by Julian Clary
‘You bastards!’ screamed Bernard, from twenty feet above us. ‘You pair of absolute fucking, cunting bastards!’
He picked up several hand-sized rocks and threw them at us, missing by inches as we fumbled to get dressed. Juan ran down the hill and I ran up towards our attacker.
‘Stop this, Bernard! We were only messing around! It’s the altitude, it makes us light-headed!’ Bernard was struggling to pick up a rather ambitiously sized boulder. ‘You’ll kill one of us with that. Put it down!’
‘Well, I hope I do!’ he said, trying to fling the rock at me but succeeding in dropping it an inch from his feet. ‘Fuck!’ he declared.
By now I was in front of him and I held his shoulders to prevent him gathering any more missiles. ‘Calm down! It was nothing! Don’t be so hysterical!’
But my touch seemed to recharge his anger. Suddenly he broke away from me and ran (rather nimbly for someone of his years) in the other direction, past the car and over a ridge, all the while flailing his arms like a mad Italian TV chef, half sobbing, half screaming.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I muttered, and walked wearily after him. ‘What a fiasco.’
When I reached the top of the ridge I stopped in my tracks. Bernard was standing on the edge of a grey mudpool, looking down into the swirling, steaming, bubbling mass.
‘Bernard,’ I said, serious all at once, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’ve been a fool,’ he began. ‘You don’t love me, you’ve made that very clear. You told me so before I made you a star, but I wasn’t listening. Now I’ve seen with my own eyes your contempt for me. It’s too much, JD. There’s only so much grief a man can take. My life, in many ways, is already over. I just have to catch up with that reality.’
I stood and stared, not sure if I was expected to speak. I sensed, with the benefit of experience, that Bernard was enjoying being the focus of this dramatic scene. Far be it from me to interrupt. His tone had been strangely portentous, Churchillian; even.
‘I’ve enjoyed flashes of happiness in my life. I have loved — and felt, at times, that I was loved, but not any more. Who would want me now? I can’t go on. I can’t pick up the pieces and fight off loneliness any longer.’ His chest heaved and tears flowed.
If I was going to plead with him not to jump, now was the moment. I didn’t really want to witness such a grisly suicide. Apart from anything else, explaining his disappearance to the Nicaraguan authorities was bound to be a nightmare. And what of our considerable hotel bill? Familiar as I was with these histrionics, I knew I could talk him down. But curiosity got the better of me. I would say nothing and call Bernard’s bluff.
He was still talking. ‘It’s far better this way. If I continued with this life, the image of you cavorting with our driver will be for ever branded on my mind. You, who mean everything to me, fucking about with a Nicaraguan slut under my nose! Who’d have thought it? How many others have there been, eh? The receptionist? The security guard? The waiter? You bastard!’
I was lost for words. Let the silky fool jump, I thought. At least I won’t have to touch his withered old penis again. It was into the fiery mouth of Massaya that the Sandinistas allegedly threw their enemies and, according to the guidebook, sufferers of unrequited love weren’t strangers to this dismally beautiful place. Jump, I thought. Go on, jump. I said nothing, just looked at him and gave a contemptuous half-smile.
There was silence. Was his speech over now? Would Bernard take an anti-climactic step away from the edge or jump to sizzling oblivion?
‘Goodbye, and fuck off, world!’ Bernard shouted. He bent his knees and raised his arms like a small boy on a diving-board. Suddenly, from a rock covered with singed grass a few yards behind him, Juan emerged. He moved forward stealthily and grabbed Bernard from behind in a bear-hug, lifting him off the ground and pulling him to safety.
‘No, Juan!’ I said, and rushed forward. This drama, of course, unleashed more cries from Jurassic, but now they were those of a damsel being abducted.
‘Help! Help! Put me down, you brute! No, anything but that, you beast!’
I reached the wrestling couple and prised Juan’s suntanned arms away from Bernard’s torso. ‘You don’t understand, Juan! Leave him, please, leave him alone!’
