Authors: Jeremy Reed
‘You’ve got a novel here,’ Antonio said, reading the idea that had been circulating in Jim’s mind. ‘My advice would be to colour it up.’
He put the dissertation down, and Jim could almost hear the little click in consciousness that had him reconnect with real time and place as he stared up at the late afternoon light rinsing the skylight. Masako suggested they took a walk over to Fresh and Wild in Brewer Street to pick up ingredients for the dinner she proposed to cook that evening. She had it in mind to make a poppy seed and sour cream pasta, and needed a lemon, miso and chives. ‘I’d like to show Antonio the shop. It’s quite something.’
‘It’s the place for the health-conscious,’ Jim put in, at the same time getting to his feet as a sign that he was ready to go.
Antonio, who missed no opportunity to increase his store of places visited in London, needed little encouragement to go out. He slipped the copy of Jim’s thesis into his valise with the promise that he would return to it later and put on a black Armani jacket over his purple shirt.
The three of them went out into the unseasonably chilly evening. They made their way towards Berwick Street Market just as the stalls were closing. Masako’s eye was drawn to the flower stall, and they stopped to admire coral-coloured hubs of sweet williams, shocking-pink gingers, blue-mooded cornflowers and feathery ash-blue nigella. Jim followed behind, reminded of how he had walked these streets with Danny and of the good and bad times they had shared together. The route they were taking had once formed part of their Soho walks, and Jim felt scorched by the
betrayal of his trust. It hit him hard to know that probably for the entire duration of their relationship Danny had been unfaithful. He knew he should go and have himself tested, and the resentment he felt at having been exposed to the risk of infection only increased the sense of paranoia that came over him at times.
Masako must have read his discomfort, for she took his arm almost, he imagined, as a defence against the searing intensity of the flashbacks that continued to trouble him. They made their way through the pimp-monitored artery of Tyler’s Court, pointing out the landmark Raymond’s Revue Bar to Antonio, bypassed an acned teenage prostitute clearly working to finance her crack habit and joined the busy crowds along Brewer Street. Antonio spoke of the little adjoining streets that he had explored in his morning walks – such as Bridle Lane, Silver Place and Lexington Street – their names pointing to an older, historic London. Jim scored points by telling them that the avant-garde 1960s publisher John Calder had kept an office there for three decades above a strip-joint. ‘There’s the famous story of how William Burroughs went around there one day with a shooter, locked him in his office and at gunpoint had him sign a cheque for the royalties outstanding on
The Naked Lunch.’
They walked up the street at the leisurely pace of tourists, Jim still deep in thought, and observed copies of 1960s’
Playboys
in the shop Vintage Magazine before picking up on the audible hum of Piccadilly Circus to their left. Its noise hung on the air like surf breaking somewhere across a white beach. Jim recognized the sound as the one to which he had gravitated on first coming to London. He remembered the rent boys he had encountered at the meat-rack and how they had come from all over the country to congregate there outside Boots. He could see them now, standing out of the rain, sitting in cafe windows or trying to pull a trick on the street. He had known boys who had struck lucky or rich by meeting an opportune stranger, someone only too happy to take them permanently under his wing.
He distracted himself with these thoughts as they walked along, Masako’s arm secure in his, the city resonating with its rush-hour crisis. When they got to Fresh and Wild on the corner of Sherwood
Street they found the store buzzing with the health-conscious, most of whom had long ago wised up to the detriments of eating nonorganic. Antonio was curious about everything, and it was becoming clear to Jim that his new friend clearly didn’t get out and about much in Rome, given the element of surprise he showed at even the most commonplace items for sale. For all his cultural sophistication he lacked the big-city predatoriness of shopaholics and of those out to substitute things for the emptiness within. He had, Jim observed, an almost child-like naïvity when brought face up to the world, as though he had never really lost that element of wonder which is so much part of childhood. His eye took in everything from the diverse range of multi-grain breads to the palette of vegetable colours, right down to the exhaustive variety of supplements, aromatherapy products and biofriendly household cleaners suitable to those who lived green. Masako picked up her simple purchases, while Antonio’s eye went on a rapid kleptomaniacal round of virtual shopping.
