Metamorphosis

Case Two

Zac Tremble Investigates – Series One

By

Chambers Mars

Text Copyright© 2014

Chambers Mars

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Cryptic

Chapter Two – ‘Porter’

Chapter Three – Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

Chapter Four – George and Matt and Friday’s jaunt

Chapter Five – Sunday with George

Chapter Six – The Birthday Party

Chapter Seven – Partings make for such sweet … bollocks!

Epilogue

Author’s Note

‘Metamorphosis is the second Zac Tremble Case File in the series Zac Tremble Investigates; the case files of the gay, Soho-based PI Zachary Tremble. ‘Metamorphosis is available for download exclusively from The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique.

'Metamorphosis' follows 'Chrysalis', our introduction to Zac and his slightly 'tongue in cheek' world. Zac is investigating 'Metamorphosis', a patent dispute between rival, octogenarian inventors. Missing grandson, 'Neville', provides the clue, but he's flown the nest. Zac is also pursuing the missing heir to the 'Porter' fortune. Like always, it leads to some 'interesting and unexpected' sexual encounters, and he meets George! Elizabeth's upgrade of the agency continues unabated and Mrs Chan is poorly, resulting in a trip to the vet, the delectable 'Harry', and the removal of a dongle 'in the wrong port' brings more than tears to her eyes. It all ends pretty well, especially for Zac, who gets a holiday, a boyfriend and a nice little payoff from Matt's firm.

The Zac Tremble Case Files are a barely plausible, sometimes farcical, occasionally operatic journey through Zac’s world; his highs and lows, successes and failures and the emergence of one of the most touching (and funny) love affairs in PI history (do PIs fall in love?).

This case file is followed by case file 3, ‘Transmutation’. There are twelve case files in series 1 (all published and slowly making their way over from Amazon to The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique). Four case files have so been published from series 2.

Chambers Mars can be found at:

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

I hope that you thoroughly enjoy the story and feedback is always welcome. Please email me or visit the website to find out what I’m working on next and to find out more about The Carter Seagrove Project; my collaboration with author Alp Mortal.

Thank you!

Chambers Mars

August 2014

Contact Information

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

Chapter One – Cryptic

Elizabeth, Elizabeth Beczka, a woman who defies Natural Laws. Specifically, that a body of a certain volume will displace the equivalent volume of the atmosphere that it inhabits. Elizabeth fills my world. She fills the space that would otherwise be occupied by my mother, my father, a clutch of friends, a cherished confidante and my secretary. I love Elizabeth and she loves me.

“Zachary!” She bellows from the outer office, like a hippo with PMT.

I’m yanked out of my reverie which is masquerading as working hard and creep out to be told off.

“Yes, Elizabeth?”

“The internet is a means to save you time and make the process of finding ‘inheritors’ that much more efficient. Such efficiency being converted in to more time to devote to other, more profitable cases … like ‘Metamorphosis’. It is not intended to give you time to drool over naked men, sporting impressive equipment, promising to fulfil all of your wet dreams!”

“No, Elizabeth; quite right. ‘Metamorphosis’. How’s the macramé coming along?”

“Great, thanks. Look, I made a snake knot,” and she brandishes said knot and chuckles.

I amble back and pick up the case file. The creased and stained folder holds a sheaf of papers that even with the aid of the internet, remain as cryptic as the secrets of the Pharaohs’ tombs. It’s time to talk to my father.

“Dad, why is this case, which on the face of it is simply a case of ‘who got to the finishing line first’, so utterly incomprehensible?”

“Zachary, lad, it’s a question of honour. Neither Briscoe, nor Pendleton, will allow the other to claim to be the ‘first’. It goes beyond the mere technical achievement; it’s a blood feud.”

“If Neville came forward and proved he was the designer then Briscoe could assert his rights. Pendleton would have to concede defeat. So why does Neville insist on remaining out of the picture? Unless … unless Pendleton has done away with him.”

“It was alleged, by Briscoe, that Pendleton had done just that. It was robustly denied and thoroughly investigated; by me and Joe. No evidence was found and Pendleton sued Briscoe for slander and libel.”

“Why do you think that Neville disappeared? Why would he not want his grandfather to claim the prize?”

“Is he his grandfather?”

“The records show it.”

“The records show that Briscoe has a grandson, called Neville; that’s all. Whether the young man who designed the machine was Neville, is another matter entirely.”

“So, someone else designs the device, not Neville and Neville has to disappear; so that Briscoe can avoid having to admit that the design was not his grandson’s.”

“Getting warmer.”

“Did Briscoe steal the design from Pendleton?”

“Pendleton couldn’t prove it because of the fire which destroyed everything, including his prototype, he says.”

“Why doesn’t he just build another?”

“It wouldn’t prove anything. You could build one … from the designs on the internet but it wouldn’t prove that you designed it.”

“How will Neville prove that he did?”

“Allegedly, he has other proof; drawings and perhaps a prototype.”

“I just don’t get it. Briscoe needs his grandson to come forward but he won’t … or can’t. Pendleton can’t come up with better proof. Why doesn’t the Court just award them joint-design ownership?”

“Neither will accept it. It all boils down to finding Neville and ascertaining if he did indeed, design the machine and if he didn’t, then who did?”

“But no-one has been able to find him in years and years.”

“Obviously they’ve all looked in the wrong places.”

“Where are the right places?”

“Ah! … that’s where ‘Metamorphosis’ comes in. The process, in biology, refers to the change, often abrupt, that an organism undertakes after birth or hatching. Like a tadpole turning into a frog …”

“Neville’s a frog?”

