Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘You happy, Johnny, huh?’

  ‘An — yes, yes, very happy …‘

  ‘Me too. I see you next week. Come to airport, meet me. Next Tuesday, nine o’clock. Heathrow. Bye, Johnny!’

  I reported this matter rather sheepishly to Catherine, who wasn’t best pleased. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘That’s all we need. Well, he can come for a week, then salsa back to the coffee plantation he came from. I’ve heard of “Fair Trade” but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘He says he wants to live here.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does. But it’s a quick trip round London — Leicester Square, Nelson’s Column, Buckingham Palace — then home, with a bit of extra dosh as a sweetener.’

  I felt relieved. If Catherine thought it would work out, I was sure it would. She always had my best interests at heart. And, in the interests of keeping Juan on side, I might have to force myself into hours of sweaty, pleasure-making sex. Perhaps this would have the added bonus of making Tim jealous. After all, he presumably slept with the laminate-flooring heiress, Sophie, although he was careful never to mention her and I didn’t ask questions. It would all be fine.

  The following Tuesday I stood, disguised in a baseball cap and dark glasses, in the arrivals hall at Heathrow airport. I was aware of a flutter of excitement and was cross with myself. The plan, as laid out by Catherine, was for me to be chilly and cold to Juan, not so much that he turned against me and decided to tell the truth about Bernard, but enough for him to want to return to Nicaragua on the return ticket she had so generously bought him.

  But it wasn’t that easy. When Juan emerged, gorgeous but bewildered, my heart melted. He seemed so innocent and lost. The frosty greeting she had instructed me to give didn’t materialize. Instead we threw our arms round each other like Romeo and Juliet, kissed passionately in the taxi on the way home and made our way straight to the bedroom when we got there.

  When I came out several hours later, hair tousled, lips burning, Catherine was sitting silently in the lounge with her arms crossed.

  ‘So,’ she said crisply, ‘I take it your special delivery has arrived?’

  ‘Er, yes, he has.’

  ‘And what happened to my instruction to drop him at the YMCA? I take it that went out of the window. From the grunts and groans coming from your room, you’ve either got Juan or a pot-bellied pig in there. And I know which I’d rather it was.’

  ‘I didn’t have the heart to be horrible to him. He seemed so vulnerable,’ I said apologetically.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s you who’s vulnerable, Cowboy. Anyway, he’s here now. I’ll have to skip to plan B. Get him out.’

  ‘Plan B?’ I asked.

  ‘I shall keep it to myself. You’d only fuck it up. Chop-chop. Show Mummy what you’ve dragged home.’

  ‘He’s sleeping off his jet-lag. Let the poor boy rest.’

  ‘I’ll give him rest,’ she muttered. ‘You’ll not be the first person to discover the short lifespan of a holiday romance . Pick Me Up! magazine is full of sad twats like you, although their fancy-men are mostly Turkish. I bet Juan thinks he’s won the fucking lottery. Never mind love — these Latin Americans will do the business for a Diet Coke! He gives us former working girls a bad name.’ She got up and hammered on my bedroom door. ‘Come on out, gracias. Let’s have a vada at you.’

  A few seconds later, Juan emerged, sleepy-eyed and terribly sexy.

  To my surprise, Catherine was very welcoming and outwardly pleasant. Of course, there was a barbed subtext to her words but mercifully it was lost on him. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you!’ she said. ‘Johnny has told me so much about you. I’ve boiled some rice to help you feel at home. Would you like some?’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ said Juan, confused.

  ‘Don’t mention it, sweetie. And I’m going to teach you some proper English. I don’t know what the Spanish is for “Fuck-face”, but I shall make it my duty to find out. You’ll find it an invaluable phrase, staying in London. Are you staying long, or is it just a flying visit? You’ll be very cold here, I expect …

  Juan turned to me. Sweat was glistening on his brow. ‘I no understand,’ he said helplessly, his golden skin glowing in the lamplight.

  ‘Your poor mother will be missing you already, I should think, ‘Catherine went on, enjoying Juan’s discomfort.

  ‘My mother dead. I want be with Johnny,’ said Juan.

