Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  ‘Anyone would think it was Pound-a-pint-for-Scousers Night,’ I muttered to Tim, as we passed, ignoring Paul’s shrill demand that I join them for a half of cider and a sniff of poppers.

  We settled into a quiet corner, then ordered oysters and brandy Alexanders with fresh nutmeg as a Chopin concerto wafted soothingly over the sound system.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ I said, beginning to relax. ‘So, tell me about your exciting life. The last time we spoke you were off to Cambridge, weren’t you?’

  The mention of that meeting seemed to embarrass Tim, as I had hoped it would. My heart had never mended, and while I wanted to appear bright, happy and attractive, part of me wanted him to know how much he had hurt me, stunted me and, despite the trappings of success, ruined me .

  He overcame his discomfort and answered easily, ‘Oh, Cambridge was a hoot. I had a fantastic time. Made lots of great friends and finished with a first in Law, so Father was happy.’

  ‘How is he?’ I kept a straight face.

  ‘Oh, busy on the farm and at the House of Lords, same as ever. Mother’s thriving too. Regina has been married off to a rich South African and lives under armed guard at some sort of vineyard in Cape Town. How’s your mum? Still as mad as a March hare?’

  ‘Bloody cheek!’ I said. ‘She made you a lovely tea once.’

  I studied Tim’s face. His complexion was a little darker, his hair shorter, and the cute mannerism he’d had of tossing his fringe out of his eyes was now gone. But his eyes! They were the same expensive sapphire blue, and when I looked into them I was lost again, transported back to the summerhouse. I had wondered over the years if my love for him had been an illusion, a crush, somehow kept alive by willpower. Of course I’d imagined meeting him again, but what if first love had been simply youthful folly?

  Now here I was with him, gazing into those heavenly eyes again, and all was well with the world. The twin towers of love and desire were standing tall and sturdy. Did Tim feel the same? I fervently hoped so — that would be my Mills and Boon fantasy fulfilled, but now was not the time to ask. Despite our kooks and smiles, and the attraction you could almost see, like fireworks going off between us, we were still at the polite chit-chat stage.

  ‘I’m working in the City now,’ Tim was saying. ‘Training to be a lawyer. Bloody hard work, doing my papillae. I qualify in about five years ‘time’.

  ‘An eternity,’ I agreed. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Cadogan Square. Poky little mansion flat. More of a bedsit, really.’

  We were on our third drink before either of us had the nerve to mention our love lives.

  ‘I read about you and the air stewardess in the News of the World,’ said Tim, grinning. ‘Good on you. She gave you a very good report, you dirty devil!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said flatly. ‘I wrote it myself.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Not true, then?’

  ‘No.’

  He seemed to feel the need to get the next bit of information out as quickly possible. ‘I’m engaged to a cracking girl called Sophie. Her father invented laminate flooring.’ He averted his eyes at the end of the sentence so I had time to recover.

  ‘It’ll never catch on. Where is she tonight?’

  ‘Switzerland. Skiing with the Sandersons.’ There was a pause. When he looked at me again my thoughts must have been obvious. ‘You turned out to be gay after all, then, did you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘Good lad,’ he said quietly, and smiled his best, sexiest smile. ‘Mind if I order a cigar to celebrate?’

  I ordered it for him and brandy for both of us.

  ‘Is there a recovery room available?’ I asked the waiter, a thin, sad-looking man of about my age. More an out-of-work actor than a drama student, I thought.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr O’Grady has just booked the last one, sir,’ he said, rolling his eyes in the direction of Paul and Sigourney.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, skipping a fifty-pound note into his hand, ‘tell Mr O’Grady there’s been a mistake. He’d only honk in the sock drawer anyway.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said third chorus boy from the left, and walked towards the noisy duo on the other side of the room.

  Twenty minutes later I closed the recovery-room door behind us and Tim and I were alone at last.