“In a manner of speaking. I and Joe, think he changed …”

“Into what?”

“What do men want to be?”

“Better men …”

“Or?”

“…Women?”

"My theory is that young Neville has had a sex change and Briscoe either can’t find him or her … or won’t; because of the embarrassment.”

“Why would he be embarrassed?”

“Oh, think of the age of the man; nearly ninety and as stiff as they come. He has been very outspoken on the subject of ‘gay rights’; chaining himself to the railings outside of Parliament and lobbying against the reduction in the age of consent for homosexuals.”

“If he’s that worried about finding Neville, why does this case even exist?”

“If he doesn’t ‘appear’ to be looking for Neville, then either he’s callous and uncaring, or it adds weight to the argument that Neville didn’t design the machine.”

“Do you think Briscoe is paying Neville to stay out of the picture?”

“Follow the money, Zachary, lad. It’s always the best path to follow in the absence of any other …”

This was a very illuminating discussion although perfectly useless in helping me to decide which pictures to post to my Gaydar profile. Still; illuminating nevertheless.

“I’m going home, Elizabeth. Mrs Chan was very quiet this morning and I’m worried about her.”

Elizabeth knows that I’m lying; she always knows when I’m lying.

“Did you make any progress?”

“Considerable progress. I’m anticipating putting something to bed very soon.”

“Excellent! If it isn’t ‘Porter’, then it won’t be just the dog you’ll be worried about …”

“I can assure you, Elizabeth, I am mere keystrokes away from locating ‘Porter’ and earning a considerable finder’s fee.”

“And I can assure you, Zachary, that the banker’s draft had better be here by the end of the week or your backside is going to be mere strokes away from the roasting of its life!”

Shock tactics and fear infusions; lethal weapons in the hands of a former shot-putting star of the Polish National Athletics Team.

“I will see you tomorrow, Elizabeth; goodnight,” I call out, very politely.

“Don’t forget our class tomorrow night.”

“As long as Mrs Chan can be left alone. I’m going to call the vet.”

“Do that!”

I detect a steely edge to this upgrade initiative. Why couldn’t she have bought me Fuzzy Felt™ shapes like she always did before? It’s that fucking Matt and his big mouth, no doubt goaded by Barbara.

I go back to the flat because, seriously, she was quiet this morning. Obviously the smell is no clue, nor is the disgusting substances it produces.

“Mrs Chan, honey; I’m home!”

A pathetic cough and it barely raises its head.

“Shit!”

I find a vet via the internet and call the surgery.

“Bring her in and I’ll have a look.”

The vet, Harry, who sounds much younger than his name implies, is in Holland Park which will require a bus ride. I find my mother’s old shopping basket and line it with one of the new towels. Wrapping Mrs Chan in dad’s old cardigan and popping her into the basket, I head off.

The spectacle elicits much in the way of sympathetic ‘oohs’ and ‘arghs’. I smile bravely and say, “She’s not well. You can’t let ‘um suffer can ya?” milking it for every damn drop. Mrs Chan coughs on cue and tolerates an older gentleman stroking her head whereas normally she'd have had his fucking bollocks on a platter.

“Pop her onto the table and we’ll have a look. Name?”

“Zachary; but please call me Zac.”

“Dog’s name?”

“Mrs Chan.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Age of the dog?”

“Oh, indeterminate; at least twenty.”

“Bodily functions?”

“Lethally toxic and frequent.”

“And the dog’s?”

I break down in hysterics.

“Sexually active?”

“If I’m lucky … uhm, not that I’m aware of. I think she's had the snip.”

He feels under her belly and probes. It coughs and hacks up something which it swallows.

“No, she hasn’t been spayed.”

“Pregnant?”

“Highly unlikely. Diet?”

“Anything.”

“Allergies?”

“Condoms.”

“Care to explain …?”

“She chewed one once and her tongue swelled up like a balloon.”

“Jabs?”

“No but a pretty effective head butt technique though; right in the boll-”

“Inoculations and vaccinations?”

“Elizabeth would know. She’s got my medical card.”

“Right. Domestic arrangements?”

“I’m s-i-n-g-l-e and live alone.”

“Exercise regime?”

“Daily tour of Soho and three times round Hyde Park on a Saturday.”

“Three?”

“I’m shy.”

“I think we’ll do a blood test.”

“I faint at the sight of my own blood, even one drop.”

“What about the dog’s?”

“Oh, take as much as you like … all of it.”

“I’ll just take a drop for now.”

“Don’t worry sweetheart, it won’t hurt … much!”

YELP

“Shush … it’s okay … there … be brave … the nasty man didn’t mean to hurt you … the bastard …”

“Okay; bring her back on Friday and we’ll have the results by then. The cough isn’t serious. I’ll give you some tablets for that.”

“What will the blood test show?”

“Anaemia, Diabetes, Hypothyroidism, Mitral Insufficiency … but most likely that she’s old and everything’s just wearing out.”

“But she’ll be okay, won’t she?” Voice breaking and tears welling.

“I have every confidence that she’ll be just fine.”

“Thank God for that!”

“Keep her warm and quiet for a few days. I’ll give you something for the breath …”

“I use a premium brand toothpaste and a quality mouthwash …”

“… for her …”

“Ah! Thank you. C’mon, Mrs Chan.” And I pop her back in to the basket.

“So; single and living alone …”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take some time off work to be with her …”

“I meant, did you want to grab a drink one night?”

“Oh, sure. Love to!”

“Saturday? I’m not on duty …”

“Great!”

We leave.

“There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

It coughs.

