by Stephen May
He’s about three metres away and she recognises him immediately. The Naked Hiker. Or the Starkers Trekker depending on what paper you read.
Of course he’s not entirely naked. He’s wearing thick hiking socks and walking boots and his tanned and wiry chest is criss-crossed by the straps of his rucksack.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ she replies and of course she can’t help herself, her eye is drawn to the thick bush of hair at his crotch. She has time to notice that the hair there is flecked with grey. Who knew that you could get salt-and-pepper pubic hair? And she also notices that his penis is substantial. Flipping heck, it’s like a baby’s arm. And it’s as tanned as the rest of him. Well, of course it would be. She jerks her eyes back up to his face. He’s looking at her sadly, as if to say that he expected better of her.
She feels oddly ashamed.
‘That’s a lot of berries,’ he says. And, suddenly shy, she just nods and then he asks if he can have some. He says that he’s been picking his own but it’s hard without clothes and he smiles and comes closer and shows her the long and vivid scratches on his arms. And now Polly can feel the first drops of rain on her face and she thinks that surely most things are harder without clothes, and maybe he should have thought of this before. She picks up a full carrier and holds it out open in front of her and the naked hiker takes it, spends some time rummaging in it choosing the fattest and the ripest. Polly is a bit irritated by this. Surely, it’s good manners just to take a handful, not ensure you get the pick of the crop? Plus he must be bruising and squishing the ones he doesn’t pick. But then she thinks about what he’s gone through and tries not to let it get to her.
After all, here is someone who has actually achieved something. Someone who has been more or less tortured in order to win rights for the rest of his fellow countrymen. Even if his fellow countrymen have shown little enthusiasm to exercise those rights, he’s still kind of a hero.
For years the naked hiker had strolled around Britain dressed only in these stout walking boots, these socks and this rucksack, risking both chafing and mockery in his quest to make the nude human body acceptable in public.
At first the authorities had turned a blind eye. And then he trekked nakedly into a zealously buttoned-up part of Scotland and they’d taken to locking him away from view.
They’d arrest him, sentence him to a few days in jail, then release him. He’d walk out of the prison naked, so they’d arrest him again immediately and sentence him to a slightly longer term. All served in solitary of course, lest the other prisoners be upset by the sight of a free willy. He even had to go to the showers on his own.
It had become a battle of the kind she guessed parents got familiar with when dealing with a wilful toddler. It didn’t matter how many times they took the naked hiker to the naughty step or how often they confiscated his toys, he was not going to give in. And in its quasi-parental role, once it had decided to notice, then the state couldn’t give in either. What message would it send to the rest of the properly sensibly clothed population? He had to be grounded until he learned his lesson, however long that took.
He’d ended up serving several years hard time – longer than the average rapist – so missing the conjugal comforts of his wife – who eventually divorced him – the pleasures of shopping, of having friends over for supper, of going to the football, or a lads night out, of mini-breaks, of DIY. He exchanged all that normal stuff for the principle of being free to freeze his nads off in the British rain in a chilly September.
Bonkers in Polly’s opinion, which is what the state tried to argue too, only he frustrated the court-appointed shrinks by being able to converse rationally, sensibly, even wittily about – well, everything.
And when it came down to it the state – like any parent – finally caved and went back to the blind-eye principle, wondering why they had ever tried anything different. Because it was clear that this tough-love approach had made this naughty, naughty boy into a hero. He was the man who flipped the finger at the government and won. The man who didn’t back down. He wasn’t quite Nelson Mandela, no one was saying that, but was maybe a John Peel, or a Joe Strummer. He was certainly up there with Red Rum or Desert Orchid. More or less untouchable.
Polly could remember the fuss when he was first released. He had been everywhere for a while. Profiles in all the papers. And he’d been on both Newsnight and on Question Time naked. Meanwhile, between media appearances, he’d been doing a kind of victory lap of honour, criss-crossing the country, tramping determinedly down the high streets of small-town Britain. Picnicking in the buff whenever he got a bit hungry.
