Good Thing Bad Thing

by Nick Alexander

“Tom is so weird at the moment,” I tell her. “That’s hardly likely. Plus it rained every day. You forget just how bad the British weather can be.”

  Jenny nods and sips her tea. “So how is darling Tom?” she asks.

  I sigh and wonder how much to tell her.

  “You say he’s weird?” Jenny asks.

  I shake my head as I search for words. “It’s really strange,” I say. “It’s kind of like he’s someone completely different at the moment. I think I’m waiting to see if he stays this way or if the old Tom is coming back,” I tell her.

  Jenny frowns and plumps a pillow as she settles in. “Tell me all about it,” she says.

  I lean over to check Sarah’s face – she’s being remarkably quiet. It turns out she has closed her eyes. She’s working her tiny mouth as if she’s chewing gum.

  “His new job seems to take like 110% of him,” I tell her. “I suppose that’s the first difference. He’s working twelve or fourteen hours a day.”

  Jenny nods. “I never really understood what he does,” she comments.

  I shake my head. “Well, that’s one of Tom’s weirdeties too. Does that exist, weirdeties?”

  Jenny shrugs in a way that means, whatever, continue.

  “Well, he won’t talk about it.”

  “It’s foreign exchange right?”

  I nod. “Yeah. That’s about all we know. He wears sharp suits, works long days, it’s something to do with foreign exchange.”

  “And he works for his uncle.”

  I nod in agreement. “He works for his uncle and earns loads-a-dosh. But other than that… I mean, if you ask him, he just says, “Oh perlease..” As if he just can’t bear to talk about it.”

  Jenny nods. “I can understand that,” she says. “It’s not so strange. I was like that when I was in advertising.”

  I nod. “Sure,” I say. “But he’s just not himself somehow. He’s spending loads… He has a new car, a new TV, new clothes. But on the other hand his place looks like a bloody squat. Well, it did until I got there and cleaned it all up. The fridge is empty and the washing machine, kettle and Hoover are all broken.”

  “So why doesn’t he just replace them?” Jenny asks. “I mean, if he’s loaded.”

  I shrug. “That’s what I mean. He’s just… well, strange really. He was managing without a washing machine by just wearing new clothes all the time.”

  Jenny frowns. “That is a bit peculiar I suppose.” She shrugs. “But…”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “He’s forty soon isn’t he?”

  I nod. “Yeah, in June.”

  Jenny shrugs. “Maybe that’s something to do with it.”

  I laugh. “What, you mean he’s having some kind of midlife crisis?”

  Jenny frowns thoughtfully. “Who knows,” she says. “But was Christmas fun despite it all?” she asks. “I mean; you two are okay, right?”

  I laugh. “It was just bizarre,” I tell her. “It was like staying with a stranger. A suit-wearing, big-spending, restaurant-going, slovenly… fairly sexy stranger.”

  Jenny grins. “Sounds quite fun really,” she says.

  “He’s putting on loads of weight,” I say. “So far it suits him, but you know what he used to be like about going to the gym.”

  Jenny shakes her head vaguely. “He doesn’t go at all anymore?”

  I shake my head. “Nope,” I say. “He just buys new clothes when they don’t fit. Or when they get dirty. Still, I got the washing machine replaced. He bought this amazing Daewoo thing that washes and dries so nothing needs ironing. It cost a fortune, though I’m not convinced he’ll use it.”

  Jenny leans across to take Sarah from me and I realise that she is asleep. I lean forward and hand over the warm package.

  “You’re not jealous of him are you?” Jenny asks.

  I frown. “I don’t think so,” I say. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “It just sounds like you might be feeling worried he’s leaving you behind.”

  I cock my head to one side to show that I’m fully considering this theory. But then I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “That’s not it. Really. I’m more concerned about him really. He doesn’t seem to be looking after himself.”

  Jenny frowns. “I thought he was spending…”

  “Yeah, but not on his basic needs, you know?” I sigh. “It’s hard to explain. But he just doesn’t seem to be himself.”

  “I think you’re making a fuss about nothing,” Jenny tells me. “It sounds like he’s just enjoying his new found wealth.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “There’s something else … something wrong.”