It was Jim who led the way out to the evening street and suggested they stop off at Oddbins to pick up a couple of bottles of red. As was his way, he couldn’t resist glancing up at the sky, and his eye was rewarded by thin rafts of alto-cirrus streaking a thin blue sky. There were evening clouds starting to traffic the airways, and he turned away from his survey, having made a necessary contact with the big spaces windowed above the city.
He walked slightly ahead, aware of people directing glances at Antonio, little darts of curiosity prompted by a passing fascination more than anything else. He still felt down in himself over Danny. The walk had been responsible for putting him too closely in touch with a past he was trying to forget. He stood with his hands in his pockets waiting for the other two to catch up and for some reason looked across the street. He instantly froze in his tracks. There, standing slouched on the corner of Bridle Lane and looking directly at him, was Slut. His denim jacket was slashed open on his tattoo-splashed torso, his ripped hipster jeans were slung above his crotch and, as always, he was barefoot. He looked even more wasted than how Jim last remembered seeing him, hoisted on a tree in the
Hampstead woods with smoke billowing from the fire. Jim continued to stare, unable to break the hold the man had on him. He watched Slut raise a finger to his lips, evidently warning him not to tell. The implicit gesture had Jim recoil, and for the moment he thought he was seeing things and hallucinating Slut into existence. Time seemed to have stopped in its frozen impact.
He was recalled to himself by Masako tugging at his arm and saying, ‘What’s wrong, Jim? Are you all right?’
He managed to break free of Slut’s fixed stare and whispered to Masako, ‘Don’t look, but see that man over there. That’s Slut.’
‘Why don’t we go back and call the police,’ Masako said anxiously, trying not to look.
Before Jim knew what had happened Antonio had crossed the road and made a beeline for Slut. He couldn’t believe it as he saw Antonio go up to Slut and talk to him on what appeared to be an intimate level and after a brief exchange of words return. The whole gesture was so ambiguous that he couldn’t be sure whether Antonio had issued a threat or made an assignation with the self-styled gay saint. It had all happened too fast for Jim to get any clear take on the incident.
‘What did you say to him?’ Jim shot out in panic. ‘Do you know who that is?’
‘Slut,’ Antonio replied, in a way too knowing for comfort. ‘The one who’s been bothering you. I recognized him immediately. It’s all part of my being able to tune into your thoughts.’
Jim found it hard to conceal that he knew Antonio was lying. He didn’t believe him for a moment and thought his answer was a convenient way of concealing the truth. At the same time he remained baffled by his friend’s motives in approaching Slut. Nothing made sense. When he looked over again Slut was gone. He could just make out his impossibly thin denimed figure disappearing down the Soho sidestreet, leaving him to wonder if he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
‘Do you want us to go back?’ Masako asked, increasing her hold on his arm.
‘No, let’s get the wine first,’ he replied, purposely turning away
from Antonio. He felt like hurting him for the complicit way in which he had gone over to Slut. Something in him had turned and he knew he would never quite feel the same about Antonio again, no matter his motives for acting in the way he had.
Ignoring Antonio, who hung back outside, he followed Masako into the wine store where they picked up a couple of bottles of a black Chilean wine called Casillero del Diablo, one they had drunk before, admiring its down-there depth-notes. Jim purposely lingered in the shop, hoping his anger would cool. When they went back outside he ignored Antonio who was browsing in the window and who showed no sign of having taken offence at being excluded. On the contrary, he appeared his usual correct, if slightly inhuman self. Making no gesture of atonement Jim took Masako’s hand and without saying a word headed off down the street. Jim made his resentment towards Antonio his focus and correspondingly tightened his grip on Masako’s hand. Still undecided as to whether to head back home, he steered them into Great Windmill Street, glancing around as he did to see Antonio tucked in behind a Chinese couple but still following. Like Jim’s mood, the sky had clouded over, lending a blue tint to the narrow street, with girls standing outside the entrance to strip-clubs.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Masako said by way of encouragement, as they cut aimlessly into Rupert Street with its largely faceless buildings creating a disused, anonymous feel to the place.
‘Why on earth did he do that?’ Jim questioned, still chewing on what he took to be a violation of trust.
‘I don’t know. Does he know this man, I wonder?’