“Oh, fucking shut up. You can pack that lark in for a start. Tablets, jabs and tests … fucking attention deficit disorder.”

It coughs again.

“It’s not serious; you heard him.”

I smell piss. Can there be anything more pathetic than a single gay man with a geriatric Jack Russell in an old shopping bag, leaking piss?

No; probably not.

It limps to its basket and ‘expires’.

“Don’t overplay that sympathy card, sweetheart. There’s a Vietnamese restaurant around the corner!”

I’ve got three messages: one from Peter, one from Justin and one from Rupert.

“Quiet nights in, that what’s you need. Maybe some company: Tuesday, Peter; Wednesday, Justin; Thursday, Rupert; Friday out with Matt; Saturday, Harry. Sorry Elizabeth. I have a sick dog!”

Chapter Two – ‘Porter’

Elizabeth is the picture of motherly concern and excuses me from the class. I park ‘Metamorphosis’ until I can get up to see Joe. I apply myself to ‘Porter’.

Narrowing down the candidates so quickly has made me lazy. Normally, I’d be pounding the streets and camping out in the Records' Office. I re-double my on-line efforts and identify five prime candidates; all thirty-five year old males, living in London.

“I have calls to make, Elizabeth, in connection with ‘Porter’.”

“I’ll be leaving at four; remember to take your key.”

“I’ll go straight home; Mrs Chan can’t be left too long.”

“You’ve surprised me, Zachary.”

I feign being hurt and put on the dedicated and responsible pet owner act.

“I thought you’d settle with the ‘recently out IT consultant’, but all three in the same week … I’d best order full cream milk from now on.”

It’s sucked in its cheeks, relishing the bulls-eye.

“If friends choose to call round and pay their respects, I’m not gonna turn them down.”

“Friends with benefits …”

“Like I said; ‘Porter’, and then straight home. Enjoy the class.”

“Thank you. This week we are ‘skyping’.”

“Isn’t that dangerous in a confined space?”

“S-K-Y-P-I-N-G, not skipping, you fool.”

“It still sounds dangerous. Enjoy!”

I break free from my chains and head out into the city that I love and cherish. My mother, the famed photo-journalist, ‘Tabitha Twitchclock’, did a series of pictures of London, all in black and white. There’s one of a down and out, picking stuff out of a bin. In the second shot, the old fella is wiping his hands and lips on a dirty old handkerchief before partaking of the morsel he’s found. I think they call that ‘pathos’; it was her speciality.

I’m just pathetic.

The five men by the name of ‘Porter’ are all living in London and it shouldn’t be too difficult to find them and ask them the relevant questions. That said, I have to check out a ‘name change’; a ‘Porter’ who became a ‘Flintstock’. I decide to call on that one first, as they’re the closest, a stone’s throw away in fact, in Camden. From what I can glean, ‘Errol Flintstock’, is a TV producer.

Rapping smartly on the door of the property in Gilbey’s Yard, I think about calling in on Joe after to see what nuggets he can provide on the case of ‘Neville Briscoe’ and the ‘Metamorphosis’ machine. That’s what the ‘machine’ which converts the stored energy from magnets into motion is called; it’s possibly our answer to ‘peak oil’. With a bit of luck they’ll find out that old dogs provide the solution and pay good money for them. Momentarily, I have a pang of guilt. She is old, that’s without a doubt … and she will die; that’s irrefutable.

“Stupid old bitch!” I murmur to myself, having decided I’ll drop back in after this call and make sure she’s okay.

“Can I help you?” I hear over the intercom.

“I’m looking for ‘Errol Flintstock’.”

“Why are you looking for ‘Errol Flintstock’?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Bad news first, then the good news.”

“It’s unlikely that you’re due to inherit the fortune I have to bestow upon the lost relative of Archibald Porter …”

“That is bad news. So what’s the good news?”

“You won’t have to take time off work to have the pointless DNA test that they are insisting upon in this particularly case.”

“So why are you are bothering me?”

“Elizabeth needs to think I’m working and not just surfing the internet for free porn.”

“I think you’d better come in.”

“Thanks!”

The buzzer goes and I’m admitted to a ‘vestibule’, at least I think that’s what it’s called; a ‘hallway’ by another name. It reeks of dope.

“Second floor …” Errol hollers over the banisters.

“Right you are.”

I plod up the stairs, skipping when I see the object of my enquiry, Errol, half naked, hanging out of the flat door.

“I’m Zac; of 'The Zachary Tremble Agency’.”

“Flintstock, Errol Flintstock, née Peter Porter.”

“Yes, I’d have changed it too. So, I have some questions for you to answer and if you score … why are you naked?”

I’m admitted to the flat and Errol is brandishing his smoking barrel.

“Filming. All the crew get their kit off; makes it easier for the ‘performers’ …”

“Oh, what kind of documentary are you making exactly?”

“Documentary? Oh, you saw the listing; that’s just for appearances. I make porn flicks …”

“And you’re making one now?”

“Yes; just getting stuck into each other.”

I’m escorted through the flat to the studio which occupies what I imagine was once the master bedroom. There’s a lighting guy, a cameraman and someone holding the lube; all of them butt naked. Two guys are going at it ‘hammer and tong’ on the circular bed. Fucking fit buggers they are too and the one having his arse punished is sporting a dick as long as my arm. The one doing the punishing looks like he’s trying to force feed a whole ham up the other one’s arse and Jesus; they’re loving it!

Errol checks something on a screen and then mouths to me that the all-important cum shot is seconds away.

