Tim Connor Hits Trouble (8 page)

Where did the other person fit into the dual system of biological classification he had adopted: male or female? He or she had achieved a highly convincing cross-dress whatever the biological starting point. The fine, long dark hair and strong, regular features would sit attractively on anyone. The clothes offered few clues; a long, embroidered shirt hanging over a pair of baggy trousers obscured the contours of the body. Tim was torn between embarrassment at his clunky need to categorise this individual and the intriguing challenge of doing so. He genuinely could not decide. Subliminally – very subliminally - he sensed the answer to his question might explain some riddle in his own identity. He leaned forward to get a better view.

‘Hi, can I help you? Have you lost something?’ Tim had managed to make himself the object of attention of the object of his attention, the observer observed.

‘No … no, not at all. I’m just looking around the pub. I’ve never been here before.’

‘So, what do you think?’ The tone was friendly, even encouraging.

‘Well it’s certainly got its own character. It’s a bit different than my usual watering hole. I don’t usually…’ He stopped mid-sentence.

‘You look a little different yourself. Do you mind if I come over for a minute and take a closer peep?’ This was said with a teasing and, Tim had to concede, despite his category dilemma, gorgeous smile.

‘Be my guest. My name is Tim.’

‘Hello Tim. I’m Georgie.’

No clues there then.

‘Georgie boy or Georgie girl?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’ Georgie pointedly touched an androgynous nose.

Tim decided on a more conventional line of conversation.

‘Georgie, can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks, I’m driving and I don’t want to push the limit.’

‘Ok. It’s nice of you to come over and talk to me. As I say I’m new to these parts.’

Perhaps Tim was lonelier than he recognised. His self-image was of habitual self-reliance bordering on self-containment. Yet, as he talked, he found himself opening up to this stranger in quite a personal way. It was not so much emotional release as an unloading of the weight of recent events, a jettisoning of accumulated clutter. It was a relief to share his story of chance and change with another. Perhaps better with a stranger than with someone he knew. Like the confessional, an anonymous encounter offered a screening from consequences. It also helped that the distraction of sexual attraction was in abeyance. His non-negotiable notion of his own sexual identity precluded him from making any ambiguous sexual connection. Or, so he assumed. Uncharacteristically he continued to do most of the talking, almost as if to him-self.

Georgie listened, smiling occasionally and making encouraging interjections. Then the mood changed abruptly.

‘Tim that’s all very interesting but do you realise what I am?’

‘A…’ he hesitated flustered, apparently suddenly required to come to a decision on what had been fascinating him.

‘You’re either a…’

‘I’m a prostitute.’

‘A prostitute?’

‘Yes. I’m enjoying talking to you but I need to make money. It costs eighty pounds.’ The tone had suddenly
become businesslike.

‘Eighty pounds?’ Surely he was not negotiating. Yet taken-off-guard, the stark offer of sex for money had excited him.

‘Tim, are you deaf? Are you up for it or not?’ The smile was still friendly yet utterly free of embarrassment.

‘Look, I’ve never paid for sex before.’

‘They all say that. Anyway, ‘before’ is history. Listen, you look pretty fit so I’ll make it sixty. Let’s go now.’ Georgie stood up and took Tim’s hand. He got up slowly in a show of reluctance more for his heterosexual self-respect than because he wanted to back out. He recognised that he was becoming hooked. He just wasn’t quite sure what was hooking him and why he was letting it happen.

The guys at Georgie’s table gave a friendly wave as the pair left the pub. Tim avoided their gaze. Georgie’s car was in the pub car park. In a couple of minutes they drew up outside a large eighteenth century block recently converted into residential accommodation. Tim followed Georgie up some stone steps eyeing the rear view speculatively. Trim buttocks moving against the soft cloth.
Definitely… definitely, maybe
. They exited the stairs coming to a second floor flat. Inside they passed through an entry hall into a reception room. Tim followed Georgie straight into a bedroom. Georgie went to a bank of electrical equipment and touched a couple of switches simultaneously flooding the room with a soft red glow and the low steady beat of an Indie track.

‘Maybe you could give me the money now? I like to get that out of the way.’

Tim was still not sure what he was paying for or what if anything he was about to do but he took three twenty pound notes from his pocket and put them on a dressing table. This seemed to release Georgie.

‘Time to strip.’

‘Go ahead. That’s the least I’d expect for sixty quid.’

‘You first. I’ll help you.’

He was soon naked.

‘Your turn now.’

‘Let’s dance for a couple of minutes.’

As they did so Tim’s remaining inhibitions dissolved. He undid the buttons on Georgie’s shirt bending to rub his own hairy chest against small firm breasts. Reaching lower he found a welcome space between smooth firm thighs. She gave a wide-eyed ‘now you know’ smile.