  Jenny frowns at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re not thinking of leaving him are you?” she says. “Not after all that…”

  I shake my head and interrupt her. “Nah,” I say. “Not for now anyway. It’s funny really. But I kind of want to see what happens. If that makes any sense.”

  “See what happens?” Jenny repeats.

  I nod. “Yeah… I’m waiting to find out if this is the real Tom or some sort of blip. I’m waiting to see if he’ll get dirtier, or sloppier or whatever – if he can get any sloppier, or if he’ll pull himself together. I’m still trying to understand who he is I suppose.”

  Jenny nods thoughtfully. “Well, you want to,” she says. “You want to make the effort to do that. I supposed that’s what counts… more than anything.”

  I nod. “Maybe.” I say. “Maybe I’m just at a point in my life where… I feel like I’ve always run away, sort of, closed the book before the end. Walked out of the film, you know, when it got to the gory bit, or the boring bit… or the sad bit… But I think I’m bored with that… Bored with prologues. I feel like I want to read the whole story this time. I want to know how it ends.”

  Jenny grins broadly. “Sounds like love to me,” she says.

  I snort. “Maybe… though…” I shake my head.

  “Though what?” Jenny asks.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say. “We’ll see.”

  *

  Tom sits on the sofa opposite and yawns and scratches his balls. He’s wearing boxer shorts – only boxer shorts – and his hair is flattened on one side and jutting out madly on the other. I drape my suit bag over the back of a chair and pull up a pouf.

  “I’m sorry it’s a mess again,” Tom says unconvincingly.

  A mess doesn’t really describe it. The room looks as if some giant has picked it up and shaken it around like a snow-globe. Nothing, and I mean nothing is in the right place. Just on the sofa, where Tom is sitting, I catalogue: a pile of washing, a Marks & Spencer bag, a shoe, a toilet roll, and, perhaps most bizarrely as Tom has no garden, a pair of shears.

  “I just haven’t had time,” Tom continues. “What with the arrangements and everything.”

  I shrug. I’m getting used to Tom’s new, messy persona. I’m more concerned about Tom himself. “I thought your uncle was dealing with all that,” I say.

  Tom shrugs. “There’s still a million phone calls to make,” Tom says. “Anyway, Claude and dad never got on. I’m the only one who knows who to call and stuff.”

  I nod thoughtfully, and move my head from side to side trying to look Tom in the eye, trying to detect some sign of sadness, some sign of suffering. It’s not that I want him to be sad particularly. It’s just that I can’t believe he isn’t. “What about you?” I say. “Were you two… close? I mean, you never talked about him much.”

  Tom yawns again and pushes out a lip. “Yeah,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Not as close as to mum maybe, but, well, quite close I suppose.”

  He rubs a hand across his belly. He’s put on enough weight that it’s starting to bulge over the waistband.

  “Are you okay Tom?” I ask. “I mean… You seem okay.”

  Tom shrugs and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I seem to be fine.”

  I nod. “You seem almost a little bit too fine,” I say.

  Tom shr
ugs. “I guess I was shocked on Wednesday. I mean no one expects… no one expects that to happen. But I think I’m sort of over it now.”

  I frown and bite my bottom lip. “I doubt that really,” I say quietly. “But, well, if you’re okay for now… Well, you’re okay for now, aren’t you.”

  Tom stands and smiles tightly. “Yeah, whatever,” he says dismissively. “You want some tea? Or coffee?”

  I swivel as I watch him cross the room. “What time do we have to leave?” I ask.

  Tom pauses at the doorway to the kitchen and checks his watch. “Oh, about eleven will do,” he says. “It takes about three hours to get there, so… Yeah – eleven… ish.”

  I ask Tom for an iron but he just throws one of his stock of new shirts at me. I rip open the packaging and, side-by-side we slip on our identical, brand-new shirts. They are crisp and white, rigid with newness.

  We help with each other’s cufflinks and pull on our black suit trousers, and then we stand side by side and knot our black ties. Our uniform of sorrow. We look like something from Men in Black. Actually I think we look hot.

  I straighten my knot and turn to face Tom. “So?” I say.