At the crucial moment, the ‘top’ pulls out and the ‘bottom’ flips over and gets a face full of jizz and the guy just keeps on cumming. The ‘top’ keeps stroking his cock and then kind of wrings it out like a dishcloth, signalling the end of the ‘money shot’ as Errol calls it. They take a break.

“Cool uh?” Errol asks.

“Fucking amazing! He just kept cumming!”

“That’s Pedro. Bollocks like a pressure cooker on Regulo 6 …”

“So, can I ask you these quick questions and then I’ll get out of your way?”

“Sure … how much am I not in for?”

“I can’t say; they don’t tell me.”

I ask the pointless questions and Pedro yells out.

“Fuck!”

He’s stubbed his toe and probably broken it.

“Shit! He can’t perform now. Alexander’s primed and ready to shoot his load …”

Okay, I volunteer; out of respect for the artistic integrity of the piece, not because I want Alexander’s cock up my arse. Fortunately I’d showered and as the camera focuses on his cock sliding in and out my arse, the fact that I hadn’t shaved is of no consequence. The ‘cum shot’ is equally impressive and his cum hits the back of my head like Elizabeth giving me a slap for being cheeky. Apparently, my cascade of brown curls is just the canvas they were looking for. Alex and I shower and I wash my hair … which is a bit of a result.

Errol is overjoyed that filming didn’t need to be postponed and hands me five hundred quid.

“Life saver!”

“Not at all; anything to help … seeing as you scored pretty low on the questionnaire.”

I dress and Alexander presses his business card into my hand with a wink.

“Right oh! Work to do … cheerio!”

Errol shows me out and at the door, insists on giving me a complimentary copy of the last flick he made, ‘Dirty Dogging Dogs’.

“Thanks! Mrs Chan can watch that tonight. Bye, Errol.”

Having had a good seeing to and fresh from the shower, I dispense with dropping back home, abandon Joe until the following day and hot foot it to see Justin for lunch.

“You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“I’ll have the ‘toad-in-the-hole’, with a side order of battered onions rings, please!”

Chapter Three – Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

Justin’s coming round on Wednesday; it’s Peter tonight. Mrs Chan is sleeping and every breath sounds like it’ll be her last.

I force the tablets down her throat and she just coughs.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you are suffering.”

I’m genuinely concerned; our love-hate relationship is more love than hate. In my father’s final days, she never left his side; tucked up on the sofa with him, nestling in his arms and keeping his hands warm that were so cold otherwise.

“We’ll see Harry on Friday. He’ll have the results of the blood test and give you some medicine to make you better.”

I tidy and do the washing up. Peter arrives at about eight with a bottle of wine and a chew toy.

“She’s poorly.”

“Oh … serious?”

“Get the blood test results on Friday. Bit of a cough and very listless.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good day?”

“So-so … some progress on the ‘Porter’ case … it really opened up today.”

He wanders around whilst I open the wine.

“Why is that end of the lounge sectioned off with plastic?”

“It’s where I keep my collection of shrunken penises …”

“Why don’t you have them on display?”

“I have low self-esteem issues.”

He chokes.

“I’ve seen yours and believe me, you don’t have anything to worry about!”

He didn’t see Pedro’s though did he?

“What’s behind there really?”

“My masterpiece.”

I show him the painting.

“Wow. Obviously it runs in the family.”

“What ... art?”

“It’s really good. You should finish it and get it exhibited.”

The things some people will say to get a chew toy rammed up their arse.

Unfortunately, Peter has to leave quite early so I’m destined to sleep alone. Funny, I don’t remember getting Mrs Chan out of her basket, wrapping her in Dad’s cardigan and snuggling up with her on the sofa.

Wednesday morning is dominated by Elizabeth recalling, in minute detail, the joy that is ‘skyping’.

“So now you can call home and it won’t cost you a penny?”

“Exactly!”

I feel left behind.

“I’ll make it next week. I promise.”

“Did you make any progress on the ‘Porter’ case?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“Ruled out Errol Flintstock.”

“Uhm, still leaves five to check out. Friday, Zachary!”

“You’ll have that banker’s draft or my name’s not Zachary Tremble!”

“Go and see Joe. It’s his birthday next week and you have to organise a bit of a do at the home.”

“I know. I’m gonna talk to Matt about it on Friday.”

“Be back by three. The sales representative is coming in to measure up for new carpet.”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“You can see the floorboards!”

I head off to see Joe and to ponder this development. New carpet; no doubt new furniture is just around the corner; an investment in ‘IT’ and threats of bodily harm if I don’t deliver the goods on Friday. I wonder what the fuck is going on but abandon these thoughts because there’s a scuffle in the foyer of the retirement home. Joe is in the thick of things, trying to separate the two old codgers who are having a bit of ding-dong. Some nurses drag them off to separate corners and I take Joe back to his room.

“What the fuck was that all about?” I ask.

“Briscoe and Pendleton …”

“Shit, they’re both inmates here?”

It’s the perfect introduction to my questioning.

“Well, Frank, it’s a mystery and no mistake. But like I always say; follow the money!”

“You think Briscoe is deliberately keeping Neville out of the picture because he’s hiding the fact that Neville didn’t design the machine?”

“Thought that all along. There’s someone else you might have a look at, Oliver Arkwright …”

“Who … and why?”

“The name came up once or twice during the investigation of the fire.”

“Was he a suspect?”

“No, he’d died by then. Arkwright was Pendleton’s lover …”

“Shit! Pendleton’s gay?”

“He is of the bent persuasion.”

“So what of Arkwright?”