  God bless him for fighting back, I thought, touched. It occurred to me that Catherine was being a lot nastier than she needed to be, even if she was disguising it as niceness. Why did Juan rile her so badly? He was just a simple lad from Central America, and while he might hold the information that could destroy us, he had no intention of using it, as far as we knew. He liked me. Why would he want to turn me in?

  Catherine lowered her voice so Juan couldn’t hear her. ‘Fuckofacio is here to stay, he thinks. It seems we have a difference of opinion. Shame.’ She was leaning against the fridge, and stroked it affectionately. ‘I’ll give it a week,’ she said to both of us.

  Clearly Juan had other ideas. He believed we were at the start of a new life together. ‘I love you for ever!’ he said, about five times a day.

  He was my constant companion and followed me around like a puppy. On the days when I was meeting Tim at the Savoy I told him I had to work and sent him to the cinema down the road: I tied the front-door key round his wrist on a piece of elastic so he didn’t lose it. He was overwhelmed by the big city. Coming as he did from peaceful countryside, he was wide-eyed with wonder at the hustle and bustle of London life. ‘Everything so fast!’ he said.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Catherine. ‘Apart from Johnny’s arse, which is sooo loose!‘ She took delight in making jokes that he wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Que?’ he said.

  Catherine rolled her eyes.

  When people stopped me in the street and asked for my autograph, he was amazed. ‘You famous!’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well, yes. A little!’ I said modestly.

  ‘Aah,’ said Juan, his big brown eyes wide with wonder. And adored me even more.

  At first, it was lovely in a way. I revelled in his beautiful body, which was mine to enjoy at any time of day or night. He was sex on tap, always ready to please me, the other extreme to my secretive hotel love-ins with Tim.

  But after a while, it began to pall. Sexual pleasure is all very well, but if you’re going to carry on doing it with the same person time after time, you have to feel something for them, and as time went on, I felt less and less for Juan. The language barrier was more of a problem than I’d thought it would be. I was used to people laughing at my witty observations, but Juan just looked at me quizzically. I tried explaining and translating, with the help of a Spanish dictionary, but by then the moment had passed.

  It might not have been so bad if he hadn’t been around so much, but the only respite I had from him was when he took himself off to the English classes I’d arranged for him to have twice a week; otherwise he made it his duty to be at my side night and day, at the TV studio or a nightclub. At a time in my life when my every professional utterance was greeted more or less with unprecedented rapture, I found myself at home of an evening with a semi-literate foreigner who smelt of clay and didn’t know what a TV remote control was, let alone a TV star of my calibre. A divine irony, you might think, but it was cruel and unendurable .

  My desire for Juan curdled, in the familiar way. The cute face and open arms became irritating and I developed a permanent headache. I thought if we had a big row he might pack his bags and go, but that was wishful thinking. Juan refused to take the bait. If I snapped at him, he reached for my flies. If I shouted at him, he kissed me. Once, driven beyond endurance, I screamed, ‘I hate you and want you to leave me alone! Fuck off back to Nicaragua, why don’t you?’

  He looked at me with sad, spaniel eyes and said, ‘You no mean that. We live only for each other!’ then
took off his clothes and beckoned me to the bedroom.

  I’m only human. What could I do? Sex and love, love and sex — it was all so confusing.

  ‘Not for me, it ain’t,’ said Catherine, when I told her how I felt. ‘I knew this would happen. I said from the start this was a mistake, but you wouldn’t listen. He’s like clingfilm. Doesn’t his visa run out soon or something?’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s applied for a student visa, now that he’s at English classes. He’ll be here for three years or more.’

  ‘Holy Christ! No, he won’t. Right. It’s time for plan B.’

  ‘What is this plan B you keep talking about?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Me learning Spanish,’ answered Catherine.

  ‘I’m not with you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t trouble your pretty head, Cowboy. Leave everything to me. It’s a dirty business, but someone has to do it. However, I feel my commission may be going up to thirty per cent.’

  With that, she picked up her handbag and made for the door.

