Rory's Boys

by Alan Clark

  ‘The exclusive Champagne Capsule for Mr Blaine’s party is now approaching the ground,’ called the dapper little man. ‘Please board with due regard for your safety.’

  As soon we began to drift up from the Embankment, Dapper Stephen opened the bottles.

  ‘Well I’ve seen cleaner glasses,’ muttered Miss Elspeth Wishart, grabbing a napkin and beginning to polish. ‘That looks like a wee bogie stuck to the rim of this one. I hope we get a discount for dysentery.’

  Faisal told her that there were no known cases of dysentery by bogie but she didn’t look convinced.

  It was twilight now and lights were winking on all over the city. The Siamese Children oohed and aahed in their own lingo and snapped away on their digi-cams. Vic was doing a great job, pointing out the landmarks, sketching the history, betraying only the teeniest hint of condescension towards them for not being lucky enough to be born British. Big Frankie, in gold lurex baggies and a T-shirt reading Smitten Kitten, hung on his every word. He’d quickly bonded with the teeny Oriental girls and was photographed lifting one under each arm. Quite soon it began to get a bit rowdy. I saw Dapper Stephen wrinkle his nose.

  My Australian buddies, in their late fifties, surfing days long gone, were chatting up Faisal’s male friends, on the ancient principle of gay till proved straight.

  ‘You have such beautiful fingers,’ one of them murmured to his target. ‘It’d be a joy to have my prostate checked by you.’

  The Oriental boys smiled politely; the white guys tolerated it for a minute then walked away, usually in the direction of Dolores Potts, who was looking ethereally beautiful, as if she’d just stepped off a passing low cloud and were hitching a lift.

  ‘Tell those Aussie creeps to back off,’ whispered Faisal.

  ‘Are all your mates straight then?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he replied.

  ‘How well do you actually know these people?’

  ‘I see them at the hospital and the soup kitchen.’

  Apart from a less than historic meeting with his mother, tonight was the first time I’d been introduced to anyone in Faisal’s life. I was beginning to suspect there weren’t many to meet, not significant ones at least. One of the latter was bearing down on me now. Her name was Ruby. They’d met at medical school. He spoke of her often, though saw her rarely since she worked for Oxfam in various depressing corners of the world. A bit older than Faisal, she seemed to be some sort of big-sister figure. She was certainly big; reminiscent of Ms Prada but on a Primark budget.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ said Ruby, nibbling on a canapé. ‘And I’ve decided you have to be an iceberg; most of you hidden below the surface.’

  I caught the unmistakeable whiff of disapproval, oozing out of her like the sweat that stained her beefy armpits.

  ‘Because judging by the visible portion, I can’t work out why you and Faisal are together.’

  ‘You’re very direct,’ I said.

  ‘No time to be otherwise,’ she replied, dropping crumbs down her cascade of chins. ‘Tomorrow night I’ll be in a tent in the Sudan. I care very much for Faisal and I don’t want him to get hurt.’

  ‘He’s thirty today,’ I said. ‘I reckon he can make his own decisions.’

  ‘Maybe, but emotionally he’s still about eighteen,’ said Ruby, grabbing another canapé off Dapper Stephen’s passing tray. ‘You appear to be his first serious relationship and I’m baffled by the choice.’

  ‘Cute and reasonably well-off doesn’t count then?’ I said as lightly and as quietly as possible. The capsule was too cramped for this sort of conversation.

  ‘Money isn’t part of Faisal’s landscape; I’d have thought you’d know that by now. As for cute, well you’re no spring chicken are you? That’s why there must be more to you than meets the eye.’

  It was nearly dark outside now and the big wheel had reached the top of its revolution. Planes sinking towards the airport seemed dangerously close and the cars on the Embankment were like electric ants scurrying along the black snake of the river. Vic and Big Frankie were doing a double act as the life and soul of the party. The Siamese Children were knocking back the champagne, which was probably in short supply at the nurses’ home. The straight boys were less interested in the view of the city than of Dolores Potts’ knockers, which could have breast-fed Southwark. Even Elspeth was having a glass, forgetting for a moment that John Knox was always watching her. Everyone seemed to be having a good time except me, pinned against the safety-rail by a gorgon on a mission.

