“I have a new favourite,” you said. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. “Are you talking about me?” I asked. It was a leading question, and one way or another, the answer would end years of torment. The pause was longer than necessary, and I took this as a good sign. Might this be the moment that we’d both been waiting for? But then you bottled it. “No, you’ve never been a favourite and won’t ever be.”
There was a big bottle of Malibu next to a picture of the Virgin Mary. I stared at them both. I wasn’t sure which was the most threatening. “What are you thinking?” I ignored him and looked at the mess of the room instead.
Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.
Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?
In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.
Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?
There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?
Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?
They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.
Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.
The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.
The lady from Wollongong, New South Wales, once said that she would never forget what I did for her son. I paid eight hundred pounds and flew her son back to Australia. She cried when he turned up on the doorstep because she thought she would never see him again. That was twenty years ago. I turned up on your doorstep when it was raining, and when you opened the door I knew that you didn’t recognise me so I reintroduced myself because I needed a place to stay. You told me that you hadn’t a clue who I was and said that you’d call the police if I didn’t go away. I walked into the stormy night and accepted that I could not sink no further. When the demonic koala dropped from a tree and strangled me, I lay in that muddy puddle and thought about that eight hundred pounds which was now worth a million.
“People will look and see nothing. I will be an insignificant black and white photograph. But there will be a day when somebody sees me and is wonderstruck. They will want to know who that smirking boy with sleek black hair and Jewish nose was. I care not who that person might be, or what their motivation is, but I will know, my spirit will burst forth, and I will offer a skeletal hand in gratitude. That person will know that I cared nothing about wealth and good fortune, and that I only ever wanted to follow my dreams. They will find out if I succeeded, and be able to differentiate between the truth and the lies that might have been written.”
Roger Wolfe Kahn (1907-1962), American jazz and popular musician, composer, bandleader and aviator. Sometimes I am captivated by a photograph and must find out more. I would like to think that the skeletal hand of gratitude was being offered… but, alas, this is a work of fiction.
Felix came into the room at the same time as the music switched from Jacques Brel to an obscure eighties disco beat. He turned his nose up and the eyes showed disapproval behind round spectacles. His father cut the music, passed me a generous glass of brandy, and slumped down on the sofa. Our conversation would have to wait for another time. Felix sat in the leather armchair by the fireplace and opened the book that he’d been carrying. It was Hilaire Belloc’s The Path to Rome, published in 1902, and further deepened the mystery of this young man. There was an uncomfortable silence, and the crackle of flames intensified the moment. Felix had purposely interrupted. I studied his face in the half light and watched this strangely handsome boy frowning and mouthing words of the sentence that he was making a pretence of reading. Aware that we were staring, he sighed and closed the book. “Did you know that I am being groomed by algorithms? Spotify has created a playlist for me called 30s Vintage Hollywood Wednesday Late Night.”
Charlie told me a story. He said that he woke up this morning and found that I was missing. When I didn’t reappear after a couple of hours, Charlie went to the neighbour and knocked on her door. “Have you seen Miles?” “No, I haven’t,” she replied. Charlie went to the other neighbour and knocked on the door. “Have you seen Miles?” “No, I’ve not seen him,” he answered. Charlie left the apartment and walked to the block on the other side of the road. He climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on Mrs Hayward’s door. “Have you seen Miles?” But she slammed the door in his face.
Charlie told the story with such conviction that you almost believed him. But it is a way of saying, “You went out and didn’t tell me where you were going.” At times, he tries to be funny and makes the point with dramatic effect. Other times he can be blunt, like French boys sometimes are.
“Your mobile rang, and the call was from someone called Ben. Who is Ben? How do you know him? Why is he ringing you? Have you slept with him?” I’ll point out that Ben is the landlord of the apartment. “I see,” he would say, “But do you like him?”
For these reasons, I don’t tell Charlie everything, and that can sometimes cause problems. Thomas, his brother, told me that Charlie was insecure, and is frightened that he might lose everything.
I don’t like people reading what I’ve written, which is why most of my work is published under a pen name. Charlie will look over my shoulder and try to read what is on the screen. I will immediately close the laptop, and this infuriates him. “Why will you not let me read it? Is it because you are writing about me?” “It’s not about you,” I’ll tell him, “It is a short story.”
I never show him because he’s right. I often write about him, and if the story wasn’t about him, he would see something to convince himself that it was.
I suppose it’s my secret, rather like Charlie’s mysterious trips to Europe, of which I still know nothing, and now he’s declared that he’s off to Lille again. I’m not invited and in response I’ve decided to go to Italy in November. When I tell Charlie, he assumes that he’s going with me.
I will enjoy the few days of freedom while he’s away and have already made plans to go out with Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, who asked a serious question. “Does that mean that you’ll be wanting to sleep with me?” The prospect is exciting. “If I asked, would you say no again?” Levi smirked. It struck me that although he wanted to move in with his girlfriend, there were few signs of him doing so. “Like I said before, we shall have to see,” he replied, “But remember that you have a boyfriend.” He hadn’t said no, and I took that to mean that there was a possibility, and I started counting the days.