  ‘I’m off to the shops to buy some Teach Yourself Spanish CDs and a luxury sherry trifle. Do bear with me. I shall keep you informed. Dreary Juan should be out of your hair in a couple of days, tops. Don’t you worry about a thing.’

  ‘You’re a saint,’ I called after her, as I heard the front door slam.

  I’d hoped that having Juan might fill the gap Tim’s part-time love left. We were in love with each other and that love would endure for ever, but Sophie and Juan were facts of our lives, too. How grown-up we were being, how very modern.

  It didn’t work out that way. Now, ironically, I found I needed Tim more than ever. Juan had made me even more aware of how much I loved him.

  One night I returned home after a much-needed evening with him to find Juan almost hysterical. ‘Where you been, Johnny, huh? Where? I wait long time.’

  ‘Out,’ I snapped.

  ‘You love someone else?’

  ‘No,‘ I said, bored. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Someone else, Johnny? Huh? Tell me!’

  At that moment, I hated him with all my heart. All the frustration and sadness I felt about Tim, and the way Fate had separated us so cruelly, built up inside me. Tim had Sophie who loved him, and I had Juan, but Tim and I weren’t allowed to love each other. It was monstrously unfair.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said menacingly. ‘Just shut up. I could kill you, I really could.’

  There was a sudden look of realization in Juan’s eyes. I could tell, clear as day, that he was remembering what happened to Bernard.

  ‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘You gonna kill me, huh?’

  ‘Only joking,’ I said lightly. ‘Don’t be silly. Come on, let’s go to bed. I’ll let you do all your favourite things to me and I won’t make you wear a condom.’ Desperate measures were called for.

  Juan relaxed slightly but I cursed myself. Stupidly, I’d made him think about the very thing I’d worked so hard to help him forget. I’d given him the very weapon he needed to stay with me for ever. I couldn’t bear it.

  I decided that, whatever Catherine’s plan was, I would go along with it.

  The next day Catherine told me to make myself scarce in the evening. ‘I shall tell Juan you’re at a camera rehearsal. Stay away till about nine.’

  When I got back, I heard voices from the kitchen. I listened outside the door for a while.

  ‘Write this down in English, Juan. Adios, carino,’ Catherine was saying, in rather bad Spanish. ‘Have you got that?’

  ‘Sí’ said Juan.

  ‘Lo siento que todo tiene que terminar asi,’ Catherine said next.

  ‘Er, sí, I understand,’ replied Juan.

  ‘And finally, Te amo,’ Catherine said conclusively. ‘Got it?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Juan, tentatively.

  ‘Read it back to me in English, then,’ Catherine said encouragingly.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Juan. ‘I’m sorry it has to end this ways, I love you.’

  ‘That’s very good!’ said Catherine. ‘We’re both doing very well, I think. Let me see what you’ve written.’

  I entered the kitchen and saw the pair of them huddled over the table, which was covered with sheets of paper. Juan leapt up to greet me, wrapping his arms round me and awarding me a prolonged kiss. Catherine grimaced.

  ‘I love you,’ he said quietly, for the ninth time that day.

  ‘You’re a bit whiffy, Juan. I’m sure that’s not very nice for your beloved. Why don’t you go for a shower?’ said Catherine.

  Juan dropped his head and inhaled in the general area of his armpits. ‘Bueno, Catherine. I go for shower. Momentito,’ he said, dragging himself away from me, blowing me a kiss just before he closed the door.

  I felt cold and afraid. I knew that Catherine’s plan was hatching before my very eyes.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ I whispered fiercely. The night before I’d wanted Juan out of my life. Now I was having second thoughts.

  ‘Taking care of business. Taking care of you.’

  ‘No, no, no, Catherine! Have some heart!’

  ‘Let me tell you something you already know, but may have forgotten. He might be a poorly educated peasant from Nicaragua, but he knows right from wrong. He saw you kill Bernard. He could have you arrested tomorrow if he wanted to.

  Why doesn’t he?’

  ‘He loves me. He believes it was an accident.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. You know he doesn’t. He’s come here to make his fortune and you, Cowboy, are the crock of gold. He’s going to stick to you like a limpet.’

