by Julian Clary
I stared at her. Had I really agreed to this crazy idea?
She gave me her strictest, sternest kook, the one that sent icy chills all over me. ‘Don’t let me down,’ she said, with soft menace in her tone. ‘I mean it. Get this right and we can live happily ever after. Fuck it up, and everything is finished. Capito?’
‘Capito,’ I whispered.
That was how I found myself standing outside a mansion block in Cadogan Square wearing a pair of dark glasses and a long black overcoat, carrying a brick in a sock and intending to batter my one true love to death. Who’d have thought it? It just goes to show you never know what life’s about to throw at you.
A light was burning in Tim’s flat. So, he was at home. That was annoying. I had envisaged him arriving after me. Then I would creep up behind him and brace myself for one almighty and, hopefully, fatal blow to the back of his head. I wouldn’t have to see his face. But he was at home so, unfortunately, I would have to knock on his door. He would answer, no doubt, and I would be obliged to look into his eyes before I killed him. This wouldn’t have been easy at the best of times, but eye-contact with the man I loved made dispatching him even more of a challenge.
I knew enough about murdering people by now to understand that the best-laid plans must be flexible. Most importantly, emotion must be kept out of it. However it was done, I must take his wallet and pick up a couple of bits and pieces so that the crime scene looked as though a violent burglary of the kind there sometimes was in an affluent area had taken place. I blamed the crack addicts from south of the river.
I just hoped Sophie wasn’t there. After all, she was blameless. There was no need for her to be caught up in my drama.
The door to the block should have been locked but someone had left it propped open — perhaps so that a late visitor didn’t have to buzz a flat to be let in. It was sign, surely.
I avoided the lift and instead climbed the narrow flight of stairs up to the fourth floor where Tim’s front door was at the end of a spacious, carpeted hallway. There was a sweet, vanilla smell in the air, and the milky glass wall lights gave an expensive, filmic glow to the setting. No one had seen me. There was another front door but it was on the opposite side of the building, at the end of its own little hallway. Unless I was very unlucky, I wouldn’t be witnessed at my grisly task.
Now all I had to do was knock on the door and begin. I took the brick, contained in its sturdy, speckled-grey boot sock, out of my coat pocket and wound the leg of it round my left hand. I swung the deadly weight from side to side, like an altar-boy with a thurible. I took a deep breath to clear my head.
Beyond this door, Tim was unaware of what I had in store for him. If I went ahead and did this terrible deed, I would truly be a thing of darkness. But what was the alternative? If I sloped off home without having followed her instructions Catherine would have a fit, Tim would ruin my career and marry Sophie, leaving me scorned, disgraced and penniless. If I could bring myself to kill him, quickly, painlessly, I’d be saved and Catherine would bow to me as a hero.
A voice seemed to speak to me. An inner dialogue, if you please. Don’t worry about Catherine. Think of yourself Think of your soul. Think of your future. Could you really live with yourself if you did this? You mustn’t kill the man you love.
But he doesn’t love me! I retorted silently.
That doesn’t mean you should kill him.
He’s going to destroy my career.
Let him. Find something else to do if it all ends. But don’t destroy yourself with this terrible act. You’ve killed enough.
I was shaking with a strange energy. Catherine had given me some cheap Australian speed on top of the cocaine so that I would have the rush I needed to fulfil my task.
‘You’ll do anything on this stuff,’ she’d said. ‘I once let a dirty-minded East End gangster bring his highly excitable Doberman into the bedroom.’
‘You didn’t … do anything, did you?’ I’d asked, horrified.
‘No. Bloody dog couldn’t get a hard-on. What a waste of videotape that was.’
My teeth were grinding together, but I still didn’t think she’d given me enough. Or perhaps there wasn’t enough speed in the world to make this easy.
Each man kills the thing he loves, I told the voice of my conscience, or whatever it was.
No, he doesn’t. You’re not Macbeth —you’re not so steeped in blood that going on is easier than turning back. You’ve still got a chance to make things better. You love Tim. Let love win the day. Let him live.
