was being watched. The thought of escape spun through his head, then out again. He was here to take risks and take risks he would. Again he looked back. It wasn’t the police, the car was too old. He saw a lone figure watching from the darkened car. The head was a mere shadow through the windscreen.

“Well here goes,” Prissie said aloud and started slowly across the road. It gave a less obvious opportunity to look back and assess the situation. A street light gleamed overhead. Prissie paused under it as momentarily as a bird in flight. It gave the observer a chance to observe. There was no point in keeping to the shadows now and facing a rejection when seen at closer quarters later. A face leered from the car at him. What calibre of face he couldn’t tell. As he continued through the last yards of parkland, the car slid forward using only dimmed lights to guide its path. It gave the act a ceremonial quality as the darkened form moved silently forward to its predecided position. Prissie had no need to look back now. Like an ancient sacrifice he continued towards his goal. Even on going through the gaping hole of the entrance, he felt no need to glance back. The behaviour ritual was set; both knew the procedure. Inside the place was surprisingly crowded. An elderly man occupied one of the cubicles. Two younger guys leant against the wall, waiting. One wore a dark business suit devoid of style. A double flash of white shirt shone, exposed either side of his dark tie. He would be the Mercedes. The other seemed to be in a tracksuit. In the far corner a further two figures were engrossed in fairly advanced foreplay. They didn’t pause to acknowledge his arrival in any way. Prissie looked around into the gloom and felt awkward. The man in the suit was obviously interested only in the figure leaning near him, while the sexual enthusiasm of the more active couple left little opening for him. Prissie didn’t fancy a mass impersonal grope. Perhaps what loitered outside held more promise? After all, whoever he was, he had selected Prissie. He returned to the entrance. Outside in the bushes the figure waited for him. From what he could tell, it looked thickset and of medium height. Prissie took a step out of the doorway and the figure stepped out of the bushes. It was about ten yards off. The guy looked pretty straight. For a second Prissie paused. The guy took hold of his own cock through his pants, and massaged it gently as he jerked his head, indicating he wanted Prissie to join him. For a second or two longer Prissie wasn’t sure. Something felt wrong about the whole thing. Now the offer had been made, he could happily have gone home without going through with anything more. Sex, there in the open, would be both cold and sordid. Inside the bog was already too crowded. Yet he stepped forward towards the waiting figure. It was part of the rite that once started must continue through to its climax. Prissie stepped forward. He was nearly there, when a muffled horn blurted out a warning from the waiting car. In alarm Prissie spun his head around. A second figure was crouched there, huddled behind the steering-wheel. Like lightning it dawned on him what was happening. Prissie was being set up. A fist swung forward but Prissie had already started and was poised to run. The blow smacked into his jaw, grazing his cheek. But its impact had been greatly reduced by the warning. Prissie heard himself cry out and blindly he stumbled back towards the dark protection of the bog. The commotion of Prissie’s second entrance sent the dark figures scattering to the far corners and recesses of the enclosure. Scrabbling desperately for the wall, Prissie clung to the shadows, repressing a stifled moan. The next second Kevin was there howling in his pursuit of the injured queen.

“Come and get it, you bastard,” he goaded. The triumph in his voice proclaimed the victory he felt. Prissie’s fate was, in his mind at least, sealed. There he stood facing blind into the darkness, confronting a lair, when he expected a lone, injured cub. Tony moved in the darkness and Kevin swung around. Assuming it was Prissie, he crowed, “There you are, you cunt.” The blow he threw missed. Tony had moved on in the darkness. Prissie, the supposed target, clung in silence to the damp wall and stared back at Kevin. Other figures started to move, looming in on the aggressor. His voice cracked in fear as he began to realize the pack that surrounded him. Lashing out wildly he cried, “Shit, how many of you bastards are there?” Peter staggered back from the blow. Gerry, Arthur, Robbo, Tony, Peter: suddenly they were all around him, touching and taunting as they began to unveil their hatred. Not a word passed between them as they touched and half stroked the frightened quarry. Then, as if by some hidden signal, all drew back and there was both stillness and silence. As Gerry stepped back something cracked beneath his feet. Kevin swung around to see the shape filling the exit, his only means of escape. Kevin lurched towards the figure challenging, “You fucking poofter.” But the sound behind him stopped him where he was. Robbo’s lighter flashed and six faces were illuminated in the brief glow of light. In the stillness that followed they all waited. Stepping forward Robbo raised his arm ceremoniously. It hovered high in the air, then he brought it cracking down across the boy’s face. Kevin lurched backwards, stunned. Still no word was spoken. Stooping to the ground, Gerry dug his fingers around the loose piece of cement that had crunched beneath his feet. Drawing in his breath, he rose again to an upright position. He closed his eyes and brought it crashing down onto the back of the boy’s head. He in turn then stepped back. The figure reeled towards Arthur’s frightened form. His aged knee came up hard into the victim’s groin as if the whole event had been choreographed. Prissie watched amazed as figures moved forward in turn. A group of strangers preserving a bizarre sense of etiquette, as each in turn struck to destroy his attacker. The boy cried out as Tony slugged his fist into the face. Arthur in near ecstasy repeated his choreographic knee to the groin. The body sank towards his knees, his arms raised in worship, in recognition of the event or to protect his head, it was unclear which. Robbo’s hard leather boot slammed into his spine. The body jerked involuntarily backwards. Its movements now seemed mechanical, not human. Peter’s soft leather shoe echoed the movement into the boy’s already injured groin. Then all stood back. In silence they watched as the boy retreated, dragging himself inevitably towards the cower-ing Prissie and the dampness of the urinal. Prissie froze as the boy’s hand met his leg in the darkness. Both remained perfectly still as if to deny their existence to the other. Through the darkness five sets of eyes burnt on Prissie. Deliberately he lifted his hands and with the palms stretched back, seized the boy’s head and crashed it to the floor. There was again silence. The act was complete.