But Charlie doesn’t miss a trick. “Please make sure that you behave while I’m away, because when you’ve had a drink, you have mischief in you. While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” He repeated this to Levi who told him that if he was so jealous then he should consider staying home.
It is a brie, tomato and salad sandwich. I swear that the one I’m obsessed with has added part of himself to it. That extra ingredient makes it the best sandwich I’ve ever tasted.
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1 to 16 are available to read in the menu)
Part 17
September 1983
The room is dark, and men are lurking in every corner. A spotlight clicks on, and we are blinded by light. The focus is on us, naked and vulnerable, and those hungry eyes that think we are the most beautiful boys in the world. Music starts. David Grant’s ‘Watching You, Watching Me.’ The track has become our signature tune, and we know when to start dancing together. Our bodies touch and we feel every part of each other. Swirling, swaying, dipping, gliding, grinding, twisting. “I’ve been watching you, watching me. I’ve been liking your baby liking me.” The men know that this is the appetiser. Soon, floppy boys will become hard boys and do unthinkable things to one another. I look at Paolo, and for the first time I see that he is enjoying it. He sticks his tongue inside my mouth, and I know that it isn’t an act anymore. “I’ve been watching you, watching me. I’ve been liking your baby liking me.” I imagine Andy and Jack are sitting with the men, disgusted with us… no, only me… and when I get outside, they will beat the shit out of me. “But I’ll tell them, “I earn fifty quid, and men adore me, and I get to do it with someone who loves me.”
*****
There was a moment last night when everything seemed… well, perfectly hard and glamorous. It was when things were going so well that you didn’t expect it to come crashing down. But that’s exactly what happened. The music was so loud that I hadn’t heard the splintering wood. I hadn’t noticed the shadows who spilled into the room. And I was drunk enough not to realise that there was danger. The music cut and there were shouts of protest. Paolo froze. Then the lights came on to reveal the chaos. The men who lurked in corners were handcuffed and dragged out by police officers. Amidst all this, we were naked. I grabbed Paolo and quickly pulled him through another door. “I thought you’d both exit stage left,” said Frank Smith who stood in the next room. He threw a couple of blankets at us. “Cover yourselves up sluts, there’s a car waiting outside.”
*****
My first thought in the back of that unmarked Ford Escort was the money that I would lose. Two hundred quid a month on top of my dole money meant that I was never without. Nobody questioned my newfound wealth. New clothes, beer money, and cash to spare. Then I worried about the hellish time that lay ahead. The copper in front didn’t say anything. We drove along Ecclesall Road and took a turn into a side street, where he parked outside the one house that still had a downstairs light on. He opened the door and gestured for us to follow. The door opened and a dumpy woman looked on in amusement as we walked barefoot into the hallway. The copper disappeared and she closed the door. “Go through to the kitchen lads.” She wouldn’t have looked out of place on Park Hill, but spoke kindly, and her house was nicely decorated. We sat at the table with only blankets covering our modesty. “Do you want anything to eat? A cup of tea?” We shook our heads. “Well, I suggest you both take a shower, and I’ll show you where you can sleep. I’ll fix you some clothes for the morning.” This was the first time that we met June, but it wouldn’t be the last.
******
“At least you were spared the disgusting final act.” Neither of us had slept and were grateful when June brought us mugs of hot tea in the morning. She’d prepared a fry up, and now sat listening as Frank Smith paced up and down with a cigarette. “I told you to be patient, but with the names you gave us, and the fact that we had a spy in the camp, we’ve got enough to take these buggers down.” I was tired and jittery. “What’s going to happen to us?” “Nothing. I need you for the next part of the plan. I told you that we’re pitching bad guys against each other, and as far as the others are concerned, we’ve busted their rivals. The thing is, they think that they’ve got coppers on their side… but that’s not how it’s going to play out. They’ll be keen to get hold of you, and I’m not exactly going to stand in their way.” Paolo looked worried. “Will we have to go to court?” “Nah, that would ruin everything. I’ve got ways of keeping you out of it. I need you to go home as if nothing happened and wait for them to get in touch. When they do, play hard ball, demand more money because you’ve got a reputation now.” Frank laughed. “I think you’ve enjoyed yourselves, so why not make good money at the same time. And Harry, one good turn deserves another. We’re dropping the robbery charges against your mates. I didn’t trust that cow in the shop anyway, she’s got a record longer than your arm, and I’ve told Billy Mason that if anything happens to any of you, I’ll be coming down on him. The trouble is, I can’t trust him.”
When we left June’s house, she gave us both a peck on the cheek. “Take care boys. Frank can be a bastard, but he’s got your best interests at heart.” I wasn’t convinced. “It’s going to mean promotion for him, and then he’ll fuck us off.” She smiled. “I’ve known him a long time, and he’s brought a lot of kids through this door. He’s explained everything. You’re both very brave and I know what you’re doing seems wrong but think of all the kids that you’ll be saving in the future.” Paolo whispered in her ear. “I’m scared.” She patted his curly hair. “Don’t be afraid to come around anytime you want.”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 