“Pendleton alleges that Arkwright left him to shack up with Briscoe …”

“But, Briscoe’s not …”

“Briscoe lied to Arkwright and pretended he was. Pendleton asserts that Arkwright designed the machine with him but that Arkwright stole the designs and gave them to Briscoe.”

“Jesus, a lover’s tiff! What happened to Neville’s parents?”

“Died in a plane crash shortly after the boy was born.”

“Do you think Neville is gay and Briscoe, despising the fact so much, drove the boy away and that’s why he’s never come forward?”

“It’s a theory. Look at Arkwright and follow the money.”

“Pendleton’s paying for the investigation, Matt says.”

“He’d like nothing more than to see Briscoe brought down. If he could expose him as a liar and if he could ‘out’ him then so much the better.”

“Christ, all this over a couple of magnets.”

“Global warming!”

Which is complete bollocks seeing as ‘bio-fuels’ will save us. I change tack.

“It’s your birthday next week.”

“Don’t bloody remind me! It’s a load of fuss over nothing.”

“So?”

“Beryl can bang out a few numbers on the ‘Joanna’ and we’ll have a bit of cake.”

“I’m thinking a ‘cabaret’.”

“Think again, then.”

“Leave it to me. There will be music and cake.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Okay. Gotta go; the dog’s poorly.”

“Mrs Chan? Give her a kiss from me. Poor little lamb.”

“Right. Bye!”

I leave Joe’s room and inadvertently take a wrong turning and end up in another; Pendleton’s in fact. He’s sat by the window, gazing at an old photograph album. I can’t see anything clearly but one of them looks like it's of a couple of Army chums standing by a tank.

“Oh, sorry!”

He doesn't even look up.

It’s lunchtime and I call back to check on the ‘poor little lamb’. It looks spritely when I go in and then collapses again.

“I don’t think we can wait until Friday. I’m gonna call Harry.”

I call the vet and explain my concerns.

“Can you bring her in today; after two?”

“Sure.”

I debate whether to call on one of the ‘Porters’ and decide I will; the one who lives in Notting Hill. I take Mrs Chan with me, seeing as Holland Park is the next stop on the Tube.

“Behave! We’re in Notting Hill. They’re all bankers and stock brokers, no doubt with paid help and quite possibly intelligent and fashionably dressed children.”

I’m talking to myself because she’s asleep.

“Hello, I’m Zachary Tremble. I’m looking for Mr Porter. Is he at home?”

I’m directing this question to a Philipino housekeeper, who, judging by the looks and inane smile, doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.

“Mr Porter?” I repeat.

“Work.”

Though the word sounds like ‘wok’.

“Mrs Porter?”

“Work.”

“Can you give this card to Mr Porter, please?”

“What in basket?”

“Sick dog.”

“What wrong?”

“Don’t know exactly. I’m going to the vet’s now.”

“She look dead.”

“She’s old; tough as old boots really. It’s just a cough.”

“Bye!”

And the door is slammed in my face. I head off to see Harry in Holland Park. I’m a bit early so I sit in the waiting room whilst a Doberman has its knackers lopped off.

“Come in, Zac …” Harry hollers once the Doberman is wedded to its lampshade and given a treat.

“She’s just not moving; barely able to raise her head.”

I’m wringing my hands and feel the shakes start.

“Take a seat in the waiting room, Zac. I’ll take an x-ray. She might have an obstruction.”

Pretty soon after, there’s a flurry of activity and Harry’s assistant, Monica, is called and the word ‘anaesthesia’ is heard above the tinkle of implements being laid out. Harry appears.

“Obstruction; not sure what. Gotta operate …”

I’m left in the waiting room and never more grateful for bankers called ‘Porter’ who are not ‘at home’. An hour later, Harry appears, brandishing something.

“The culprit. It’s a dongle.”

“Is that animal, vegetable or mineral?”

“It’s the device you use to hook up to the internet … if you don’t have a landline.”

“Oh, it must have been the box. So …”

“She’s fine. She’ll sleep for a while. I’ll keep her here overnight. I’ll call you …”

“I’m not leaving her!”

Sleeping on a camp bed beside her was how I spent Wednesday night. No, I’m lying. I spent the first half of the night sleeping by her side and when she woke up and had that glint in her eye, I decamped to Harry’s bed and he re-enacted the procedure … using all four fingers!

Thursday morning dawns and I wake up beside Harry.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I reply, feeling guilty.

“Grab a shower. I’ll check on the lady and pop the kettle on.”

I shower, again and roll out to find my princess and my prince!

“She’s fine. She’ll need to rest. It’s lucky we didn’t need to open her up; else I don’t think she’d have survived. She’ll be sore for a bit.”

I know how she feels!

I pop in to the recovery room and find Mrs Chan looking strangely pained but grateful.

“Hello, sweetheart. That’ll teach you to go poking your nose into boxes that don’t belong to you. I have a good mind to give the bill to Elizabeth, seeing as she was the one who insisted on this ‘upgrade’. Don’t get too comfortable; we’re outta here after a quick slurp.”

I re-join Harry.

“How much do I owe you, Harry?”

“Uhm, all in all, £499 …”

I must be the lowest paid porn star in the business!

After confirming our date, I head home and drop Mrs Chan off, who looks quite chipper and is obviously relishing getting back to her daily regime of shit, piss, flatulence and maiming old aged pensioners.

“That little lot cost me a date with Justin and five hundred quid. New rules, sweetheart, so be nice, and do your business like everyone else; or I’ll shove the fucking dongle back up there!”

I feel obliged to pick her up and hug her to my chest, cradle her head and repeatedly kiss her little forehead. I must have squeezed too hard because she farted and filled the flat with a fetid fog which made the wallpaper start to curl at the edges.