‘Consider yourself well and truly replaced as the front man of Shout!, Johnny, my boy! You just kissed your career good night!’ screamed Bernard, a look of triumph on his face.
This cruel announcement pushed me over the edge, I’m afraid. My fists clenched and my leg darted out angrily, almost before I’d had a chance to know what I was doing. I caught Bernard sharply in the pit of his stomach. He fell backwards and tumbled head first into the mudpool. He resurfaced momentarily, looking suitably gruesome and shocked, but disappeared again surprisingly quickly. A grey, clay-covered hand reached up and out, then down again. Then, after a dull, slopping sound, there was silence.
Juan moved as if to rescue him but I held him tight.
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s too late. Leave him. He’s gone.’
Bernard should have worn a St Christopher like me, was my first thought.
The job of television presenting is a peculiar one, and if I can say anything with certainty, it is that I never fell into the trap of taking it seriously. Dear, departed Bernard had plucked me from a life of obscure prostitution and, with little or no ambition on my part, had put me in the right place at the right time. Nature and nurture had ticked some of the requisite boxes for my success: I had a pleasing face, a soothing voice and could read an autocue. Furthermore, I acknowledge, Bernard had wielded his influence and called in favours to get my shows commissioned. The rest, as they say, had been down to luck.
The trick to gaining high ratings is that you must have broad appeal. The show that made me, Shout!, had been aimed at teenagers, but was watched by students, young adults — anyone interested in youth culture and what was or wasn’t ‘cool’. The indefinable touch, the X factor of my success and the thing that I transmitted, without being aware of it, was sex. I smelt of it, exuded it and, through me, desire smouldered. My sexual confidence beamed its way into millions of hearts and homes. Being photographed at Heathrow on my return from Nicaragua made me realize I was seriously famous.
How was I supposed to cope with being gorgeous, rich, a murderer of two men — and famous? My ego, of course, became blissed out, hopeless at any detached assessment of my situation. I simply excused my actions and refused to feel guilty. I thought I was invincible and that fame had made me complete. I felt that everything had been leading up to it. Even if my life was a puzzle that would only be deciphered when it was over, I believed that God was on my side.
I had tried to call Catherine from Nicaragua but it was impossible. On the few occasions when I managed to get a line to England, there was no reply. I decided it was safer to leave the whole story till I got home. As soon as I was back, I sat her down and gave her the true account of what had happened up the mountain and how Bernard had died.
She frowned, then said, ‘Most unpleasant for you both. Speaking as your manager, I suppose we could have put a bit more planning into it, but Bernard was becoming a serious drag. The important thing is that he’s out of the way. Well done, Cowboy.’
She didn’t like the sound of Juan, though. ‘That was a bit careless of you. Witnesses are always a mistake. I’d have tossed him in too. It would have been a lot tidier.’
‘I never thought of that,’ I said. ‘We can all be wise after the event.’
Of course I would never have dreamt of chucking Juan into the volcano. He was not only extremely beautiful but had provided me with exquisite pleasure . Most importantly, he had taken my mind off Tim.
Bernard, on the other hand, had expressed his wish to die —perhaps not as clearly and convincingly as Georgie had but, still, he had said as much — and would have jumped himself if Juan had not made the mistake of stopping him. By pushing him in, I might be technically guilty of murder but I kn
ew I wasn’t really. I had merely corrected a small glitch in the order of things. Killing Juan would have been something different altogether. It had never occurred to me. I wasn’t that kind of boy.
‘Well, you say this Juan can’t speak English, and he won’t have any idea of who you are, so perhaps we’ll be all right,’ Catherine said. ‘I take it you gave him a massive wad of cash to keep quiet about what really happened? That should take care of him. What we have to focus on now is getting your reaction to Bernard’s death just right. This, Cowboy, is what they call a key moment.’
Catherine had taken to media manipulation like a duck to water. After all, she had been manipulating those around her all her life so she’d had plenty of practice. ‘The editor of the Sun likes me,’ was all she would say. ‘He’s more important than the prime minister, as far as you’re concerned.’