  ‘I keep thinking this is a mistake,’ were Tim’s first words. He spoke quietly, without conviction, and almost before he had finished his sentence he pulled me roughly towards him and kissed me. Or, rather, we kissed each other. Five years of pent-up longing and missing found a fissure of expression in the volcanic rock of our fused emotions. It was the kiss of a lifetime, a time-travelling kiss. By the end of it, we were naked, satiated, empty and extremely sweaty.

  We fell asleep almost immediately, as if we were anxious for another level of consciousness to take over and make sense of everything for us.

  It was the dustbin men who woke me. It must have been about six. The window was open and the curtains were wafting in and out like lungs. I felt the heavy weight of a sleeping man on my left arm, and turned to see Tim, fast asleep and snoring through his open mouth. I studied the ridges in his lips, the bubbles of saliva gathering in the corners, and when I could stand it no more, I leant over and kissed him. I started by sucking his dry, dehydrated lips with my moist, succulent ones. I wanted Tim’s to slide against mine, slowly arousing him so he would drift seamlessly from the calm lagoons of sleep into the deep, rocky waters of early-morning lust. But just as things were heading nicely in that direction, he opened bloodshot eyes and looked at me.

  ‘Oh, my good god,’ he said, stunned to discover where he was, what he was doing and who he was doing it with.

  He bowed his head, exhaling noisily on my Adam’s apple, then rolled off me unceremoniously.

  ‘I’m a fucking idiot,’ he said, running his palm over his forehead and banging the top of his head several times. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He jumped out of bed and grabbed his clothes from about the room, getting particularly upset with his shirt, because it was inside-out — as if that was a painful reminder to him of our unbridled passion a few hours earlier.

  Dressed, he stumbled into the bathroom. I heard him splash water on his face. ‘Shit. Fuck!’ he kept saying. Angrily he urinated, then slammed down the toilet handle with an almighty crash. He came back to the bedroom and stood beside me. ‘I’m going,’ he said.

  ‘This is very sudden,’ I said sarcastically. I was still lying naked on top of the bedclothes and tried giving my hips a suggestive wiggle. I wasn’t going to let my lover walk out on me again, five years down the line, still protesting his indifference to my charms. Last night had put paid to that lie. ‘You’re scared of me,’ I said.

  ‘I know I am,’ he replied.

  ‘Is that it, then? Goodbye and thank you?’

  He swayed from side to side, some internal pendulum rocking him one way then the other. ‘Johnny, I’m going to marry Sophie. Look, maybe we could meet up some time for a drink.’ He pulled out his wallet and fiddled inside it. He took out a card and put it on the bedside table. ‘It’s been nice seeing you. Call me some time.’

  ‘Remember me,’ I said.

  He smiled and left.

  Life was good, apart from two things. One, of course, was my secret love for Tim and the bittersweet memory of what happened between us that night. Whatever he had said in the morning, and however unceremonious his departure had been, I knew we had unfinished business to attend to.

  The other problem was Bernard. Since I had tasted the pleasure of Tim, I had barely been able to tolerate him. Every ounce of affection I’d felt for him (and there had been only a couple to start with) had vanished. Instead I found him intensely irritating and did my best to avoid him. As a result, things were tense and his behaviour became increasingly erratic. He had taken to hissing things like ‘I made you and I’ll break you, you little shit! I know what you’
ve been up to’ one minute, then declaring eternal love the next.

  When the show came to its three-month break, and I was on holiday from recording, Bernard suggested a trip to Nicaragua. I decided to go. He was thrilled. He thought this was our big romantic moment, and I let him, but in truth I felt it might do us good to get away and clear the air. I wanted to calm him down and get things on an even keel between us. I knew he was an important factor in my success, still, and I needed to keep him sweet. But he also had to understand that he wasn’t my boyfriend and that I had to have a life without him in it. If we went away, I was sure we could sort it out. Besides, I was tired, feeling the effects of too many nights on the town. In the last few months I had found fame, fortune and Tim. I wanted to lie on a sandy beach and take stock.