  He nods noncommittally. “You’ll do,” he says. “Though this…” And here he grabs at my dick through the fabric of my trousers. “Is entirely inappropriate.”

  I pull a face. “I know,” I say. “It’s just seeing you… In your posh gear and everything. It’ll go away.”

  Tom caresses my dick slightly with his thumb and then steps forward and pecks me on the lips. “It’ll have to, I’m afraid,” he says, turning and pulling his jacket from a hanger. “Cos we need to get moving I think.”

  I slide back a cuff and check my watch. “Eleven,” I say. “Just gone.”

  Tom nods. “Yep, let’s hit the road.”

  The drive to Wolverhampton takes exactly three hours. Tom remains glassy and hermetic. He is driving more slowly than usual and the green countryside glides past the tinted windows of his new Mercedes silently, effortlessly.

  It’s a strange space here inside this luxury car; the unexpected silence, the smell not of the countryside but of leather, of polish… The suspension is making a near perfect job of ironing out the bumps, the air conditioning maintains a perfectly controlled 21.5 degrees. I can’t help but think back to what Dante said about quality and luxury – for clearly, there is plenty of luxury here. And yet he’s right… There is no life here, none at all. It’s all numb and smooth; all dead and senseless. I would rather be on a motorbike being hot and cold and rattled to bits.

  I glance at Tom from time to time and decide that he looks like a robot – a sort of Max Headroom virtual-reality executive. He certainly doesn’t look like a man – my man – going to his father’s funeral. I guess he’s bottling up, and I decide that that’s probably normal. I wonder when the cork will blow.

  But it doesn’t happen. Not during the tiny service in the disinfectant-scented crematorium, not during the moribund gathering at the next-door neighbour’s house, and not during the drive home.

  Tom is quieter than usual, but that is the only sign that this is anything other than a normal day.

  “Your uncle seems nice,” I say.

  Tom snorts and checks his wing mirror before replying, “He isn’t.”

  I didn’t really think he was. It was merely a dishonest attempt at communication. “Who were the guys with him?” I ask. “The stocky ones.”

  “Work colleagues,” Tom says.

  I nod to myself and sigh silently. “They look like gangsters,” I say. “Or bodyguards.”

  Tom snorts lightly again. “They are,” he says.

  I wonder if he means gangsters or bodyguards. “I tried to talk to one of them. I asked him who he was… he just walked away,” I say. I look at Tom and wait for him to reply, but after a moment realise that he isn’t going to, so I turn and look out the window. “Just making conversation,” I mutter neutrally.

  Tom coughs. “Yeah,” he says kindly. “I know.”

  “I guess you just want to be quiet with your thoughts,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Tom says. “That’s best.”

  I watch as some new-build town spins past behind the window, the sun setting behind the rows of identical redbrick houses.

  “Actually there is something you could do,” Tom says.

  “Yeah?” I say turning to look back at him.

  He fidgets in his seat awkwardly. “Yeah, if you really want to ease my pain, well…”

  I frown at him. “Yeah?” I say.

  Tom wrinkles his brow. “Nah,” he says. “Doesn’t matter.”

  He runs a hand down his front, across his tie and rests it on his lap.

  “What Tom?” I say. “Tell me.”

  He coughs again and grins. “I was just thinking… well. I thought maybe…”

  I shift in my seat to face him fully. He has my attention now. “What?” I say with a little laugh.

  “Well,” Tom says. “A blow-job wouldn’t go amiss.”

  I blink at him slowly and smile lopsidedly. “A blow job?” I repeat.

  Tom flicks his eyes at me, and lifts his tie and flaps it a little to the right. A rounded hillock pokes from his lap. “It would really help,” he says.

  “You want a blow-job!” I say, bemused. “Here… Now?”

  Tom shrugs.

  “And is that… What was the word you used?”

  Tom grins. “Appropriate?” he says.

  I nod and slide a hand to his lap. “Yeah, that’s it. Would that be appropriate?”

  Tom coughs again and fidgets, settling further into his seat. “Oh,” he says. “A blow-job would be entirely appropriate.”

  I laugh and peck him on the cheek and unzip his fly, revealing the white of his shirttails.