I thought about indulging in a good, cleansing cry. What on earth was I doing here? How had I got into this situation? I seemed to hear Catherine hissing at me, ‘Do it! Kill him! Do it!’ and the voice of my conscience replying, ‘No. Don’t succumb to this madness . Save yourself while there’s still time.‘
I wavered between the two. Could I stand up to Catherine and disobey her for the first time in my life? I wasn’t sure I had the strength.
Then my hours with Tim fluttered before my eyes like falling leaves — I saw the two of us gasping with pleasure, crying out with ecstasy, kissing passionately in the grip of fierce delight and softly in the luxurious aftermath. I saw us talking, laughing, bathing together. I knew that I would never — could never — kill him, no matter what. I lifted up the sock with the brick inside. I would take it out and leave it here beside his door as a token of what might have happened. It would puzzle him but that didn’t matter. Maybe he’d use it as a novelty doorstop, never knowing its significance.
As I lowered my makeshift cosh, I heard a sound: heavy footsteps coming closer and closer. When I turned, a big, burly man in a black overcoat and leather gloves was charging towards me. In his right hand he carried either a sodden rag or a wad of cotton wool. I felt him grab me with incredible strength. Then he clapped something over my face. Darkness overcame me.
My head was throbbing and my mouth was dry, but the first pain I became aware of was in my wrists. I couldn’t move them or feel my hands, and when I managed to open my eyes it became apparent that I was bound, wrists and ankles, to a wooden dining-room chair. Although it was light outside, the curtains were drawn. Silhouetted against the window, facing me, I saw a vaguely familiar shape.
‘I’m sorry if Big Boy was a little heavy-handed. Bulgarian, you know. That’s half the attraction.’
‘Sammy?’ I croaked. My throat was dry and I was desperately thirsty.
‘Yes. You’re in my fiat in Hampstead. Welcome.’ He moved towards me and wiped my mouth with a tissue. ‘Drink of water? I hear chloroform can leave you with a raging thirst. And Big Boy tells me you were sick in the boot of the car.’ He leant forward and sniffed. ‘Your breath isn’t as sweet as it once was.’
‘Sammy … what’s going on?’
‘Well. What was I supposed to do? Everything seemed to be coming full circle. I felt it my duty to intervene.’
‘Intervene? I don’t understand.’
‘Come on, JD. I’m not stupid. Let’s treat each other with a little respect, shall we? I’ll give you that glass of water — though you’ll have to let me hold this straw to your mouth as I’m not going to untie you quite yet — and you’re to stop pretending. You were intending to kill Timothy Thornchurch, weren’t you? And I saw it as my duty to stop you. Or, at least, to send Big Boy to restrain you.’
He held the glass to my mouth and I sipped gratefully through the straw. When my thirst was somewhat slaked, I said, ‘You can untie me now. There’s really no need for these ropes. I feel as if I’m in some cheap, made-for-TV thriller.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ said Sammy, dabbing my forehead with the tissue. ‘It’s just a precaution on my part. I wouldn’t want you to lash out.’
‘I wasn’t going to kill Tim,’ I said, desperate for him to understand the situation. ‘I know it looked as if I was, but—’
‘Please, JD,’ interrupted Sammy. ‘This moment isn’t about you for a change. Allow me to speak.’ And ther
e, in the semi-darkness, Sammy began to talk.
‘I require you to listen to what I have to say now. Much like yourself, JD, I fell in love as a teenager, also with a Thornchurch. David Thornchurch, Timothy’s father. Isn’t that a strange coincidence? We’re more alike than we ever realized, you and I. We’ve both been enthralled by the gentlemen of Thornchurch House. We were at boarding-school together, David and I. Westminster. You can imagine. We used to meet in the gymnasium after lights-out. Terribly daring. Then we went to Cambridge, to the same college. I read English and he read Greats. There was no secrecy about it —we were a couple. David and Sammy. Everyone knew. We held hands in the refectory, we shared rooms. No one batted an eyelid.