‘It’s a mystery to me. I’ll have to speak to him about it or I’ll never be able to trust him again.’
‘Do you want us to go back or just walk? Masako asked, as Jim showed signs of unbottling his anger.
‘Let’s carry on for a bit,’ he said, glancing back to discover that Antonio was no longer there. ‘Where’s Antonio?’ he asked, the surprise in his voice making Masako turn around.
‘He’s probably realized he’s not wanted. I’m sure he’ll be there when we get back.’
‘I suppose I’ve gone and offended him. But not without good cause.’
‘Mmm. We’ve got to do something about Slut,’ Masako mused. ‘Go to the police, Jim. I’ll come with you.’
‘I’d still rather not,’ Jim replied, giving off signals that he’d rather keep his life private.
‘Mmm, but this man’s turning into a stalker. We can’t get rid of him.’
Jim warmed to the intimations of solidarity in her voice and to the fact that she considered them together. It made him feel less alone and in a weird way less afraid of being attacked. He put his arm around her narrow shoulders, taking in her entire being as he did so, and brought her up close. He could feel the energies in her spiral towards him like the force bringing clay alive in a potter’s hands.
‘I’d like to stay out for a little while,’ he said. ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m happy just being with you. My only worry is Antonio.’
‘But he can go back to his hotel. He’ll be all right. It’s not like he’s dependent on us.’
‘I don’t want to worry you, but did you ever give Antonio a key to the fiat?’
‘Why would I do that? We don’t know him that well.’
‘Well, he let himself in the other day. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’
‘Let himself in?’ That means he must have had keys cut.’
‘But why?’ Masako queried, trying her best not to alarm Jim by sounding over-anxious.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jim replied, sensing that things weren’t quite as they should be and immediately reinforcing a connection between Antonio and Slut. He hadn’t liked the expression on Antonio’s face after he had come back from speaking to the man. There had been a self-satisfied air about him, one of having delivered the goods.
‘What should we do?’ Jim asked. ‘Should we go back just in case?’
‘I can’t think what he’d want in the fiat,’ Masako said. ‘He has a copy of your dissertation. There’s nothing else to interest him.’
‘But he must have had the key cut for a purpose,’ Jim said, stopping as they came to the end of the street. ‘Whatever his motives, I don’t trust him. I think he’s got some explaining to do.’
‘Let’s go back then,’ Masako said, her fingers making soft brushstrokes in Jim’s palm.
‘I suppose we’d better. But I’m not sure what we can do.’
‘Mmm. I still think we should go to the police,’ Masako urged. ‘They may have a record on him.’
‘On Antonio?’
‘On Slut. He’s evil.’
‘I’m glad in a way you’ve seen him,’ Jim said. ‘Now you can share my feelings about this psycho.’
Together they made their way into Old Compton Street. The street was busy with predominantly gay bustle, a file of clones slipping in and out of bars or shopping at partisan Prowler or Clone Zone, a snappy tang of citrus cologne wafting back at them as slipstream. Jim was once again overcome by feelings of unreality. He had the impression he had shifted into parallel and lost track of time and place. Everything seemed filmic. The crowd resembled footage framed in a slowly evolving narrative. He had the idea that he existed only because of his part in the film being projected. For a second he feared losing contact with Masako. He was a point in recession, while she remained fixed. He felt himself being sucked backwards into a vortex and was powerless to resist the pull. It was scary, and when he did fight free it was not without rebound panic.
Sensing his alarm, Masako said, ‘We’ll sort it out. We need to get this man Slut out of your life.’
Jim felt his balance return, as though the street had righted itself after a tilt. Nothing appeared outwardly to have changed, but that didn’t take away his terror of Slut. The thought that the man could be somewhere, anywhere, in the Soho grid made him feel acutely uneasy. Nor could he rule out the possibility that Danny was in some way linked to Slut’s reappearance. He was distracted from his immediate anxieties by Masako pulling him with her into a
newsagent, ostensibly to pick up the new issue of Japanese
Vogue.
Once inside, she riffled through a slew of glossies, pointing out images that appealed. ‘Look at that dress. It’s got to be a Galliano,’ she said, holding the illustration of the ruffled pink flourish up for his attention.