Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  ‘I was just telling these lovely people how I’m Princess Grace of Monaco’s illegitimate daughter,’ she’d say, ‘but enough about me. Johnny here slept with Boris Yeltsin last night. Why don’t you tell them about his luminous semen?’

  Then it was my task to improvise a vaguely feasible scenario. If she was feeling devilish she might interject halfway through with a further complication — ‘Don’t forget to tell them about the moment Sinitta walked in’ — and sit back to watch me struggle.

  If I was feeling frisky and picked someone up, she would give them the once-over. If my choice met with her approval she would pour him a glass of champagne. If not, she would say: ‘No. Pig ugly. Goodbye, whoever you are.

  Tim — or, at least, the memory of him — still consumed my emotions, which freed me to have cold but convincing sexual relations with all and sundry. It was better than thinking too much.

  It was ten minutes into one of Georgie’s après-sex comfort cuddles that he mentioned a TV producer friend of his called Bernard. ‘Do you think sex is good for the soul?’ he began.

  ‘Er, probably. What do you think?’ Like any good therapist I had learnt to listen when my clients began to chat.

  ‘I’m sure of it. My soul is singing now, you can almost hear it. I forget that I’m old and ugly. You’ve performed a very valuable service.

  ‘So glad to have given satisfaction.’ There was a pause as Georgie sighed contentedly. I managed a surreptitious glance at my watch. Seven more minutes, then I’d be off.

  ‘Bernard!’ he declared, sitting up in bed. ‘You’re just what he needs! I wonder …?‘

  ‘Does Bernard’s soul require a bit of a sing-along too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s been quite a worry. Bernard and Barry were a very happy couple. Together for fifteen years. But Barry died last year and Bernard … He’s not taken it well. A frolic with you would do him all the good in the world. Put a spring in his step again. Would you consider it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘He sounds like he could do with a touch of the JD magic.’

  ‘How kind of me to share you!’ Georgie got up out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He picked up the soiled tissues that were, as well as his cheerful disposition, the result of our afternoon together, and moved towards the door. ‘I’ll give him a ring.’

  I got out of bed and started putting my things together. As I neatly coiled the clothes line and popped it into my leather rucksack, along with the pegs and rubber mask, Georgie returned, all smiles, clutching a gin and tonic. He slipped a roll of twenty-pound notes into my pocket with a piece of paper.

  ‘Bernard will be expecting you at six tomorrow evening. See if you can put a smile back on his face.’ He gave me a knowing look.

  ‘If I can’t, no one can,’ I boasted.

  ‘One other thing, though,’ he added, swirling the ice in his glass and turning ninety degrees from the fireplace to face me —very Katherine Hepburn. ‘Bernard doesn’t know you’re being paid. He works for the BBC and he’d be horrified. I’ve told him you’re cute and bright and that you’re interested in becoming a TV presenter. Your job is to act the part and make sure one thing leads to a bit of the other.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, raising an eyebrow. ‘And is the casting couch that much more respectable than using a prostitute?’

  ‘It is as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted to be a TV presenter, actually. The sets always look so cheap.’

  ‘Role play, darling. Weren’t you an actor once? Seduce him. I can see you now, sitting on his sofa with your legs spread wide, explaining how you want to become the next Peter Duncan. Don’t take your bag of tricks — it might give the game away. Just do what you can to make the poor dear happy again. A glimpse of your beautiful cock would make a condemned man smile.’

  ‘All right, Georgie. I’ll do it.’

  ‘And don’t forget to let me know how it goes.’

  The next afternoon I put some thought into my appearance. How would Bernard expect me to look? Masculine and youthful, obviously, but in an unselfconscious way, I decided. In the end I put on jeans and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I wore trainers and took the unusual step of shaving, moisturizing and deodorizing.

  It was strange, making my way to a client’s house and already feeling sorry for him. Perhaps, if I dealt with the situation carefully and acted my part convincingly, I could pull this grieving soul out of his misery — and wasn’t that a good deed, whichever way you looked at it? It helped that I’d been paid handsomely in advance.