  All was well enough on the flight, but as soon as we landed in Managua, Bernard was clutching my arm like a maiden aunt, complaining about the heat, the food, the wine, and being more demanding and dramatic than ever.

  Once we’d fought our way through the chaos of the airport we spent a night in the sleepy, dusty town of Havana, at the vaguely Arabic, colonial-style Villa Franca. Charming, dusky Latino boys were all around us, and Bernard guarded me jealously, placing a proprietorial hand on my arm whenever a handsome waiter, with white teeth and low-slung chinos, drifted past.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bernard, do calm down. If you’re going to act like this the entire time, I’m going home right now,’ I said crossly.

  ‘All right. Sorry,’ he replied sulkily. ‘But no flirting!’

  ‘I’m not flirting,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Now can you please stop, and let us both enjoy our well-earned holiday? Thank you.’

  A day later we moved to the seaside resort of St Juan, where we resided in a hillside bungalow, dined in the alfresco restaurant and nodded at the security guards as we made our way up the hill in the evenings.

  ‘Shall we go to the beach today, or stay by the hotel pool?’ I asked, on the third morning, trying to snap us both out of a stormy mood. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t relax together.

  ‘I’m tired,’ answered Bernard. ‘I think I’ll go for a lie-down. Go to the beach and I’ll see you there in an hour or so.’

  That was fine by me. If Bernard wasn’t with me, for a while at least, I could forget about keeping him happy and concentrate on my own needs for a change. I was longing for a few minutes to myself so I could think about Tim. I wished Bernard a good rest and wandered slowly down the hill to the beach.

  I stopped for a moment to take in the perfect view. The blue sky dominated a passive sea, and anaemic sand lay prostrate under both.

  There was movement, and my eye was drawn to the fleshy tanned torsos of some youthful footballers. Aware of temptation, I tried to kook elsewhere, to the trees that fringed the beach or the boats sailing across the horizon, but I was helpless to control my gaze. Like a street dog following a promising scent, I made my way to the beach and settled myself a few yards from the game so that I could watch easily.

  There were six players, all clearly Nicaraguans, but one in particular attracted me. He was older than the others, about twenty-three, with wavy black hair. He seemed aware of my attention, glancing in my direction whenever the game allowed him to do so. I lay back on my towel and applied some sun lotion, flirting surreptitiously, and looking enigmatically out to sea whenever I was sure he had me in his sights.

  As the game finished, I wandered to the sea and kicked the waves playfully. Suddenly my favourite ran past me and dived, dolphin-like, into the water. A few seconds later I followed him. Alongside each other, we took a deep breath and dived. Under water we held eye-contact for as long as we could, until laughter overtook us and we surfaced, smiling. We began a conversation, while doggy-paddling in the deeper water some yards out to sea.

  His name was Juan, he informed me. He was twenty-four — I’d been almost right — and lived with his family in the resort. ‘I have a car,’ he said importantly, as if this qualified him in some way. His English was limited but understandable.

  ‘Your friend? I have seen. Where your friend?’

  ‘He sleeping,’ I told him, and rolled my eyes.

  ‘Your father?’ he said, and laughed unkindly. Under the cover of water he stroked my shoulder, then swam towards the shore and joined his friends, who were still kicking the football about in the sunshine .

  I felt a shimmer of excitement. Juan was a gorgeous creature. He’d driven my thoughts of Tim from my head, and that made a refreshing change. I returned to my towel and lay down, closed my eyes and relaxed for the first time in ages. Time away from Bernard was so much more enjoyable than time spent in his company.

  My contemplations were disturbed by a shout of ‘Hola, JD!’

  Juan’s tousled locks were silhouetted against the sun and it took me a moment to focus. He was kneeling next to me and gave me a nudge in the ribs with his knee.

  ‘I can drive you and your friend to the volcano in my car. You like? Tomorrow morning?’

  Trips to Mount Massaya were popular with tourists. The hotel was offering a group trip in its minibus, promising to show us bubbling mud pools and impressive jets from geysers and blow-holes, but a private trip with a personal guide would be much nicer, especially if that guide was Juan.