‘When we graduated, that changed. University life had been a strange yet beautiful hiatus in both of our lives, it seemed. Reality intervened. We had to part. I pursued my academic career while David became a farmer, businessman and politician. But our love didn’t die. Being products of our time, we understood that we couldn’t have it all — couldn’t have each other. We made do. We made a pledge to each other that we would always be there. And we were, in our hearts at least.
‘Soon David found the woman he would marry. Hilary was a beautiful débutante, a well-connected virgin who would blossom, in the fullness of time, into a Bible-bashing over-possessive partner. David went through the motions of pretending to love her, but we both knew our lives wouldn’t be complete without each other. Nevertheless we made a decision. We would not see each other again. We had our final night together a week before his wedding, and that was the last time I was truly happy. I crystallized that moment and kept it locked in my mind for ever, like a price-less gem. We both suffered, I dare say, but I felt I suffered most. ‘He looked at me bitterly and said, ‘After that, ours was a chaste love. Hard for you to imagine, no doubt.’ He stopped to give me some more water.
Shocked as I was by his story, I hadn’t yet decided how to react, and kept my face inscrutable, even in the shadows. After a brief stroll round the room, Sammy settled himself in the chair opposite me, by the curtains. I could hear traffic and rain outside.
He continued softly, ‘I have seen David only twice in forty years. That’s all. Once, seven years after he got married, I came face to face with him as I turned into Victoria Station. It was one morning, rush hour. We literally crashed into each other, briefcases and brollies flying.’ He chuckled. ‘We apologized profusely, in that very English way, before we realized quite who we were looking at. Then we just stood and stared, too aghast to speak. Eventually he raised his hat to me and walked on. I turned for another glimpse of him but he’d disappeared into the crowd. Just from looking into his eyes for those few seconds I knew he still loved me and I him.
‘That was it for six years. Never a day went by when I didn’t think of or long for him. Then, in the summer of 1979, Georgie and I went on holiday to Barcelona. At that time — what were we? Late forties — we livened ourselves up with dirty weekends away in Amsterdam, Madrid or wherever — the sex capitals of Europe, I guess. We felt so liberated, away from home, out of sight of prying eyes. We could have some naughty fun without causing a scandal.
‘We went one afternoon to a gay sauna called Romeo’s. Georgie and I took a shower and proceeded to wander around the labyrinth of corridors in our towels, through the crowded steam rooms and cabins, waiting for some man or other to catch our eye. These matters were never very prolonged for Georgie, bless her. She soon disappeared into a cabin with a dusky gentleman — carrying a manbag, doubtless, full of poppers and lubricants and who knows what else?
‘I was always a lot more choosy. Classier, some might say. I stayed at the bar for a few gins. Eventually I got bored and went walkabout. I found myself on the top floor of the premises where a cinema was showing lurid gay porn. At the back, through a greasy beaded curtain, there was a dark room. I watched the film for a while then wandered casually into the pitch darkness. Just drifting, you understand, like the Mary Celeste. I could hear low moans and agitated breathing. Soon a hand reached out and lightly brushed my arm. Another stroked my buttock. A couple of mouths, a few more hands and — well, I was away with the fairies. Someone kissed me for the first time in years. Since David, in fact. I gave myself up to the moment in all its sordid, hedonistic glory. I felt alive again. Reborn. Once things had reached their inevitable conclusion I tidied myself up and rearranged my towel. As I slid towards the grey light of the beaded curtain I thought I heard his voice. I heard … David … quietly calling my name. Twice. “Sammy … Sammy!” he said. Then there was nothing. I called his name but he didn’t reply. I shouted, “David!”
‘“Callate, puto histerico!” hissed an angry Spanish voice.
‘I left the dark room and stood outside for a while, waiting to see him emerge. But he didn’t. I cannot explain it. Maybe it was David, maybe it wasn’t.’
There was another long pause. Sammy was staring into the middle distance, lost in thought. He gave a sigh.
‘Time passed, everyone lived their lives. My dear friend Georgie and I became very important to each other. Sisters, as we always said. We understood each other. We shared our lives. As we grew older we enjoyed our sedate existence together in Barnes. We got to that age when you discover what an appalling hoax life has been. Just a bad joke, we both agreed. End-of-the-pier stuff. You’re born, you fall in love, you suffer and then you die. We muddied on, a tad bitter but squeezing some enjoyment out of our lives. In the last few years we were almost approaching something called contentment.