  ‘I hope you realize how nuts he is about you?’ Ruby was saying. ‘I get endless letters about the wonderful Rory Blaine. It’s just that I can’t see him with a rich, middle-aged, advertising man in a stately pile in Hampstead, getting the flab off a bunch of old queens. It’s ludicrous miscasting.’

  ‘Where exactly do you see him then?’

  ‘In the Sudan like me or in some similar environment. Failing that, in a nice little flat with some gentle guy of his own age. A teacher, a social worker, another doctor maybe. Faisal’s work is the heart of him. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I think so.’ I smiled. ‘I call him Mother Teresa with a cock.’

  Ruby gave me a look that could have curdled milk. She didn’t seem to do jokes any more than Faisal did.

  ‘You’re not a very serious man, are you?’ she said. ‘Faisal is you see. But I guess he’s looked beneath your surface and found something worth loving.’

  She screwed her eyes up as if trying to discern what it might be.

  ‘And look at how he’s dressed tonight. That’s not the Faisal I know. Your doing?’

  I’d coaxed him into a new Ozwald Boateng three-piece dark-blue suit with a collarless pale-blue linen shirt. He looked stunning. I wondered if mentioning Ozwald might win me a sliver of Ruby’s approval; an African boy who’d got on.

  ‘Anyway, Faisal Khan is one of the good guys. And if you hurt him, I will personally come and cut your balls off. Is that clear?’

  Ruby waddled off towards her next canapé.

  ‘Lovely party by the way,’ she called over her shoulder.

  What a fucking nerve. So I wasn’t good enough for him? What about me then? Supposing I was the one who got hurt? Why the assumption that being middle-aged and having a few bob makes me a bastard?

  But Ruby hadn’t been the only one giving me the once-over. I’d clocked several of Faisal’s friends exchanging smiles and whispers. I’d tried chatting to some of them down on the ground. The Siamese Children had given monosyllabic answers, the British were polite but stiffly formal; they’d all appeared vaguely uneasy at being there in the first place, though now they seemed happy to get through my booze as fast as Dapper Stephen could pour it.

  I was feeling more and more like a parent hosting a children’s party, at it but not of it. The further the big wheel revolved, the further the groups polarized. Faisal’s friends slowly drew away from me, Vic, Elspeth and the Australians. Because we weren’t of their generation, did they view any engagement as pointless? Did it never occur to them that our stories might be worth hearing or that we might even be good for a laugh? I wondered at what precise point how you looked, how you dressed, the music that moved you, the way you saw the world suddenly made you irrelevant to a huge swathe of your fellow men and your value as a member of the human race crash like shares on Black Monday? Why was it that just because the last song I’d really liked had been Careless Whisper, all my other opinions were equally crap?

  But how come Faisal wasn’t infected by this ageism? If, as Ruby decreed, I was so totally unsuitable, what did he see in me? I’d considered the father-figure option when we’d first met. But he already had one who could do no wrong, so I’d doubted he wanted a spare. Or maybe it was part of his wee fetish; maybe for some reason I was the perfect ‘top’, his sexual fantasy in the same way he was mine? I could hardly complain if that were the explanation. Or was I perhaps just a suitable case for treatment, a quasi-patien
t to be cured of my imperfections by the saintly doctor? Possible I suppose, if so, I could give Ms Prada her P45. But if none of these were the answer, that only left the option of love didn’t it? There was affection between us, that was clear, but the other thing, the big thing? Was it conceivable? I looked over at him, Ruby’s chubby arm draped possessively around his shoulders. After decades of panning through most of the shites in gay London, had I actually stumbled on my own wee nugget of gold? Could I take the risk of believing that? If I could, I’d show them all; fat Ruby and those smirking kids. I’d never hurt him. I’d cherish him. I’d not get it wrong. He turned round just then and smiled at me. For a split second I thought I might blub, but of course I didn’t do that.