Looking slightly green, I make it back to the office. I’d already texted Elizabeth.

“How is she? I was so worried …”

“She’s fine. Years left on the tyres, more’s the pity. So, I’m down by five hundred quid; best get out there and find ‘Porter’.”

“Did you talk to Joe about his birthday?”

“Yes. Cabaret in the early evening. Matt has a pal who books variety acts. He’ll line us up something.”

“Thank you, Zac.”

I leave the office and I’m not entirely sure what Elizabeth thanked me for. Obviously, she’s known Joe for longer than I have. Do I smell the bittersweet aroma of unrequited love? No, it’s the smell of dog’s intestines as I spy a stain on the shirt front.

“Fucking, leaking bitch!”

Still, it’s what charity shops were designed for; emergency purchases of work attire. Three sizes too big and in a Hawaiian print … for two quid; result! I pop in and apologise to Justin for screwing up our date and make a new one for the Monday.

“Why are you wearing a shirt three times too big and covered in parrots and pineapples?”

“Don’t you follow fashion trends?”

“Yes …”

“This is the next thing. I’m ahead of the game; got it for two quid. You’ll be sorry when you’re paying fifty for the same thing in two months’ time after you’ve seen it on the cover of some glossy.”

“I’ll slit my wrists if I see that on the cover of a magazine.”

“The dog leaked on me as I hugged her to my breast this morning before I left.”

“And you didn’t notice?”

“The operation was very stressful; she’s producing a lot of gas.”

“Monday night … mine or yours?”

“Definitely yours; though I got a new set of towels for my birthday …”

“I have a tablecloth with a scalloped edge …”

“Yours!”

So, some ‘Porter’ calls to make and a date with Rupert who is two months into his new life and judging by the pictures I’ve seen on Gaydar, he’s taken to it like a duck to water.

The remaining calls are all in the East End. A weaker man would have ditched the case but armed with parrots and pineapples and the lure of a pay-off like the Lottery, I feel as safe as the Crown Jewels. It would, of course, be a day when the Jewels are out of the Tower. The first ‘Porter’ is a builder and his yard is in Bow. I imagine a genuine, East End lad. I find the office and ‘Paul Porter’. I introduce myself and get a mug of tea thrust into my mit.

“I’ll ask the questions and let you get on,” I offer nervously. Paul is huge; like a fucking warehouse on roller skates. Huge but not unattractive and the bulges are all hard muscle, not fat.

“How much is the inheritance?”

He is softly spoken and I’d have said Ealing, not East End. Apparently, his father, with pretentions, sent his Paul to a decent school and paid extra for the elocution lessons. Despite having the diction of a Putney Prince, he’s brute force in polyester and it’s all straining at the seams and buttons. That is to say, intimidating!

“They never tell me. It’s easier if I don’t know.”

Usually, I don’t know. ‘Saville’ was the exception.

He’s scoring quite highly and it might be worth his while having the DNA test; which I suggest.

“Phil’ will be happy if I’m the ’lucky one’,” he states, reaching for his tea.

“Phil’?”

“My boyfriend.”

“Oh …”

“Been together for ten years this year. We’re off to Bali, to celebrate.”

“That’s really sweet. Doesn’t it get quite difficult though, in this business?”

“No-one has a problem with it, or if they do, they keep their mouths shut.”

I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to get on his wrong side. I give him the information he needs to get the DNA test. Phil’ comes in. If Paul is Everest, then Phil’ is K2. I feel like a child and wonder if they breathe in at the same time, whether there’ll be enough oxygen left for me. Paul explains and Phil’ is confident that, ‘his Paul’, will be the one.

“I hope so, too.”

I don’t just say that; sometimes I really mean it. Better Paul has it than some banker in Notting Hill who’s already rolling in it.

“So … do you want me and Paul to give you a good ‘seeing to’ before you go?”

The offer takes me by surprise and I choke on the tea.

“Crikey! Do you want to, then?”

“Wouldn’t mind. Me and Paul like playing together. And wearing a shirt like that in a place like this, shows you’ve got some balls!”

“Right. Well, if you’ve got the time …”

We decamp to the house at the back of the yard. I get spit-roasted by these two rhinos who I have to admit have quite modest members. That said, I’m still grateful that Harry opened me up a little.

These massive, sweaty and musty bodies really get me going and I don’t do such a bad job of returning the favour; first with Phil’ whilst Paul has two fingers rammed up my arse, massaging my prostate, like he’s pushing mortar between two house bricks. Not wishing to favour one over the other, I give Paul my hod carrier as Phil’ continues to knead my chestnut. As Paul’s the one I came to see, I shoot my load into his cement mixer of an arse.

“Jesus, guys; thanks!”

“Pleasure; any time.”

I’m slightly wobbly on me pins and take a cab to the next call, ‘Prentice Porter’, a printer with a shop on Dunbridge Street.

He’s not a contender, though he still gives me a really good quote for some business cards. Elizabeth thinks I should have business cards. I take away samples and have one more call to make to a cabbie by the name of Preston. We save time and he takes me back to the office whilst I ask the questions. He’s a contender, so I give him the information pack which explains the DNA testing and how to arrange it.

Once back, Elizabeth tells me that the banker of Notting Hill called and will drop by the following morning on his way to the office. She seems mildly impressed with progress.

“I think the antique cream with embossed black type in ‘Cinzel Decorative’,” she suggests, looking through the samples.

“A tad, ‘Noel Coward’, don’t you think? I thought something modern and on that mottled paper.”