  ‘Yes, please. How kind.’ I arranged to meet him at ten a.m. the next day at the hotel reception.

  Dawn heralded another beautiful day. Part of me had hoped that Bernard would take to his bed again after breakfast so that I could go to the volcano alone with Juan, but Bernard had seemed pleased and excited by the prospect of the trip and bounced out of bed to get ready. As he came out of the shower I pushed him back on to the bed and did my best to wear him out before the day began, but to no avail.

  ‘That’s set me up nicely, Johnny,’ he said happily, with a romantic sigh. ‘Thank you, darling.’

  Over breakfast he stroked his cheek with a white orchid from the table display and ordered a luxurious picnic for us to take with us to the volcano. ‘I do hope we’ll be safe!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve seen enough eruptions of hot lava for one day …’

  Over his shoulder I could see Juan, lovely in a tatty grey singlet and off-white shorts, waiting in the sunshine by his car. ‘Our driver awaits!’ I told Bernard, who turned to look. Juan waved.

  Bernard seemed a little minty. ‘That vehicle doesn’t look the type that has air-conditioning,’ he said, ‘And I doubt he’s fully insured.’

  It was a bumpy journey, conducted mostly in silence. Juan asked me what I did in London, and I said I worked in television. Bernard’s mood had taken a downward swing, and he sat in the back seat inhaling noisily and going ‘Ugh!’ every time we trundled over a rock.

  As the car swung about, Juan and I knocked kegs, creating a static both real and atmospheric. Each time the hairs on our outer thighs tangled momentarily, then stretched out longingly, like young lovers across a balcony.

  After an hour’s driving we turned off what, for all its shortcomings, was a main road on to a far inferior track towards Mount Massaya. The air became misty with heat, gravel and ash, while plumes of grey steam blossomed from nowhere. We were climbing the mountainside and Juan was gaining speed, despite the engine’s protests, diving round hairpin bends in a cloud of dust and laughing with delight, presumably at our against-the-odds survival. I spread my palms on the ceiling of the car to stop me banging my head and kept my eyes closed. After some particularly violent bumps they opened involuntarily and I snatched a glimpse of treacherous precipices and spindly trees clinging to life at unfeasible angles.

  Eventually we stopped at a deserted viewing-point and climbed out of the car, relieved to have arrived in one piece.

  ‘Magnificent!’ I said, gazing out at the view. Pale green and grey olive trees shimmered down the hillside, and scattered between them I saw the distant colours and heard the sounds of primitive villages going about their business. ‘Isn’t it amazing, Bernard?’


  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Bernard, turning to the picnic basket. He spread out our lunch on a fairly flat piece of rock, but Juan stayed in the car until I asked him to join us.

  ‘Must he?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘We can’t leave the poor boy sitting in the car all afternoon,’ I said. ‘There are limits.’

  As soon as I invited him Juan leapt out happily and joined us. We ate sardines, chicken and coconut and drank beer. Nearby, ponds of thick mud simmered lazily.

  ‘You look good in this setting, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Like something out of Jurassic Park.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Bernard, but he was amused.

  ‘I think I’ll call you Jurassic from now on,’ I continued playfully.

  ‘Try it and see what happens,’ said Bernard. ‘It seems a shame to throw away your TV career when things are going so well.’

  Before long he was yawning and saying he really shouldn’t have drunk all that beer. ‘I very rarely drink, you know,’ he lied to Juan, who didn’t know what he was saying.

  After what seemed an eternity, he fell into a noisy slumber. I signalled to Juan to follow me. We tiptoed a few yards down a mountain path and sat under some olive trees. Our kegs brushed together and we giggled nervously. I lay back and remembered my mother’s trick of licking her lips and opening her mouth just a little. It worked and Juan rolled on top of me. I’m not sure how long our lovely encounter had been going on, but we were well into the heavy-petting stage and our shorts had just been discarded when we were violently disturbed.