  ‘Toots, is it my imagination or has this gadget stopped?’ called Vic above the chatter. He’d been telling the Australians how he’d taught Frank Ifield to yodel.

  The capsule was on its descending arc, but still a long way up. Peering down at the ground, something was clearly going on. The crowds who’d been ebbing round the wheel had vanished. Now it was populated by police cars and fire engines, headlights strobing the darkness. There was no traffic clogging Westminster Bridge, no trains creeping out of Charing Cross. Dapper Stephen announced that we weren’t to panic. A metallic voice squawked from a speaker.

  ‘Dear Guests, we hope you are enjoying your trip on the London Eye. Unfortunately, we have been notified of a possible security issue and the London Eye has been stopped while this is investigated. There is no cause for alarm. We are confident the situation will be resolved quickly. In the meantime, just relax and enjoy these spectacular views. There will be no additional charge for your extended time aboard the London Eye.’

  But it wasn’t resolved quickly. An hour later we hadn’t moved. A couple of the wee Oriental girls were getting a bit tearful.

  ‘Whatever happened to backbone?’ Elspeth muttered. ‘That’s what we British can teach the world.’

  Then the real trouble started.

  ‘Jeez, I’ve got to take a piss,’ said Vic to me, his face flushed. ‘I can’t hold it much longer.’

  The Australians overheard and said they did too.

  ‘Shite Victor, why didn’t you all go before you got on?’ I asked.

  ‘We did. But that was an hour and a half ago,’ said Vic.

  ‘Can’t you hold it longer than that?’

  Vic raised his eyebrows to heaven.

  ‘Well you can’t piss on the floor. For fuck’s sake hang on.’

  I informed Dapper Stephen of the problem. He replied smugly that there wasn’t one. Every capsule carried an emergency pack, containing water, blankets, glucose tablets and a portable commode. But when he looked for it, it wasn’t there and he remembered that the operative responsible had taken the day off because his pit-bull had died. Fifteen minutes later, Vic demanded one of the empty champagne bottles, turned his back on everyone and pissed into it with a theatrical sigh. He’d forgotten he was in full view of the adjacent capsule, from which now came inaudible applause and punching in the air.

  ‘Go for it Papi,’ said Big Frankie, an odd glazed expression on his face.

  The Australians demanded two more bottles and did the same. Then some of the Oriental girls succumbed. It was harder for a woman to hit the target but Dapper Stephen had an inexhaustible supply of paper napkins. A system developed where a ring was formed round the pisser, shielding him or her from view. When a bottle was filled, it was passed to Dapper Stephen who, now wearing plastic gloves, deposited it in the crate like it was a Molotov cocktail. By now, we’d been up there the best part of two hours now and it was getting a wee bit unpleasant. Dapper Stephen announced there was only one champagne bottle left.

  ‘You all right Miss Wishart?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d rather die,’ she said.

  I felt the same. None of the younger guys had needed the bottles; there was no way I would either. Then hallelujah, the wheel began to move. When the capsule reached the ground, the paramedics were over us like ants from a skirting-board. Dapper Stephen, looking a lot less dapper, struggled off with his crate. Nobody volunteered to help.

  ‘Thanks for an unforgettable evening Stephen,’ I said. ‘I know a club in Vauxhall where you could take that crate. You’d be quids in.’

  ‘That’s the last trip I make on this fucking wheel,’ he snapped ‘I’m going back to EasyJet. Nice meeting you.’

  The security alert had been a false alarm; a suspicious holdall under a bench near the entrance to the wheel. It’d turned out to contain a woman’s knitting.

  ‘I suddenly felt daft having brought it,’ Elspeth whispered, ‘so I left it there till we came back. I didn’t think anyone would steal half a balaclava.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Miss Wishart.’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme Rory Blaine,’ she said. ‘Had I better confess do you think?’

  ‘You’ve stopped the London Eye, Miss Wishart,’ I said. ‘Do you really want your face staring at everyone in Bute as they eat their porridge in the morning?’