In the first town he came to after his release there were maybe twelve hardy souls braving a stiff wind to show their support. But pretty soon this built up to hundreds, many of them naked in solidarity. And of course the police were there too, only now they were there to protect him in case his supporters got too enthusiastic. He was a proper celeb. There were offers of sponsorship from energy drinks companies.
The interesting thing was that he never really acknowledged the excitements around him – not the crowds, not the police – he just kept marching on to some hidden beat in his head. In the various interviews he was polite and firm but hardly controversial. In fact, as his naked Question Time appearance had proved, on everything except the right to take his clothes off, he was fairly conservative. A big fan of grammar schools, for example.
Eventually media interest waned. No one followed him now, no crowds turned out to see him. He wasn’t cheered but neither was he banged up. He’d been downgraded. Found his level. He was neither a threat to public order nor a revolutionary hero. He was a curiosity, an eccentricity – as innocently English as Morris dancing or an unarmed police force. And now he is in front of her, unsheathed cock gently swaying in the late summer breeze, eating her blackberries and making small talk.
‘Bit of a bugger all this rain, isn’t it?’ he says now and Polly feels a bit flustered, it is after all the closest she’s been to a naked man in ages. She could, if she wanted, just reach out and give his thingy a good hard tug, like it was the rope on a church bell.
‘Good for the garden though,’ she says and then she remembers Daniel. ‘Christ, I better go. There’s a bit of a crisis at home.’
The naked hiker frowns his concern. ‘Anything I can help with?’
Polly says no and starts to hurry away, but he calls after her that she’s forgotten her blackberries. Polly turns and shouts that he can have them, but he runs after her and she’s impressed how fast he can move with a rucksack on his back. Polly has already slowed to a walk. A brisk walk, but a walk nonetheless.
He asks her again what the emergency is and this time she tells him that her elderly lodger has fallen and can’t get up, and the naked hiker is insistent that he comes back and help, and they arrive at the house at the same time as Polly’s mum. Polly’s mum is completely unfazed by the sight of the naked hiker.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘You’re a bit shorter than you are on the telly.’
‘Everyone says that,’ he replies and smiles crookedly.
‘Slimmer though,’ says Polly’s mum. And at this the naked hiker’s grin broadens and he does a little drum roll on his stomach. ‘Think so?’ he says, and he looks ridiculously pleased.
‘Shall we go and deal with Daniel?’ says Polly, and Polly’s mum gets all worried as Polly explains about the fall.
When they get in and up the stairs, Daniel is in bed.
‘If you can’t walk you crawl,’ he says when they ask how he’d managed to get from bathroom to bed.
‘A good motto for life that is,’ says the naked hiker. Daniel looks at him and does a double take. He is clearly only noticing him now.
‘Good lord.’ he says. ‘You’re—’
‘I am indeed.’ And he sounds smug, thinks Polly.
Polly wipes the blood off Daniel’s face. He has a small cut on the fleshy bit just underneath the cheekbo
ne. Could have been a lot worse. Still, a fall for a man Daniel’s age is always serious.
‘You need a doctor,’ says Polly firmly.
‘No doctors,’ says Daniel just as firmly.
‘I’m a doctor,’ says the naked hiker, not firmly – softly.
And, yes, Polly remembers that before starting his hikes he had, famously, been a GP in Eastbourne. It’s something everyone knows about him. A strategically placed old-fashioned doctor’s bag, or a stethoscope, was a feature in most of the magazine photospreads on him.
‘And I thought you were just the military wing of the Naturist Society,’ says Daniel.
‘Don’t mention those puffs to me,’ says the naked hiker. And he runs his hand over Daniel’s head. And he murmurs hem, haw, hmm, just like a proper doctor would. And he lifts the duvet to look at Daniel’s leg. He whistles through his teeth at the bruising that’s already forming there. He feels around Daniel’s limbs. Daniel grimaces and gasps, but otherwise submits pretty well. And then the naked hiker looks into Daniel’s eyes with one of those little torch things and then riffles through his rucksack, emerging with a prescription pad.
‘I’m still registered,’ he says, though no one has suggested he isn’t. ‘Part of the GMC’s protest against the fascist bully-boys who had me sent down.’ And he scribbles something. ‘He does need keeping an eye on though. That was some wallop on his skull.’
