Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  Darren shifted in his seat. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet up until now. I checked out the biccie plate. Yep, all gone. “What kind of stall was he working on when you met him, love?” he asked.

  Huh. I’d have thought he’d have known already. If they were as close mates as all that.

  “Old clothes.” Lilah wrinkled her nose. “That’s why I got him that job with my sister. Right up his street, wasn’t it? Selling old junk.”

  The way she said it made me wonder how much say Jonny-boy had had in the matter. And how grateful he’d been. Something about her expression hinted that he hadn’t been as grateful as she might have liked.

  Or maybe it was his stock in trade she wasn’t impressed by. Definitely one for the finer things in life, Lilah was, and I didn’t reckon anything with a previous owner counted as fine in her view.

  Darren was nodding. “Was he the trader?”

  Lilah shrugged. “It wasn’t his business, if that’s what you mean. He was working it for this other bloke.”

  Phil pricked up his ears like a Rottweiler who’d just heard the sweet sound of a burglar climbing over the fence. “And his name?”

  “Kelvin something.” She said it impatiently and turned straight back to me. “Look, I brung a map so you can do your stuff.”

  “My stuff?”

  “Yeah, you know. Hocus pocus, Avada Kedavra, what the bleedin’ hell ever. Here you go.”

  Phil stood up and flashed me an evil grin. “I’ll get your pendant for you.”

  Oh, bloody hell.

  I had, actually, got a dowsing pendant, although not by choice. Cherry gave it to me, probably as an attempt to make up for years of lack of support of my thing, as she put it. It was a couple of inches tall and made up of slices of crystal in rainbow colours—allegedly to represent the chakras, but if you ask me, it was just her trying to kill two birds with one lump of brightly coloured stone when it came to gestures of sisterly solidarity.

  Me and Phil had mostly been using it to play with the cats, not that they were any more impressed with its mystical properties than I’d been. When Phil brought it over, I noticed the purple stripe—amethyst, I think—had faded a bit. If I’d believed in all the chakra stuff, I might have been worried, but luckily I’d had the foresight to preserve my ignorance on matters spiritual.

  Lilah pulled out a much-folded A4 sheet, clearly a computer printout, which had on it a sketchy map of the sprawling markets of Camden Town from some tourist website, and smoothed it flat on the coffee table. “Does it matter if it ain’t to scale?” She sounded anxious.

  Like she actually believed this ought to work, God help her.

  I flashed Phil a dirty look as he handed me my pendant. If he was expecting me to put on a show and fake a communication with the spirit world, he was going to be in for a disappointment. I don’t like deceiving people.

  Still, there was always the off-chance this might be the one-in-a-million time my thing would decide to play along, so I angled my dangle, tried to clear my mind, and listened.

  I got some strong vibes straightaway—but they were coming from that sealed envelope of Lilah’s. Big surprise there. I did the psychic equivalent of shoving my fingers in my ears, and turned to Phil. “Can you shift that? It’s interfering.” I nodded to the offending article.

  Lilah leaned forward, her mouth slightly open and her eyes dark and gleaming. “Does that mean it’s working?”

  “Uh, kind of. Just need to hang on a mo.”

  We all waited while Phil strode off. I heard the front door open, a car door slam, and then the front door closed again.

  That’s my Phil for you. You ask him to shift something, he shifts it. Right. Time to get on with the dog and pony show. I held the pendant over the centre of the map, which was trying to fold itself up again already. Great. Even printer paper knew this was a load of bollocks.

  I listened some more, conscious of Phil tiptoeing back into the room. Well, not literally, but there was a definite air of trying not to break my concentration, assuming I had any to start with. Phil always reckoned I was sabotaging myself by not believing, like I subconsciously talked myself into half-arsing it, but this time I gave it my best shot. I focussed on the pics of Jonny-boy, still spread out next to the map, and tried to really feel it—guilty ran-out-on-the-missus vibes and all.

  Nothing.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Merlin’s ears prick up. Maybe I should ask him to have a go.