  I could tell that Georgie was getting a weird thrill out of setting up the whole scenario. On his part, it amounted to deception although the lie had been born of empathy and concern. He had entrusted me with a dear friend’s emotional well-being and I alone could cure him of his malaise. I could make him feel that life was worth living again. In short, I felt it my duty to ensure that Bernard felt … if not the sun on his face then a similar sensation of warmth that can, with equal certainty, be declared a gift of Nature.

  Bernard lived in a portered block of flats in St John’s Wood, one of those seventies arrangements with large ashtray balconies that looked like they might fall off at any moment and that enjoyed limited glimpses of Regent’s Park.

  When I got there he was in slacks and a red v-neck cotton jumper over a white shirt. He looked sprightly enough, clearly in his late fifties, but his blotchy pink skin and home-dyed hair were a worry.

  ‘You must be JD,’ he said, when he opened the door. His ‘Do come in!’ was a little breathier than he might have hoped, but he skipped down the hallway to the open-plan lounge-kitchen-diner in a revealingly expressive way. ‘Is it too early for a glass of Wither Hills?’ he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of chilled white Sauvignon Blanc, which he held to his cheek as if it were a cleaning product and he a house-proud wife.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Dry white wine,’ he answered quickly, holding the pose.

  ‘Yes. OK,’ I said, sounding convincingly bashful, and Bernard relaxed his arms and put down the bottle. Two wine glasses were whisked out from behind the pine bread-bin and placed carefully on the counter that divided us. I perched on a stool and ran my fingers across my bristly head.

  ‘Oriental snacks?’ enquired Bernard, pushing a bowl of unlikely-coloured crackers in my direction. His hand brushed mine, and as I lifted the glass to my lips, I tilted my head downwards and engaged him in some serious eye-contact. He hesitated, looked away, and then, in one sweeping movement, brought his face close to mine and shut his eyes. ‘So. You want to be a TV presenter, I hear?’

  His depression was hidden far better than his erection, I thought. ‘More than anything,’ I lied.

  ‘You have a very good face for television,’ said Bernard, earnestly. ‘Very photogenic. And, as it happens, I’m developing a show at the moment. We’ve interviewed dozens of would-be presenters but none of them quite fits the bill. Perhaps you could come in for an audition …’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘this could be my lucky day.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Bernard, and I felt a bony hand creep along my thigh like a centipede.

  The next morning Georgie met me for coffee, squawking with delight. Bernard had called him first thing and was brimming with excitement.

  ‘He thinks you’re adorable! And, of course, he’s in raptures about your penis. Such a relief to hear my old chum happy again. I think he’s in love.’

  ‘Well, you know, Georgie, that isn’t supposed to happen. Strictly speaking, this is a business transaction and nothing to do with love.’

  Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s breaking the rules. Bernard’s already called me this morning. He’s invited me for an intimate dinner on Saturday night. If he’s not aware that I’m a working boy and is getting emotionally involved with me, I ought to say no.’

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Georgie said hurriedly. ‘Poor old B
ernard. Rejection would be too much for him. Not now, when we’ve finally managed to get a sparkle back in his eyes!’

  ‘I’m not in the business of deceiving people.’

  ‘Let’s compromise. You go along on Saturday and give Bernard another thrilling night of love, then let him down gently the next day. Would you do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ I frowned. The truth was, I had no desire to repeat the experience. Bernard had been all over me, slobbering and squeezing me, within minutes of my arrival. His girlish excitement over the phone seemed to indicate that there was a lot more where that had come from. Hours of it, no doubt. As he wasn’t paying me, he was under the impression that I liked him. It seemed wrong and tedious. ‘So who’s paying this time? I told you, I’m a working boy, Georgie. I don’t do freebies, I’m afraid.’

  Georgie gave a short-tempered little moan.

  ‘If I have to stay the night with Bernard, it’ll work out as a rather expensive evening for you,’ I warned.