And pretty soon it’s fixed, the naked hiker – who now reminds them that his real name is Mervyn – will stay overnight and check on Daniel’s condition regularly. Concussion is the big worry and if Daniel really won’t go to hospital, then a doctor on the premises is a good idea. He doesn’t think the hip is broken though, and Daniel will probably be right as rain if he takes things steady.
‘And it’ll be a luxury for me to stay in a bed,’ he says. ‘Being outside all the time can send you a bit mad to be honest.’
And he says this like it’s a profound revelation.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be wearing clothes at all while you’re here?’ says Polly’s mum, mildly. The naked hiker – Mervyn – smiles and shakes his head.
‘No can do I’m afraid.’
‘Of course not, dear. Silly of me to ask.’
So Polly and the naked hiker make jam to Daniel’s recipe while he dozes. And in the evening Polly, her mum and Mervyn watch Notting Hill on DVD with the hiker chuckling more or less all the way through.
In the morning Daniel seems bright enough and answers all the questions Mervyn asks about who the prime minister is and who was in the World Cup team of 1966. So Mervyn leaves a repeat prescription for heavy-duty pain killers, eats three bowls of Crunchy Nut cornflakes – leaving none for anyone else Polly notices, then he heaves his rucksack up around those narrow shoulders, thanks them all, kisses them all goodbye, even Daniel which startles him, though he doesn’t say anything. And Mervyn, the naked hiker, assures them that he’ll definitely keep in touch. And then he turns, flexes his taut little bottom, says, ‘Nice firm buttocks,’ just like Hugh Grant’s idiot flatmate in the movie, and strides away whistling.
‘Well, that was weird,’ says Polly as they watch him disappear along the road to Harewater.
‘He does have a nice bum though,’ says Polly’s mum. ‘And he’s quite big, isn’t he? You know, downstairs.’
‘I didn’t really notice, Mother,’ says Polly, exasperated, and goes to talk about everything to Daniel – only he’s asleep.
And he’s still asleep five hours later. And when he’s still asleep five hours after that, Polly begins to panic.
Thirty-three
JESUS
At first Jesus tries saying it’s just because he doesn’t want to go to Europe. ‘The old world,’ he says, ‘is a zombie world. Is full of people who haven’t worked out they’re dead yet. But they stink like corpses all the same.’
Then he says it’s because his business negotiations are at a delicate stage and that he needs to be around to consult with potential investors. Then he says it’s because he doesn’t want to spend so much time with frigging Russell and Sarah, that they are making him feel like he is just some damn slave.
Which is when Mary says, ‘You’re illegal, aren’t you?’
And he denies that for a hot minute or two, before he has to admit it. Yes, he is illegal and if he leaves the States, he might not ever get back in.
Mary is pissed. No point pretending she isn’t. She had been looking forward to London, to seeing Buckingham Palace, and the Tate Modern and maybe taking a day trip out to places like Wales or Cornwall. She wanted to see quaint old cottages and village greens. She had also thought they might go to the Night Garden fetish club down in Dockland or whatever it was called. She had thought that might be kinda fun. And she was looking forward to going to the Plumstead district and checking out whether Jee’s famous cousin Martina was as hot as he said. She’d bet her life she wasn’t.
Yes, she’s pissed but she gets over it.
Jesus has to work hard to bring her round though. He buys her things, flowers and chocolate don’t impress but he does better with the jewellery and he cooks and takes her to the movies, and finally he even agrees to get a tattoo.
‘But you got to let me choose the design. And it won’t be small,’ Mary says.
And then she reminds him of her other ideas about getting funding. And Jesus says OK, OK, whatever. One way or another, they have to get the money for the Company Barrios. He’ll do anything.
‘The what?’ Mary asks.
Jesus explains that Barrios was a famous figure from Guatemalan history, a man who had wanted to unite all of Latin America, but who had been killed fighting for his dream in 1885. ‘Imagine if he’d come through,’ Jesus says. ‘Man, what a country that would be.’
And Mary can see that it might have been pretty amazing.