She had long since given up her life of vice and now moulded her image on Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect, wearing sharp, muted suits, high heels and a neat haircut. She was self-possessed and calm at all times. Now that she wasn’t on the game, she had struck it lucky and was the (more or less) exclusive mistress of a married Algerian drugs baron. He gave her an excellent seeing-to every time he was in town, along with oodles of cash, a drawerful of diamonds and emeralds and as much cocaine as the pair of us could snort. Which was quite a lot.
Ali was of a jealous nature and not at all happy about Catherine sharing a flat with me, a man. But Catherine had put down her expensively pedicured foot. ‘He’s a woofter, Ali. He’s not interested in me! You’re being ridiculous. Johnny makes sure I come to no harm. We look after each other.’
Ali wasn’t convinced and seemed to have no concept of homosexuality (unusual in an Algerian). He was only satisfied after he had sent round his personal physician to give me a rectal examination. After that, Catherine and he continued their affair, but when he wasn’t in town, she made the most of her freedom and often went out on the pull.
‘Aren’t you supposed to belong to Ali?’ I teased her.
‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ she said. ‘I may have sucked cock for cash, but I ain’t kissing ass.’
After Bernard’s death, she managed the press carefully and brilliantly, and although I was declared too upset to give any interviews, the ‘Tragic Death Of Hero TV Star’s Mentor’ was front-page news. The story Catherine (‘a close friend’) had sold, needless to say, for a substantial fee, was that Bernard and I had been attacked by a band of ruthless robbers while visiting Mount Massaya. I had bravely fought them off but poor Bernard had been flung mercilessly into a mudpool before my very eyes. Traumatized as I was, I had fearlessly chased the murdering thieves for several exhausting miles, but they had eventually got away.
Of course, the one person (apart from myself and Catherine) who knew the truth of what had happened that afternoon was Juan. I had clung to him as I kicked Bernard that afternoon. He had seen what I’d done and had looked at me, stupefied with shock.
‘It was an accident,’ I had repeated to him, like a sort of mantra. And then he, in turn, clung to me. He had stayed with me for the remainder of my time in Nicaragua and confirmed to the police my version of events although it was probably my bribe of several hundred dollars that saved the day. I thought it wise to turn all my guns of seduction on him. I lavished him with affection and money, and saw to it that we were inseparable. Besides, sex with Juan was no great chore and, given his rudimentary grasp of English, one of the most effective ways of communicating. I feel foolish confessing it, but maybe I was a little in love with him, too. But only a little. And only maybe. Our bodies fitted together so well, and the raw, animal nature of our relationship obscured any wise, self-protective assessment of matters. By the time I left him crying at the airport he was well and truly under my spell, and I was sure that my secret was safe with him.
Now I could get on with my career. I couldn’t help feeling refreshed and happy without the constant drain of Bernard’s snipes and demands.
Despite the attempts of the Nicaraguan authorities, Bernard’s body had never been recovered, nor the murderers apprehended (unsurprisingly), so Catherine thought it would be a good idea to hold a memorial for Bernard at the actors’ church in Covent Garden. I was to be chief mourner. The press were alerted.
‘Wear dark glasses and look as if you’ve been crying, please,’
Catherine instructed. ‘Stay up all night or something. But shave —show some respect. All eyes will be on you. I’ll be there with smelling-salts if you feel faint.’
Bernard had worked with many celebrities in his career, but I was the hottest and the most famous. I stood on the church steps wearing black Prada from head to toe, smiling weakly (with, I liked to think, a hint of allure still) and shaking hands with the many guests. The tabloids called me brave and broken-hearted. It couldn’t have been better.
The best moment was the release of fifty doves dyed canary yellow — Bernard’s favourite colour. A flock of seagulls swarmed in and attacked them as the mourners were gazing skyward. They were killed, every last one.