  ‘Quel dommage,’ Georgie muttered. Then he roared with laughter and his eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I don’t give a fig. Do it, JD!’

  That Saturday night I arrived at Bernard’s to find the table set for four.

  ‘Hello, my dear. What joy to see you again. Now, I’ve got a surprise for you!’ he said. He led me into the lounge. ‘I want you to meet my two closest friends,’ he announced, and there, sitting on the sofa, beaming at me and barely disguising their glee at my befuddlement, were Sammy and Georgie.

  ‘Here he is!’ said Bernard. ‘Sammy, Georgie, meet JD. Isn’t he a dream?’

  They looked me up and down knowingly, their eyes resting on my crotch.

  ‘We’ve heard so much about you,’ said Sammy, standing up and shaking my hand manfully.

  ‘Indeed we have,’ added Georgie, following suit, though his shake was limp with mirth. ‘I’m so glad you and Bernard have hit it off so well.’

  I smiled uncomfortably. Clearly Georgie wanted to see how his money was being spent.

  ‘I’ll bring in the champagne,’ said Bernard, oblivious.

  ‘We’ll chat to JD. What are your hobbies, what do you do, where do you live? Or don’t you like to be tied down?’ asked Sammy, brightly.

  Bernard was out of the room just long enough for Georgie to slip a wad of notes into my hand and whisper, ‘Now earn it, baby.’

  Bernard returned with a tray of glasses foaming with pink champagne, which he passed round. ‘Now,’ he said, holding his aloft, ‘I’d like to propose a toast. To JD. My new special friend.’

  We chinked glasses.

  I was silently cursing Georgie for getting me into this situation when Bernard made an astonishing announcement: ‘JD is going to have a screen test!‘

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ This was the first I’d heard of it. I’d assumed all the talk of a TV show had been Bernard’s way of getting my trousers off.

  ‘I can’t discuss it at present — all very hush-hush — but this afternoon I called my commissioning executive at the Beeb and told her I thought I’d discovered the face for our new show!’ Bernard beamed at me. ‘She was very excited. And I do mean very.’

  ‘Whoa there!’ I said. ‘Listen, Bernard—’

  Georgie cut me off mid-sentence. ‘You must be thrilled! What an opportunity for you!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell you until we were alone,’ Bernard squeezed my knee suggestively, ‘but I couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Good luck with your new opening,’ added Sammy.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Georgie. ‘I’m sure you’ve got what it takes. In fact I think you’ll be HUGE!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said tartly.

  ‘What a load of old bollocks,’ said Catherine, when I told her about Bernard’s plans for me. ‘That’s the oldest trick in the book. But allow him his casting-couch fantasy. It doesn’t matter whose purse the money’s coming out of— cash is cash. Our job is to make these old men feel good. We just say, “Yes, sir, no, sir, two bags full, sir. Allow me to empty them for you.”’

  ‘And if I find myself in front of a camera being screen-tested for my own TV show?’

  ‘If that happens, I’ll eat my own tampon.’

  It was a week later when, after the usual session with Sammy, I went next door to find Georgie in a sombre mood. He didn’t pass me any instructions or say a word as he opened the front door, just led me into the lounge and sat down.

  ‘I’ve got some rather depressing news, JD. I’ve been to the doctor again. I haven’t said anything to you — it would spoil the atmosphere so — but I’ve not been feeling right for some time. The reason for this has now become clear. It seems I’m positively riddled with cancer and there’s not a thing they can do.’ His black and white cat jumped on to his lap and nestled down. He stroked it listlessly. ‘I’ve been advised to put my affairs in order rather quickly.’

  I sat beside him and put my arm across his shoulders. ‘Georgie, I’m so sorry. Is there really nothing they can do?’

  ‘Oh, they could blast me with this and pump me with that but it wouldn’t do a scrap of good and would make my last weeks positively hellish. The stupid thing is, I don’t feel all that bad — just dull, nauseating pain here and there. I’m sure it’ll get worse but they have a lovely thing called morphine for that. Any of their therapies would make me feel a million times worse and give me only a tiny bit more time, if I were very lucky. I don’t think it’s worth it.’