  How long were they expecting me to keep on with the show? I shot Phil a worried glance, hoping he could somehow convey to me, maybe by eyebrow twitches, whether I should just pretend to find something.

  And I’d probably better do it soon. Merlin, the little sod, had hunched down in his best imma-stalk-you-now posture, pupils blown and tail aquiver, clearly under the impression this was all a game and he was about to run off with the prize.

  Phil coughed and broke the silence, thank God. “Have you got anything that belongs to him? Sometimes personal possessions can help Tom get a reading.”

  Lilah’s face fell. “Sorry. Didn’t think of that.”

  In the nick of time, I bunged the pendant in my pocket. Merlin expressed his feelings with his usual eloquence by settling down to lick his bum in my direction.

  “I’ll tell you what, then,” I said. “Why don’t we make another appointment, and you can bring something of his along then?”

  She nodded earnestly. “What do you want me to bring?”

  “Uh, clothes or jewellery are usually best. Personal stuff. Worn next to the skin if possible.” This part was actually true, although don’t ask me why.

  “Got it. No problem.” She got down from her seat and stretched out a hand to me. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Just as she and Darren were about to go, I thought of something else. “Mind if I ask another question, love? Uh, it’s not strictly related . . .”

  “Ask away. Long as it’ll bring my Jonny back.”

  “Uh . . . those papery flowers in your wedding pics, what are they?”

  “Them? They’re peonies.”

  “Yeah? I never knew you could get them in red. Ta.”

  She gave me a funny look and left, taking Darren with her.

  After the door had closed behind them, Phil gave me an even funnier look. “Seriously? Flowers? Sure you don’t want to ask her for makeup tips as well?”

  “Oi, I was thinking about the wedding. Yours and mine. You were saying you hated pastel colours for the flowers.”

  “And you don’t reckon it might be a bad omen, choosing the same flowers as a couple where the husband’s gone missing?”

  “So we’re believing in omens now, are we?” I gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. “Better watch out Merlin never crosses your path, then. That’s supposed to be well unlucky. Course, it could be difficult to avoid what with you and him living together and all.”

  Phil huffed a laugh. “Thought I was living with you, not the bloody cats.”

  “Nah, ain’t you heard? Bestiality’s best, boys.”

  “That explains the dirty looks Merlin’s been giving you, then.”

  “That’s ’cos I took his toy away. And no, I don’t mean my dick.” I shuddered. “With those claws? My balls are trying to climb back inside just thinking about it.”

  Phil smirked. “Want me to kiss them better?”

  “Well, technically nothing’s happened to them yet . . .” I leaned back against the wall and gave him a once-over with the old bedroom eyes.

  Never one to be backward in coming forward, Phil said, “We’ll have to see about that, then,” and did.

  Later, when certain portions of me had been thoroughly taken care of, I lay in Phil’s arms on the sofa. “Why do you think Lilah came to us? Well, me, I suppose. I mean, all she really wants is a flippin’ courier service.”

  Phil shrugged. As I was lying on top of him, it felt like a very small, localised earthquake. I suddenly sympathised with how the cats must f
eel when the nice warm lap they’re sitting on shifts. Being better brought up than them, though, I didn’t dig in any claws to complain. “All about the glamour, isn’t she?” he said.

  “You calling me glamorous? Seriously? Maybe I should stop wearing the heels and the feather boa to work.”

  He huffed. “Look it up in a dictionary sometime. It’s not only used to describe drag queens.”

  “Oi, I know what the word means. I’m not a Sun reader.”

  “Just like the pictures, do you?”

  “Yeah, right. Because topless Page 3 totty is so my thing.”

  “You seemed keen enough to ogle the client earlier.” Phil gave me a hard stare.

  “I didn’t ogle Lilah. Although mind you, she is a very attractive woman—”

  “I’ll show you attractive.”

  Things degenerated a bit after that. Fun times.