‘Hey, that’s a bit of a stretch for you, ain’t it, big man?’

‘Jump up here then,’ said Tim.

He lifted her from her waist and she eased her thighs across his.

His cock quivered as she wriggled towards it.

Suddenly they collapsed, Georgie landing plum on Tim’s John Thomas.

‘Ouch! Fuck! That can’t have been what I intended,’ he cursed.

‘I’m sure it wasn’t, but I was going to get a condom anyway.’

‘How romantic.’

‘Tim this is not romance.’

And it wasn’t. But when at last they did fuck, it was such a thunderous release that the block moved. Or so it seemed to Tim.

After they’d recovered, Georgie suggested that maybe Tim might have been a bit sex-starved. He agreed that that this was a possibility.

‘In that case you can have a freebie.’ They did it again, shifting the block back into place.

Afterwards they drank some red wine and chatted for a while. Georgie offered Tim a lift ‘to wherever.’ That was ‘lift enough’ he replied. He was beginning to enjoy this city,
flâneur
style.

As he ambled home he wondered vaguely if Georgie might be related to the Madame George, of Van Morrison’s eponymous song. A star-spangled granddaughter that
would be. For years he had thought the title of the song was ‘Madame Joy’ and its subject female rather than male. It didn’t really matter. But he knew his own tastes. Or thought he did.

The morning of the Social Science team meeting with Howard Swankie, shaped up badly for Tim. It was a humid early autumn day torn by sharp high-voltage thunderstorms. His car refused to start, even with the help of jump leads. Either the spark plugs were sodden or the battery had gone. For some reason the university mini-bus service from the city had been cancelled and he made his way in by public transport. He narrowly avoided a downpour as he hurried from the bus stop onto campus. By now the initial euphoria of his new job was wearing off, but he was glad to have made it to Wash, even though in the galaxy of higher education it was more black hole than twinkling star.

The notification of the meeting had been sent on to his Calcott Terrace address. It contained a map of the university campus with the relevant building indicated by an arrow. The meeting was in room 261 of the Sheikh Salah building, one of the biggest and most modern on the campus, located in an area unfamiliar to Tim. He made his way along a recently rebuilt access road that cut through a
jumble of demountables that wore the weary look of temporary teaching accommodation gone permanent. The Sheik Salah was the central and dominant of several newer administrative buildings that formed a fat T with the access road. Behind the buildings was an acre or so of roughly kept university owned land separated by a wire fence from the countryside beyond.

The glass doors of the Sheikh Salah building opened automatically as Tim approached. Immediately inside was a square metal and glass reception point. It was fronted by a sharply dressed young woman wearing what looked like a platinum blond wig but could have been her own, brightly dyed, stiffly set hair. Behind her were two large black men who Tim took to be security. In the way of a natural anarchist, he decided to by-pass Reception and head straight for room 261.

‘Excuse me Sir, you won’t be able to get through an entry gate unless you have a building specific swipe card.’ Tim swiftly back peddled. The voice came from the dubious blond.

‘Are you staff or a visitor, Sir?’

‘I’m a new member of staff. I’m here for a meeting in 261.’

‘Have you been issued with a building specific swipe card, Sir? This is a high security building, and today we have visiting dignitaries from the Middle East.’

Arriving at the Sheikh Salah had been relatively easy. Getting in was proving more tricky.

‘No, not a specific card for this building.’

‘Wait a moment Sir. I’ll just call 261 to let them know you’ve arrived. Then security will let you in. Perhaps I could see your staff card?’

‘OK.’ Tim flashed his card and watched, glumly patient as the receptionist made the call.

‘I’m afraid the phone seems to be dead in 261, Sir. Are you sure that’s where your meeting is? I don’t actually have a record of it on today’s events list.’

Tim checked his documentation. ‘Definitely.’

‘Do you mind if I look at that, Sir?’

Tim pointed to the room number.

‘I see.’ She turned towards the more senior looking of the security staff. ‘I think it’s ok to let this gentleman in, don’t you?’

‘This time, yes. But in future he needs to make sure he has the right card.’ He turned to Tim. ‘Go ahead. I’ll swipe the gate for you.’

Now a few minutes late, Tim hurtled up the stairs two at a time, fighting gravity as he scaled the final few. He propelled himself along the corridor with all the elegance of a can of garbage in full flight. Room numbers in the main corridor ran out at 250. He turned sharply into a short corridor leading to a nest of rooms that as far as he could see were not numbered in any logical sequence. Zigzagging at speed he eventually found 261 in an obscure cul-de-sac. Late or not, he paused briefly to compose himself. It would hardly enhance his image to burst into the room as though he had been launched from a canon. Opening the door he was met by a smatter of welcoming voices, one or two of which sounded mildly reproving. He spluttered a brief apology as Howard Swankie, looking distinctly unimpressed, gestured him towards the remaining vacant chair.