  His lip trembled and I hugged him tighter. I felt sorry for him, and rather upset. I’d grown fond of him over the months I’d been beating him senseless.

  ‘This has set me thinking …‘ Georgie tried to continue, then stopped himself, hesitated, took some deep breaths and gave up.

  ‘It must be a terrible shock,’ I said, to fill the gap. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Can you see,’ Georgie said, clearly choosing each word carefully, ‘that if something is inevitable, one might as well embrace it?’

  I gave him a sympathetic squeeze. ‘I think that’s a very healthy way of looking at it.’

  ‘Healthy?’ repeated Georgie, and threw back his head as he pretended to laugh.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘acceptance is better than regret under the circumstances.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Georgie, recovering himself. ‘That’s how I see it. And if death is on the cards, why not grasp the opportunity to deal the hand yourself?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Georgie,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, no, you’re not quite with me, are you?’ He stood up, suddenly energized. The cat toppled off his lap and walked away crossly as Georgie paced the room. ‘Can we not extract a little happiness, a little pleasure, from circumstances that are by tradition tragic and upsetting?’

  ‘How?’ I was baffled now. ‘Are you talking about Jesus or something?’

  Georgie went to the sideboard and poured himself a large gin with a splash of tonic. He took a gulp and closed his eyes, inhaling purposefully, summoning the strength to say something important.

  ‘You know what I like sexually, JD. You alone know of my fantasies. Your hands round my neck, choking me. It’s the only time I’m happy, to be perfectly honest with you. What I’d like to suggest — and I’m not sure how to phrase this properly — is that you do me a great favour.’ There was a long pause. ‘Murder me,’ he said quietly.

  I stared at him. He didn’t open his eyes but talked on. I realized he was sharing with me some very private and important thoughts and felt strangely honoured.

  ‘I have always dreamt of being strangled. It’s the Mecca of my desires. The ultimate experience. I’ve wondered why, of course —I’ve questioned the genesis of my own fantasy — but I’ve never come up with an answer. I’ve gone as far as I can in acting it out, but life was always of greater importance to me. Ultimately I wanted to live. I still do, but my time is up. I could never seriously contemplate this before, but now …’

  I stood up and moved towards
the door. What Georgie was saying had made sense and I was horrified. I needed to get out of this situation, stop listening to his ramblings.

  He opened his eyes and leapt in front of me. ‘Here is my choice. I let the cancer take its course, enduring the pain as it gets worse and worse until, eventually, they dose me with so much morphine that I slide into a coma and die. Or I pay you twenty thousand pounds to give me the sensational erotic finale of my choosing. Then I don’t let the Grim Reaper have it all his own way!’

  I stood there, staring at him.

  He looked at me pleadingly, his hands clasped. ‘Please, JD. It would make me happy.’

  ‘Can I … can I think about it, Georgie? You must realize you’ve asked something very serious. I can’t just say yes. I need time to think.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But not too much!’ he called after me, as I went past him to the door. He looked suitably tragic. ‘I don’t have much left.’

  ‘It would make me happy.’

  This sentence stayed with me all the way home, as I thought over the absurd thing Georgie had asked me to do. Kill him? How on earth could I? The last time I looked, the penalties for snuffing out a life were fairly stringent, no matter what the deceased party had had to say about it. I tried to convince myself that the whole thing was one of his elaborate ruses, but he had been far too convincing.

  As soon as I got home, I told Catherine what had happened.

  ‘Those old boys are full of fun and games, aren’t they?’ she said, laughing. Then, suddenly, she was serious and gazed at me with wide, excited eyes. ‘Twenty thousand pounds, Cowboy … That’s the important part. Is there some way of getting the money without doing the business?’

  ‘That’s called “clipping”, I believe. A dirty trick and I’ll have no part of it.’