  I did look glamour up, later, when Phil wasn’t watching. Only I did it on the internet, because who uses an actual dictionary anymore? And all right, I hadn’t known it could mean magic, which is what ye olde peasant folk would probably have called my gift for finding things. If they weren’t too busy ducking me in a pond and then burning me at the stake, presumably after a suitable interval to dry off first.

  It made a sort of sense—after all, people get, well, bewitched, I suppose you’d say, by someone glamorous, don’t they? Why else would all those celebrity gossip magazines get sold week in, week out? And by the same token, anything with a whiff of magic about it was . . . enticing, I guess? Made me feel weird, thinking about it. I mean, I haven’t got self-esteem issues or any of that guff, but I’m just your average bloke. Well, give or take a dodgy hip and an annoying extra sense.

  Nah. It was all bollocks. Darren must have talked her into it, thinking he was doing us a favour.

  I looked up peonies too, while the laptop had a full head of steam going. There was this website that had all the meanings of the flowers, and I felt totally vindicated when I saw what they had down for peonies: happy marriage, and—get this—gay life.

  Also shame, but hey, two out of three ain’t bad.

  The only thing of note that happened over the next couple of days was Darren dropping off a copy of one of Lilah’s old movies, back from when she’d still been acting. I thanked him politely and set it aside to go What the hell? about to Phil when he got home.

  Oh, and a postcard from Scotland turned up. It was warped from where Cherry had posted it in the rain, and it didn’t say a right lot apart from having a lovely time and other clichés. She didn’t end it with Wish you were here, so I deduced the honeymoon was going okay.

  The photo on the front was of a malt whisky distillery, so chances were, it was.

  “Do you think Gary and Darren watch straight porn?” I asked as I bunged the DVD in the player late that evening.

  Phil gave me a look. “You really want to know about their sex life?”

  “Not as such, no. What’s disturbing me now is that from the sound of things, you do know about it.”

  He smirked. “Darren’s the sharing sort.”

  “Oi, I hope there’s limits to what you go sharing with him.” I knew him and Darren getting chummy was going to come back and bite me on the bum. And there was an image I could have done without.

  “Don’t you worry. Forsaking all others, remember?” Phil put his arm around me from behind and pulled me back onto the sofa.

  I was about to go all mushy, when a thought occurred. “Yeah, but you haven’t actually made that vow yet.”

  “No harm in practising. Are we going to watch this film?”

  “Getting all eager, are you?” I hit Play.

  The opening scenes were . . . not what I’d expected. For a start, there were two blokes in bed—in a hotel room, supposedly—getting it on with no Lilah in sight.

  “You think he gave us the right DVD?” I asked, as one of the blokes went down on the other. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

  They weren’t bad looking, and the sight of all that bare male flesh getting up close and personal was beginning to have predictable results. I adjusted myself in my jeans, not bothering to be subtle, in the hopes Phil might take it as a hint.

  He just carried on watching, the git. There was another five minutes or so of guy-on-guy action, by which time even Phil was showing signs of feeling a little hot under the collar—and then the door flew open.

  On screen, I mean. Not our actual door.

  A younger, fresher Lilah stood there in the doorway, hip cocked. She was wearing what must literally have been the world’s shortest French maid’s outfit. “Room service,” she called seductively, and closed the door behind her. The blokes on the bed stopped what they were doing and sent her a come-hither look.

  I hit Stop. “Right, I can guess where it goes from here.”

  Phil smirked. “You can’t catch being straight by watching it, you know.”

  “Yeah, but it’s . . . I dunno. Disrespectful. She’s a client.”

  “So if she was a singer, you wouldn’t listen to her CDs?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “She probably wouldn’t be getting her kit off, for a start.” I thought about it. “Not that you’d know from a CD. Maybe it’s like newsreaders not bothering to wear trousers.”

  Great. Now I wasn’t going to be able to listen to anything without picturing the artists letting it all hang out in the studio. Course, with some of them, that’d be a bonus . . .