“Timeless elegance, Zac, nothing flash.”

“What happened to the carpet?”

“I’ve left the swatches on your desk.”

I choose the ‘mocha’ and ‘cream’ ensemble; ‘mocha’ for the outer office and ‘cream’ for mine.

“Very good; contemporary and exudes discretion.”

I was going to ask about the furniture but time is kicking on and I have to run to be ready for Rupert.

“What time is the banker coming in?”

“Nine … and …”

“Yes, Elizabeth?”

“Wear the good suit.”

Why do I feel this upgrade is going to extend to everything in the end? If it means I get a whiskey decanter and bottled water, I suppose I shouldn’t complain.

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

“Goodnight, Zachary.” And she’s poncing with her hair.

“Did you get your hair done?”

“Yes; as a matter of fact, I did.”

“Who’s the lucky fella?”

“Never you mind the reason.”

It is conceivable that a seventy five year old, ex-Polish shot put star, secretary and surrogate mother could have an admirer? It’ll be someone she met on that bloody course; some silver tongued, silver surfer.

I trip home, looking forward to seeing Rupert and ribbing him rotten over the photographs on his profile. The flat smells like a World War 1 trench just hit by a mustard gas barrage.

“Fucking hell, Mrs Chan. I’ve got a gentleman caller in an hour!”

I open the windows and imagine a satellite has just picked up the tell-tale signature of a weapon of mass destruction in the heart of London and no doubt the combined security forces of the United Nations will soon be hammering down the door.

“So, sweetheart, how are you feeling?”

There’s a definite prance in the step as we scoot around the Square. She dismisses Jenkins with a snarl. In the process of having a piece of IT equipment extracted from her bowel, she’s somehow become the re-incarnation of Eartha Kitt. A speculum was clearly the tonic!

Rupert brings boxed noodles and chai tea. Evidently, the transformation extends beyond the wardrobe and contact lenses.

“Thank you,” he pronounces and I detect something more than gratitude for the feisty Bourgogne I thrust into his recently manicured fingers.

“For what?”

“Giving me the push to confront some stuff and move on. It’s still as scary as hell but getting better.”

“Being honest with yourself is the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”

“Telling my wife and parents that I’m gay was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s done and they’re still talking to me.”

“How’s business?”

“Booming! Everyone wants to upgrade and I’m pretty soon gonna have to take someone on.”

“Excellent!”

“What about you?”

“Oh, not so bad. We’re upgrading, like everyone else. I don’t feel I’m pretending so much. For three years I did it because my father did it and his father did it. Now, I feel I can do it because I want to. I do have a choice and although I don’t need to worry about making anyone proud, I want to create something that I can be proud of. I suppose that means I’m growing up.”

“Don’t grow up too much and lose that rather alluring, boyish charm.”

“Obviously, Mrs Chan’s ‘gas’ has affected you.”

“I mean it. You have such a beautiful innocence and not a little fragility. It’s very attractive, that; and the hair and the crooked smile.”

“It’s not how I see myself, I have to say.”

“Do we ever? Take a good, long, hard look in the mirror, Zac.”

“I’d rather take a good, long, hard look at the pillow case …”

“Lead on … and tell me why that end of the lounge is sectioned off with plastic.”

“It’s a hermetically sealed chamber in which I keep the mummified body of my last boyfriend.”

“Like a Pharaoh?”

“Ram-it-in-the-first-hole-you-sees!”

Chapter Four – George and Matt and Friday’s jaunt

Friday; and the weekly trip to the launderette, though with so much traffic through the flat these days, I’m inclined to do a mid-week wash. Mavis is in the mood for some fortune telling and makes a cup of tea. Having partaken of her brew, she swills the dregs around in my cup and turns it over, placing it on the saucer. We wait for a few seconds and then she turns the cup back over to reveal my fortune.

“Uhm …”

“What is it, Mavis?”

“You’re keeping someone at arm’s length, afraid that the gift of love they bear will deny you the choice of where you place your heart. But that is where true love dwells and it’s the fear of giving yourself over to those feelings that is preventing you from embarking upon a journey; one which will fulfil your every desire.”

“Was that PG or Tetley?”

“Don’t put off the day, Zac. Time is precious.”

Clueless, I waltz into the office. The banker ‘Porter’ is due in half an hour; just time to slip into my ‘exudes confidence and discretion’ suit.

“With the money from ‘Porter’, buy yourself a couple of new suits, some shirts and ties and for goodness sake … get a new pair of shoes!”

“Elizabeth, when will this end?”

“It’s an investment, Zachary. This agency has existed for sixty years and I’d like to see it flourish for another sixty … and you with it for that matter.”

“But I won’t have a son to hand the reins onto, Elizabeth.”

I think for the first time, we both really feel the full weight of those expectations, spoken and tacit, and looking into each other’s eyes, we see the dark tunnel.

“You can adopt,” Elizabeth suggests, “Like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.”

“I can’t look after a dog, Elizabeth! A child would be a disaster and I’d have to be in a steady, long term, fully committed relationship before they’d even look at me.”

The look is unfathomable; much like Mavis’ tea leaves.

‘Porter’ arrives and I show him in to the inner office and offer him a drink.

“Just water, thanks.”

He’s eyeing the place with the same disdain as he might a pawnbroker’s, or the cinema round the corner which charges by the hour and puts boxes of tissues in the cup holders.

“Thank you for calling back.”

“Not at all …”

“So, if I can ask you the questions …”

I proceed.

“You seem quite young to have a business like this, if you don’t mind me saying,” he poses, half way through the questionnaire.