‘So Barrios for my corporation – as a tribute.’
‘Yeah. That’s awesome. But you got to listen to me now, and listen real good, hun,’ she says. ‘Because this is for real. I got it figured. All the details and everything.’
And together they examine the plan from every angle but they can’t see any major stress points. It requires nerve, patience and a bit of poker-face, and these are things they do have. You don’t need to go to a bank for those. They are just the basic building blocks of business.
And Jesus says if it all works out he will give Mary thirty per cent of the shares in Barrios.
And Mary laughs and kisses him and says that it will absolutely definitely work, he doesn’t need to worry about that. And that he’ll give her forty-nine per cent of the shares with no argument.
‘Forty-nine? Really? Seriously? You kiddin’ me?’
‘Or fifty-one per cent even.’
And she laughs again at the dangerous golden fire that begins in his beautiful brown eyes, the way his weight shifts like he is getting ready to fight.
‘Relax, Mister,’ she says. ‘I’m only funning with you.’
He smiles wide with relief. Jesus doesn’t smile a lot and it’s always like the sun coming out from behind a big ole cloud. She gets him to give her the list again.
It begins with Selma Hayek, and goes on with Arnold Schwarzenegger, Colonel Tom Parker, Michael J. Fox. All stars who were once undocumented. Famous illegals. Inspiring stories. Stars of the American dream. There are over a hundred other names on that list and Jesus knows them all. And new names are added every week, and he learns them too.
Thirty-four
LORNA
‘Hey, Armitage, listen to this.’ She clears her throat and reads aloud: ‘The Linnaean taxonomy of smells was expanded by Zwaardemaker in the nineteenth century to include nine categories: ethereal, aromatic, fragrant, ambrosiac, alliaceous, empyreumatic, hircine, foul and nauseous.’ Armitage Shanks looks unimpressed and she rubs his belly. ‘Oh you’re so hard to please. Those are great words. I want a lover who smells alliaceous or empyreumatic, don’t you? In fact I wouldn’t mind a
lover called Zwaardemaker come to that.’
There is a knock at the door, a hard old-school rat-a-tat-tat and Armitage Shanks springs from her arms and hurries off to see what the commotion is all about. He really is a most inquisitive cat. ‘You know what curiosity did, don’t you?’ she calls after him, puts down the book and hauls herself up, just as whoever it is knocks again, harder this time. Lorna is convinced it’s the post, otherwise she might have been more cautious.
There at the door, hidden behind a vast and colourful bouquet, is Jez. She is obscurely disappointed. No one has ever brought her flowers, or sent her any, not even the poet at uni, and she has sometimes fantasised about it, but now she just feels let down. Let down and somehow bullied.
She’ll have to spend some time with him now, talk with him, ask how he is. She might have to fend him off. She might find herself sleeping with him out of laziness or tiredness, or for old times’ sake. Or because he does some little thing that makes her want him. Basically, her day – which she has set aside for reading old history books so she could feel more immersed in the nineteenth-century social context in which her coven of authors lived and worked, well that’s all spoiled now.
Maybe they’d get drunk, Jez and her, in which case tomorrow is probably ruined too. All in all, it’s a pisser. Armitage Shanks clearly feels the same. As soon as he sees it’s the Fuckweasel on the doorstep he heads back up the stairs.
‘Oh. Jez. Why are you here?’
‘Well, that’s nice.’
‘Sorry.’ And she is. Kind of. Sorry, because it isn’t really Jez she’s disappointed with. She is irritated at herself. Another girl, a differently wired girl, a girl like Megan in fact – well, she’d just send him away, wouldn’t she? That girl would smile but she’d be firm, and in under a minute the Fuckweasel would know that he was the past. He’d be gone. But Lorna knows she isn’t capable of that and it makes her a bit cross.
She takes the flowers. They are heavy as well as colourful – and they smell heady, almost ambrosiac even. She carefully places the bouquet in the hallway, turns and embraces him. All the times they’d been together he’d definitely been vaguely hircine, but now he smells of soap and apologies. And, also, rather too much Dior pour Homme. He’s made way too much effort.