Time mellowed us, as it does everyone. We had each other, gin and whisky. Bowls. Bridge.
‘Then you came along. Our indulgence, our folly. You were rather special. We both noticed it. There was your charisma, your charm, your sexual capabilities: all assets in a young man. But I knew you were hurt. Hardened, you liked to think. I analysed and understood you more than you could have known. You were our boy, after all. I was quite infatuated.
‘Then one Monday evening a few years ago, I was leaving a posh gentlemen’s grooming salon in Mayfair — I don’t know if you ever studied my feet, but I have a pedicure every month. Immaculate, they are, especially the left one. I was attempting to cross the road when I saw a taxi pull up and a smart, silver-haired gentleman emerged. David Thornchurch — still breathtakingly handsome, I thought, in a foxy sort of way. I stood rooted to the spot and watched him, the man I hadn’t clapped eyes on in twenty-odd years, walk down Curzon Street. I didn’t think about it, I just followed him, diving into doorways if ever he glanced over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what I intended to do. It was unlikely that I’d summon the courage to speak to him. I wasn’t thinking straight, just caught up in the thrill of the chase, studying his determined walk, inhaling the air he had exhaled.
‘His brisk walk led him to Claridges. He’d always had expensive tastes. I stood outside, but the agony of losing sight of him was too much to bear. I covered my face with a handkerchief and crept into the hotel foyer just in time to hear the receptionist say, “Room 510, sir, enjoy your stay.” Then he was gone, up in the lift. I went to the bar and ordered a large whisky. Part of me was hoping he would reappear and whisk me up to his room, but that didn’t happen. I was on my third whisky, trying to pluck up the courage to send a note to him, when I spotted you arriving. You headed straight for the lifts, looking business-like and gorgeous as always. The two of you in the hotel at the same time … It was too much. I had to know what was going on. I waited another ten minutes or so and caught the lift to the fifth floor. I stood outside the room and listened. Such an angry flogging he was giving you! He was much gentler in my day. Knowing your working routine, I waited downstairs and watched you leave exactly an hour after you’d arrived. I was filled with wonder at my discovery.
‘I took to following you after that, sure you would lead me back to David. You were the key. Stalking you slowly became a sort of secret vice, a hobby. It gave me an interest in life, I suppose. I enjoyed the cloak-and-da
gger aspect of the game: waving goodbye to you in my dressing-gown, then throwing my clothes on in twenty seconds flat to follow you home on the bus. I loitered outside your flat in Camden, waiting for you to go about your business. Quite in demand, weren’t you?’
Sammy’s voice took on an almost cheerful tone. ‘The funny thing was that I really didn’t mind about you and my David. Actually, I thought you might do each other good. I got a weird thrill out of the idea that I had you on Fridays and David had you on Mondays. Maybe, just maybe, some trace of my sexual fluid might mingle still with his. Pathetic, really.
‘Then everything changed. Georgie died. It may surprise you to learn that I knew the truth about who killed him all along, and why. You did. For the cash. Georgie and I had shared our hopes, dreams and disappointments for decades. Did you suppose I didn’t know everything there was to know? Georgie’s death was so tailor-made to his very personal requirements that I knew at once someone was following his instructions. But, then, I hardly needed to be Sherlock Holmes. The morning before his death Georgie gave me a letter. “Darling, open this after I’ve passed over to the great behind. And please do as I ask for once.” I didn’t realize the ink would hardly have time to dry.’
I managed to speak at last. My tone was reasoning, not callous. ‘He had cancer. He knew he was going to die. He wanted to leave instructions …’ My voice trailed away.
Sammy clucked impatiently. ‘Oh, there was no cancer, I’m afraid. He was lying about that. No cancer at all. That particular death was simply his ultimate fantasy, and a silly one at that. Thought you might have seen through his little ploy. Georgina was as fit as a fiddle. I’m surprised you were so taken in. You knew how dramatic the old girl was.’