‘I’m glad you’ve managed to find us. This isn’t the most accessible of rooms, which is why I had a plan of the building sent out to you all. Do pour yourself a glass of water, if you wish. There will be tea and biscuits later.’

He paused with exaggerated deliberation, waiting for Tim to settle before continuing the meeting. ‘Now that Dr. Connor is here I can formally welcome both him and Ms. Khan to the faculty and department. I’m sure colleagues will give them all due assistance in settling in. Full staff details have already been circulated to you so I won’t repeat them now. I’m also delighted to extend a special welcome to our American exchange partner Dr Brad Purfect from Ocado
State University. I understand Dr. Purfect wants to be known by his American title of Professor which as you know is the standard way of addressing academics over there.’

‘Sure… thanks for that Professor Swankie. ‘Professor’ is just for the students. Colleagues can call me Brad, or whatever they like within reason.’ Purfect let out a vast, bellowing laugh, apparently under the impression he had cracked a joke. His new colleagues did their polite best to indulge his misapprehension.

Purfect looked set to continue but Swankie cut back in. ‘We’re glad to have you here, Professor. Do feel free to ask any of us for whatever support you may need.’ Swankie managed to force a smile in Purfect’s direction before resetting himself into business mode. Looking serious he explained that no agenda had been circulated because he wanted to keep the main purpose of the meeting confidential. After summarising recent changes in the department and briefly outlining a five-year plan that he was still working on, he paused and looked up.

Henry Jones took the opportunity to interrupt.

‘This five year plan? Sounds a bit Stalinist to me, Howard. Why five years? Two or three would be enough.’

Swankie passed off Henry’s outburst with a dismissive wave. He did not intend to be distracted by his perennial tormentor. He looked slowly and deliberately round the table, holding his gaze on each colleague until he obtained eye contact. Tim resisted the impulse to wink when his turn for the beady eye came. He wondered from where Swankie had got this clunky manoeuvre – perhaps from a military manual on techniques in small group leadership. Henry Jones was less successful in exercising self-control, appearing to purse his mouth in a kiss as he met Swankie’s gaze. Unruffled, Swankie again ignored him.

Finally, satisfied that he had everybody’s attention, Swankie spoke.

‘I have an important announcement to make. As you
know the Green Park and Ridgewell departments merged from the beginning of the last academic year with Green Park as the single site. After a year of the merger it has become clear that the lead roles in the department do not quite match the talents of the individuals concerned, Rachel and Henry. I’ve decided that Rachel will take over from Henry as Head of Department and that Henry will take on a brief to research new developments in educational technology, a crucial area if we or rather you are to compete with departments in other universities. I will line-manage both and additionally, I will assume responsibility for vetting applications for research funding. I’d like to thank Henry for his efforts as Head of Department,’ he concluded minimally acknowledging Henry’s work.

Tim was caught by surprise at Swankie’s public humiliation of Henry. The change of departmental leadership could have been made with little fuss at the beginning of term. But the fact was that Henry had been demoted and his supposed new role was flimsy camouflage to expedite the fact. Henry was a notorious and vocal technophobe. It was obvious that his supposed new ‘brief’ was designed as a way of simultaneously humiliating him and kicking him into touch. Whatever the justification for the changes, Swankie had set out to make Henry look incompetent, making the most of an opportunity to land a heavy blow in the personal feud between them. Perhaps he was trying to force Henry’s resignation. Tim looked across at Henry, his now ex-Head of Department. The pulse on Henry’s left temple flickered irregularly but otherwise it was impossible to read his reaction. He glanced in Rachel Steir’s direction but her expression also gave nothing away. What she said was sweetly diplomatic but with just a touch of spice.

‘I’d like to add my thanks to Henry for his many dedicated years as Head of Department. We all know how extensive his knowledge of the subject is, and I’m sure he can inspire us to do more research even if he is unable to find the time
to do much him-self.’ She paused. ‘I don’t want to burden you with more information now but I’ll shortly email the agenda for the next departmental meeting to everybody.’

Henry, shoulders hunched, remained silent.

‘Thank you Rachel,’ said Swankie swiftly moving on without inviting any further comment. Maintaining his directorial tone he launched into a fierce criticism of the department’s ‘embarrassingly’ low place in the various national league tables. He intended to monitor closely all performance indicators, particularly ‘customer satisfaction’, in his drive to improve the department that was now ‘in a total market situation.’ He was confident that Rachel would provide the right sort of leadership, adding with a gratuitous dig at Henry that she was ‘someone he knew he could work with’.