  “So you’re saying anyone who gets naked for a living ought to be ashamed of it?” Phil asked. I could practically see his hackles rising, presumably on Darren’s behalf.

  Sod it. “No, I’m saying having a stiffie while watching our client in a porno is going to make it flippin’ hard—pun not intended—to look her in the eye next time we see her, that’s all.”

  Phil smirked. “There’s ways round that.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I could give you a hand. Get rid of the problem right now.”

  In the event, he gave me more than a hand. And we never did get around to watching the rest of that movie.

  I needn’t have worried about the whole looking-Lilah-in-the-eye thing, not in the short term at any rate. She never turned up for her next appointment, which seemed a strong argument in favour of her not having been quite as into all the mystic mumbo-jumbo as Phil had reckoned. Either that, or she’d loved the idea but been less than impressed by the reality, which I could hardly fault her for.

  She still sent Jonny-boy’s personal items along the Friday after we saw her, so she must have had some faith in me. They came courtesy of Darren, who I reckoned I must’ve seen more of over the last couple of days than his own husband had. Fortunately this was only a flying visit. The thought of Gary getting it into his head I was trying to poach on his property was as alarming as it was surreal. Although given the number of hints he’d dropped about a foursome . . . Nah, alarming was definitely winning here.

  Darren reckoned Lilah was having problems with her kids or something. Maybe the babysitter had stood her up. You get a mix of feelings at a time like this. First off, I was relieved, seeing as it saved me from having to pretend all Phil’s painstakingly researched information was wafting to me over the ether or being communicated by my nonexistent spirit guide. Then I felt bad about it, ’cos for all I knew the problems with the kids might be serious. Then again, they might not, so I also felt let down, like she’d had her fun and now she was bored with this particular trick pony. Except, it wasn’t like I’d enjoyed all the jumping through hoops and whatnot, which brought me back to relief.

  Then I decided it was time I got over it and got on with opening Lilah’s package.

  It was in one of those mailing boxes they sell you at the post office. I always wondered who bought those, when you could get perfectly good cardboard boxes free from any supermarket. I unwrapped it warily, a bit dubious over what Lilah might have seen fit to hand o
ver. After all, I’d asked for stuff he’d worn next to his skin . . . I needn’t have worried. She’d parcelled up a couple of worn T-shirts with faded logos, which were just about ideal for my purposes, with a note saying Sorry I washed them.

  I wasn’t, though. Sorry, that was. If they’d been hanging around in the laundry basket for a couple of weeks, they’d have been pretty rank by now, rather than wafting floral fabric conditioner up my nose to the extent I had to fight a sneeze. And it’s not like it makes a difference to the vibes once whatever’s been washed has dried out. Even your modern biological powders aren’t proof against those stubborn psychic stains.

  “Gonna give it a go?” Phil asked over my shoulder.

  “What, with the map? You know that’s all bollocks.”

  “Never hurts to try.”

  “Yeah, it does. I’m wounded you don’t accept I know my own abilities better than you do.”

  Phil huffed. We had a long-standing argument going over my so-called talents, with me, on the whole, happy with the way things were right now (happy being a relative word, obviously), while he seemed to think I needed to exercise my psychic muscles as much as possible, presumably with a view to making them all big and manly.

  He didn’t say anything, which technically meant I’d won. Hah.

  On the other hand . . . “Fine. Get the bloody map out, if it’ll stop you looking at me like Arthur when I won’t give him seconds.”

  Phil got the bloody map out, retrieved the pendant from where it’d been batted under the sofa by a furry paw, and smirked at me.

  Once again, I gave it all I’d got.

  Nothing.

  Even Merlin had lost all interest in it by now. I glared at Phil and considerately didn’t tell him I told you so.

  He returned the favour by not asking if I’d really been trying. “Fine. So plan B it is. We go down to the market and do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “A. Plan A. Me getting a psychic hit? That was never plan A. That was plan B. Or more like plan Z. Or one of those letters that’s not in the alphabet anymore.”

  “Plan A, then,” he agreed easily.