  ‘He loves me, that’s why.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Catherine, angrily. ‘You’re not talking a language I understand. Love? Him? You? Fuck me pink. Let me spell it out for you. He’s after your money and he’ll not stop until he’s got his olive mitts on every last penny and then the rest. It’ll never end, will it? You’ll be buying bloody farms for his cousins till you’re blue in the face. Then they’ll want tractors and garages and combine-harvesters. He’ll bleed you dry for the rest of his life. But, with a little help from me, that will, mercifully, be just a few more hours. If I wasn’t the caring friend and dedicated manager I am, his dreary existence might linger on for another fifty years. I would urge you to think about that. I have. I have thought it through and come to the conclusion that there is no alternative. The moment he stepped off the plane, his fate was sealed. Even so, I’ve given him six weeks, hoping he’d go away of his own accord and forget about you and what he saw — go and become a fisherman or a coffee-bean grower or whatever they do for a living where he comes from. But he’s not going to, is he?’

  I shook my head. I knew she was right.

  ‘He’s here for ever. You are rich and famous and he’s holding a sword over your head. He’s got all the aces. Apart from this one. Surely you must see that?’

  ‘I wish he’d just go,’ I said weakly. I was in danger of crying.

  ‘So do I,’ said Catherine, sincerely — which was so unusual in her that I looked across the table in surprise. ‘I really do mean that,’ she said, and I saw that her eyes, too, were full of tears. ‘It’s such a fucking mess. But it can’t go on being a mess for ever. Can it?’

  ‘I guess not. I don’t want him hurt, though.’

  ‘No. Leave it to me. That’s what management is for.’ Catherine’s tone had turned business-like. She got up from the table and darted purposefully over to the fridge. She took out a large Marks & Spencer’s trifle and put it on the table. She then laid out three dessert bowls and got some spoons from the drawer. I watched, intrigued, as she served three generous helping. She licked the spoon and tossed it into the sink.

  ‘Delicious!’ was her verdict. ‘But I think something’s missing. We want to impress our guest with our British cuisine, after all.’ She reached into her black Prada handbag and took out a square box.

  ‘What are they?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘A means to an
end. A last resort. A ticket to ride. Call them what you will.’ She skipped out a blister pack and began to pop the green, diamond-shaped pills on to the tablecloth. Slowly, fearing I already knew the answer, I picked up the now-empty packet and read it. ‘Rohypnol?’ I said, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, dear. Rohypnol,’ said Catherine, still counting pills. Then she added, ‘The date-rape drug!’

  ‘Oh, my God, you can’t!’ I said.

  Catherine was now snapping the pills into tiny quarters and sprinkling them over one bowl of trifle. ‘I can and I have,’ she shot back. ‘They’re my favourite. Sleep on these is delicious. It’s like sliding into a hot bath. And, what’s more, I’m very kindly sacrificing my own personal stash. I’ve saved these from my days as the merry nurse of Greenwich Hospital. You never know when you might need them, I thought. Now needs must.’

  ‘You are wicked,’ I said, intending the traditional meaning of the word.

  ‘Thank you, darling. I’m also thorough.’ She waved the sheet of paper Juan had been writing on when I arrived, then read, in a mock Spanish accent, “‘Goodbye, darling. I’m sorry it has to end this ways, I love you.” I’m so fucking brilliant it hurts. You just make sure he eats it all.’

  A tear ran down my cheek and I wiped it away, staring sadly at the killer trifle. From the bathroom I could hear Juan clapping as he sang a Nicaraguan salsa.

  ‘Come on, you can do it. After all, what’s one more to add to your tally?’

  Juan bounded back into the kitchen like an excited puppy, with a white towel wrapped round his waist. His muscular torso was still speckled with water and his black curls were shining and tousled, framing his face so that he looked like a Pierre et Gilkes model. He kissed the top of my head and joined us at the table. He looked at the offering before him and said, ‘Mmm! What is called?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a trifle,’ said Catherine casually.

  ‘Is it nice?’ he asked innocently, picking up his spoon and taking a mouthful.

  ‘It’s delicious. So soft and sugary you don’t need to chew. It just slides down your throat.’