He was interrupted by a contemptuous snort from Henry. It was the first sign that Henry might fight back. Swankie glared at him and they eyeballed each other angrily for several seconds. Henry still said nothing.

Flushing slightly, Swankie continued in business-speak for a few more minutes, his momentum wavering only when Henry got up noisily, apparently to serve himself from a side-table where several steel drink containers and plates of biscuits had been placed. Swankie’s irritation increased a notch or two as Henry fiddled noisily amongst the crockery and urns, but determinedly pressed on.

‘I must also urge you to compete for the new prizes for good teaching established at the faculty and university level. I trust none of you consider yourself above competing for…’

‘Shit… aah!’ Henry exploded gutturally as hot tea cascaded down the front of his trousers. ‘Aah …aah … my fucking dick!’

Noises of anxiety and hilarity erupted around the table. Henry swiftly grabbed a couple of tissues and exited the room at speed, contriving to barge into Swankie’s chair he shouted ‘And you can stick your f…ing five year plan where the sun doesn’t shine, you pathetic drone!’

Swankie’s annoyance turned to thunder.

‘Jesus wept!’

Puce and with fists clenched, he lurched to his feet taking a couple of steps after Henry. His colleagues looked on incredulous, as for a delicious moment it seemed that he might charge off down the corridor in pursuit of Henry. Rachel Steir got up swiftly and laid a restraining hand on his arm. Swankie stood quivering, before slowly returning to his chair.

He looked around angrily daring further contradiction. Tim surprised himself by answering the challenge.

‘Dean, I can understand why Henry reacted like that even though it was over the top. I think he was shocked by what you said to him.’

Swankie’s surprise at Tim’s intervention seemed to refocus him. He responded with a put-down.

‘Dr Connor you’re hardly in a position to comment. You’d be better advised to concentrate on your own work and establishing your place here.’

Tim stifled a combative response. It was a little early in his appointment to start mixing it with his boss.

Shelving the rest of his agenda, Swankie closed the meeting with the minimum of formalities. Brushing aside his colleagues mumbled expressions of concern he left without joining them for a snack.

Immediately after Swankie’s departure there was an outburst of mirth and astonishment at Henry’s dramatic exit, nevertheless conversation over snacks soon became more subdued. Not much sympathy was on offer for Howard Swankie but Henry wasn’t winning many votes either. There was a sense of let-down that what had been anticipated as an important meeting had been turned into a farce. Concerned that their new colleagues might be disoriented by their chaotic initiation into the Swankie-Jones feud, Rachel and Erica made some effort to re-establish an atmosphere of normality. The weight of events was against them.

Only Brad Purfect seemed unperturbed by the bizarre
turn the meeting had taken. Apparently oblivious to how the others were feeling he launched into a monologue on the global economic situation. His obtuseness to the prevailing mood added to the sense that lunatic forces had hijacked the occasion. It made matters worse that Purfect seemed unaware of just how loud his voice was. He banged on spouting the sort of doctrinaire, vulgar Marxism that most people dump shortly after graduating (if they were ever naïve enough to believe it in the first place). A hint from Erica Botham to stop went unheeded. Finally Aisha Kahn broke in.

‘I’m afraid I have to leave now. I’m due to pick up my child Ali from pre-school. It’s been good to meet everybody. Do say goodbye to Henry and the Dean for me if either comes back. By the way, does anybody want a lift into Wash? I’m in the car today.’

Tim leapt at the opportunity. ‘Please, yes. I’m car-less at the moment. I’d really appreciate it.’

‘Fine, you’re ok to leave now?’

‘Sure, thanks’

Outside in the car park the fresh air had a sobering effect.

‘Phew! That was quite an initiation. What did you think?’ asked Tim.

‘I don’t know. Maybe the Dean was just trying to get some of the unpleasant stuff out of the way early on in the academic year. He obviously wants drastic improvements. It’s a pity for Henry though. He seemed almost demented. The Dean did quite well to keep himself more or less under control. To be honest my main concern is teaching at the moment. All this managerial stuff flies past me but I suppose I’ll have to get on top of it. I don’t want to get involved in departmental politics though. What do you think about it all?’

‘Umm…’ Before Tim could answer they reached Aisha’s car. She clicked open the central locking. The car was a Renault Clio and he had to bend almost double to get into
the front passenger seat. He slid the seat back to make room for his legs. Aisha slipped easily into the driver’s seat several inches in front of him.