The public, however, saw another side of me and responded with genuine sympathy. I had hundreds of letters from people who wanted to express their sorrow, share their grief or send their best wishes and fervent hopes that I would be back on their TV screens soon. I was touched, and almost able to forget that I had pushed Bernard into a mudpool in the first place. Offers of work and magazine spreads poured in.
I was at home alone in the flat one afternoon (Catherine was having a long lunch with the editor of Hello! magazine) when I noticed that my favourite Gucci trousers had been returned from the cleaners. Stapled to the protective cover was a white envelope, the words ‘contents of pocket’ scrawled across it. I ripped it off and opened it. Inside was a small white business card, and across the middle was engraved ‘Timothy Thornchurch’.
Just seeing the name made my stomach quiver. I stared at it for a long time, running my fingers over the raised lettering. The urge to speak to him became unbearable. On impulse, I picked up the phone and, heart in my mouth, dialled his chambers in Fleet Street. ‘Could I speak to Timothy Thornchurch, please?’ I asked the unfeasibly posh-sounding woman who answered.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
My name was likely to cause a stir even in her plummy circles, so I said I was a Mr Bassey.
‘Putting you through,’ she said.
He sounded business-like when he answered. ‘Timothy Thornchurch. How may I help you, Mr Bassey?’
‘Meet me at a hotel tonight and make love to me,’ I said.
‘Er, who is this?’ Then his voice changed. ‘Johnny?’
‘Do many of your clients ask you for a fuck?’
‘Johnny, I’ve been so worried about you!’ He sounded soft and friendly and I wanted to rush over to Fleet Street right there and then and fling myself into his arms. ‘Are you all right? I’ve been reading about what happened to you. It sounded absolutely dreadful. I hope they catch the bastards.’
‘I’m fine, a bit shaken. It’s good to be home.’
‘That poor bloke, drowned in boiling mud, right in front of you. It must have been horrible.’
‘It was. He was such a dear old boy. I’m mentally scarred for life. I think I might be cracking up …’ I let my voice trail away.
‘Listen. I have a meeting at six tonight but I could meet you afterwards. Would you like that?’
I managed a weak ‘Thank you. I’ll book a room at the Savoy.’
‘Under the name of Mr Bassey?’
‘Of course.’
‘See you about eight.’
It had been so easy. Tim had responded sympathetically to my situation and now I would have him again. After all the years of silence and absence! If only I’d known that all I had to do was get famous and chuck some old duffer into a volcano, I’d have done it sooner.
When he tapped on the door soon after eight that evening, I had to stop myself opening it with a b
ig, happy smile. I rubbed my eyes a little and slumped my shoulders, presenting myself as distraught. He cradled me in his arms and I wept like a child. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here now.’
The role of heroic saviour clearly appealed to him; his lovemaking was gentle and considerate and afterwards, I told him, I felt truly healed. Remarkable, really.
That was how our second affair began. We would meet every week when we could, usually at the Savoy, and spend a night together. I was so truly happy that I couldn’t hide it, and within days Catherine had guessed my secret.
‘I know what’s happening,’ she said in disgust. ‘You’re like a pig in shit.’
I didn’t care. After all I had been through, the waiting was over. I had Timothy Thornchurch at last. Or, at least, I had part of him once a week. The only problem looming on the horizon was that, sooner or later, I would want the rest to go with it.
‘Hola?’
‘Sorry?’ I didn’t recognize the voice — the line was crackly and distorted.
‘Johnny? Ees Juan!’
‘Oh. Oh. Juan. Hello. How are you?’ My heart sank. I had hoped never to hear from him again.
‘Johnny, I meess you. I love you.’
My heart plummeted into my boots. ‘I love you too, Juan, but we are forced to be apart for ever, sadly. My life is here, your life is there …’
‘No, no. Johnny — I no can live wizout you.’
‘Is it money, Juan? Is that what you need? How much?’
‘No, I no need money. I rich now. I sell my car for two hundred dollars. Buy ticket. Johnny, I come live with you. I meess you, I love you.’