  “Would it?” I say, laughing dryly. I glance nervously up at the window and say, “Okay, just don’t overtake any lorries.” And then, as I lean towards his lap, as he places a hand behind my head and pushes it down, his dick pokes through the opening, sprouting out like a seedling, pushing out and up until it reaches the tip of his tie.

  “Ummm,” Tom says, resting a hand on the back of my head. “Like that.”

  *

  It’s hot tonight – stuffy. As I fidget my foot discovers a cool corner of the bedclothes. I move instinctively towards it, gradually working my way over until I am entirely on the other side of the bed. I’m on the point of drifting back to sleep when I realise that this is Tom’s side of the bed.

  I groan and roll onto my back, then lean over and fumblingly reach for the alarm clock. It takes a while before my eyes will focus enough to read the figures – 4:32 AM.

  I cough to clear my throat, and then drag my body – still heavy with sleep – into sitting position. I groan tiredly and stand.

  In the lounge, Tom – who remains unaware of my presence – has his back turned to me; he’s occupied wiping the sideboard. Between us, a four-foot-high pile of random objects blocks the middle of the room.

  So as not to scare him, I clear my throat but Tom jumps anyway.

  “Oh, hello,” he says in a bubbly voice. “What are you doing up?”

  I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and mutter, “Thirsty… What are you doing up?” I approach the junk pile and pick up a videocassette – Ariston Video Presents – Leathermen II.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Tom says with a shrug. “And I was bored… And the place needs cleaning…”

  I put Leathermen II back on the pile, balancing it on top of a wobbly inkjet printer. “And what’s all this?” I ask. “It looks like you’re building a bonfire.”

  Tom smiles. “Nah…” he says. “It would be good though… to just burn it all. But no, I’m just putting everything that’s in the wrong place, kind of, well… in one place. Stage two is I put everything back where it should be.”

  I nod. “Very organised,” I say, walking around the pile and touching his arm. “But it’s 4 AM; why don’t yo
u come back to bed?”

  Tom shrugs and my hand falls away. “I can’t sleep,” he says. “There’s no point just lying there. It just winds me up.”

  “Come back to bed and we can not-sleep together,” I say, touching Tom’s arm again.

  This time he jerks his arm away from me. “I’m fine,” he says, tetchily. “Just…” He swallows, and when he continues his voice is forcibly calmer. “Go back to bed,” he says.

  I shrug. “Okay,” I say. “You know where I am.”

  I sit bolt upright; I am not sure why I am awake – a noise, a crash, a bad dream? The cold light of dawn is filtering into the room.

  “Tom?” I call. I yawn and slide my legs to the edge of the bed. “Tom?” I repeat.

  I hear a noise from the lounge – a voice, a groan maybe. As I scratch my head and stand, I hear it again. “Tom?” I repeat, stumblingly heading for the lounge.

  The flat is quiet and empty; well, empty that is, except for the pile of stuff, which has grown a little since I went back to bed.

  Beyond the mound lies a stepladder. I frown and step forward. It is only then that I see Tom, lying in the strangest of positions.

  He’s cradled, as it were, by the oval, steel frame of the coffee table. His arms and shoulders hang outside the loop, as do his legs.

  As I frown and mumble, “Tom?” his head lolls towards me, and only then do I grasp what has happened; only then do I see the shards of glass lying beneath him.

  “Shit Tom,” I say, instantly awake. “Are you okay?”

  Tom looks at me woozily. “I think I hit my head,” he says.

  He tries to lift himself from the table but as he straightens, he winces and gasps. “And, I’ve cut my…” he says, stretching and twisting in an attempt at looking beneath him. “Shit!”

  I carefully step over him, straddling his legs and grasp his hands. “Careful where you put your feet,” I say. “There’s glass everywhere.”

  Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I can feel it.”

  “Okay, and… Up!” I grunt as I pull him forwards.

  Tom blinks and sways a little on his feet, and then frowns and peers down at his side. “Shit,” he says. “Look at that.”

  A three-inch shard of glass is jutting from the flesh just above his hip. It’s shaped like a curved dagger. I lift another chunk of glass carefully out of the way and reposition my feet so that I can inspect the wound.