  ‘Nothing to be gained from that,’ said Elspeth firmly.

  We were way too late for the restaurant I’d booked and the party was spoiled anyway. Faisal seemed to be in deep conference with Ruby and the others. He beckoned me over.

  ‘Listen, the guys would prefer to skip the meal. They want to hit some club in Covent Garden now.’

  ‘Fine, but I don’t think Vic, Elspeth or the Aussies will fancy that.’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Um, well they’re your guests too …’

  ‘Yes sure, but …’

  ‘All right, let me organize a couple of cabs for them, then we can get going,’ I said.

  ‘Oh you’re coming then? Cool,’ he said. He seemed surprised and the tiniest bit uncomfortable.

  Faisal’s friends were grouped behind him, some of them looking a bit sullen now. Vic, Elspeth and the others were behind me. Faisal and I stood in the middle, like those officers who’d come out of the trenches at Christmas on the Somme. I caught a look that passed between two of the Siamese Children.

  ‘Okay, you go off with your friends,’ I said.

  ‘No no, you’re very welcome to come. Really,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks a lot but I don’t think so Faisal. I’ll stick with your other guests. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  His eyes darted back and forth from one group to another. I could see he didn’t know what to do and I got mean pleasure from that. I turned away and steered Elspeth and the rest towards the Festival Hall to find a taxi.

  ‘Hey Frankie, Dolores, you wanna come with us?’ shouted one of the Oriental girls.

  ‘No thanks sweet-bread,’ Big Frankie called back. ‘I’m with my buddies here.’

  ‘Don’t let us keep you from all your admirers,’ I said to Dolores Potts.

  ‘God no,’ she replied from behind the usual cloud of smoke. ‘The white boys are pompous prats and the Orientals, well have you ever come across one with a decent cock?’

  ‘Not since you come to mention it,’ I said.

  I glanced back and saw Faisal still standing there, watching us go. Then Ruby slipped her arm through his and pulled him away.

  Vic gave me one of those smiles Princess Diana no doubt used when she visited hospices. If he’d clasped my hand and told me to be brave, I’d have punched his lights out. He insisted we should all go and eat at the Oxo Tower. I didn’t think he’d get a table at this short notice, but he called them and he did. I was beginning to realize that Vic’s celebrity wasn’t a totally extinct volcano; it was still capable of giving a rumble and blowing open the occasional door. Because the pretty boys had dumped us, the Australians did so too and it was just Elspeth, Dolores, Big Frankie, Vic and me. We walked under Waterloo Bridge and past the National Theatre. Just before the Oxo Tower was a clump of cheap eateries and take-aways.

  ‘How about saving a couple of hundred quid?’ said Vic. ‘Fish and chips all round?’

  I
was ordered to phone the Oxo Tower and say he’d just had an acute anxiety attack. He returned with five cardboard boxes from Fishy Business and we sat in a line on a bench looking out over the river. A strong breeze had whipped up now and the dark oily water was surprisingly rough, as if protesting against its neat urban confinement.

  ‘Shall we all join hands together?’ said Big Frankie before we could open our cardboard boxes. He bowed his head and began what was possibly the first grace ever spoken over cod and chips on a Southwark Council bench. It wasn’t a short one either. Frankie not only thanked God for what we were about to receive, he also thanked the fishermen who’d risked their lives on the deep and the farmers who’d planted the spuds. Passing Londoners looked away with their ‘Oops, there’s a loony’ reflex. This really wasn’t the night I’d had planned.

  ‘Och that was lovely, Frankie,’ said Elspeth, looking at him anew. ‘I’d not have marked you down as a religious man.’

  ‘There are many roads to Jesus, doux-doux,’ he said, still holding her hand. ‘But bikers get there faster.’

  Elspeth favoured him with one of her occasional smiles. Big Frankie asked Dolores Potts if prayer had a place in her life. Not as a rule she said, only when her period was a few days late. She was eating chips with one hand and smoking with the other.