“It was my father’s business and his father’s before him.”

“You don’t look much like a private investigator; more a funeral director.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Some dogged-eared, nicotine-stained, trench-coated, hard-ball …”

“Like Philip Marlowe?”

“Exactly!”

“We’ve upgraded.”

“Uhm … so, how much is the inheritance?”

“I can’t tell you; they never tell me. Usually, it’s worth the bother.”

“I’ll have to hide it in Jersey or somewhere …”

“You will need to have the DNA test.”

“Does that mean I’ve ‘won’?”

“No, there are others in the frame.”

We complete the process and I hand him the information pack.

“Thank you for calling in,” I say politely.

“No worries. So, did you want to grab a drink one night?”

“Oh. I thought you were married?”

“I am. Ravinia is a lovely girl but not too bright. All the time the money rolls in, she doesn’t ask any questions and all the time her grandfather plans to leave her everything, neither do I. So, what do you say?”

“Uhm … I’ll pass, thanks.”

He leaves and I ponder the request. Elizabeth comes in with a coffee.

“Everything all right, Zac?”

“Yeah. It’s a funny old world. He asked me out for a drink … he’s married, quite upfront about that. Says she doesn’t ask any questions all the time the money is rolling in.”

“Not everyone has the guts to do what Rupert did.”

“I don’t think that’s the case with this guy. It’s all about the money.”

“When are you seeing Matt?”

“Tonight. We’re gonna check out this act his pal has lined up for the cabaret …”

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance.”

“Matt?”

The question is left hanging in the air. I sip the coffee and wonder whether it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean, we’ve known each other for ten years, we always have a good laugh and he’s a decent bloke at the end of the day. So why do I resist?

I don’t know the answer to that question and busy myself with the paperwork that needs to be submitted to Matt’s office.

“Three need to have the DNA test, so no answer until after that. Sorry, no banker’s draft this week, Elizabeth.”

“You did fine. Go early today.”

“I still need to track down Neville.”

“Monday is soon enough.”

Is this a reward for ‘Porter’ or turning down the banker; or does she just want me out of the way?

“What have you got planned this weekend?” I ask, as I get ready to leave.

“Nothing special …”

“So why did you get your hair done then?”

“I don’t need a reason to get my hair done.”

“You’ve had your nails done too!”

“I just fancied treating myself.”

“Enjoy!” I trill as I leave. Elizabeth has an enigmatic little smile on her lips.

It’s not even lunchtime, barely eleven o’clock and I’m not meeting Matt until seven. I take Mrs Chan out for a wander and then decide to go to the Tate. I really should finish the painting. Art used to be my passion. Strange; passion seems to have flown the nest. My mother was passionate about photography and ‘causes’, marrying the two to make an impact on this world. My father had a passion for my mother and for solving crimes. I seem not to have a passion for art or crimes. I really don’t know where I belong.

I wander the galleries, looking intently at the paintings and the sculptures, envying the artists who clearly did have passion.

“You need a holiday,” I say to myself out loud; loud enough for a fellow gawper to overhear me.

He turns and smiles, catching my eye.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” He asks.

It feels like the transit of the rest of my life will be determined by the very next word that I say.

“Love one!”

We head to the terrace and grab a latté and park ourselves outside to enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine. His name is George.

“So, what do you do, George?”

“I’m an artist, but mostly graphic design; to pay the bills.”

I give him the usual thumbnail sketch of my situation and, like everyone else, he replies, “Cool!”

“I guess …”

“What’s the real issue?”

I explain, as best I can and as far as I know.

“It sounds like you do need a holiday and … something else; a buzz. What if I said that a pal of mine has a gallery and I’d make sure he exhibited the painting for you? Would you finish it then?”

I’m astounded at the proposition.

“You’d do that … I mean …”

“If you promise to finish the painting, I’ll promise to get it exhibited … and his gallery is in the Kings Road.”

“Christ! Wouldn’t you or he need to see it first?”

“No time like the present.”

“Right, okay.”

When I was a lad and missing Mum, Dad would twig and ask me if I wanted to go to the park, usually Hyde Park, and play. I’d always ask if he was busy, but he’d always say ‘no, not that busy’. He’d hold my hand and we’d walk, sometimes all the way there, through Saint James’ Park and across Hyde Park Corner. Often times, we’d have an ice cream after kicking a ball about. Then we’d take the bus home and I’d be content and he’d go back to work.

George held my hand all the way home. They’re kind of rough, probably from cleaning them with turpentine spirit. But for all their roughness, they are gentle. He’s younger than me but appears older; like my father back then. Mrs Chan is asleep and doesn’t wake up. I show George the painting and wait nervously whilst he examines it intently. I was never nervous of anyone actually seeing it before. I just don’t usually bother to show it to anyone.

“You have a photographer’s eye; it’s how you see the light. I really do hope you will agree to finish it and to allow it to be exhibited.”

“I will, if you think it’s good enough.”

“It’s good enough. Better than good enough; it’s outstanding.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

I cry, like I did as a boy when a bigger lad would poke fun at me for having ‘hair like a girl’ or a dad who was practically old enough to be my granddad. George’s lips kiss away the tears and his strong arms carry me to the bedroom where he lays me down. No-one has ever kissed every square inch of my skin before. Kissed and then massaged, tormented by the tip of his tongue and driven wild by the grip of his hand around my cock. Penetrated, I’m crushed beneath his weight, the slick member boring into me and I want him so badly.

“ZACHARY!” He yells.

Sorry, Matt. You’ll just have to wait that little bit longer because George wants me as badly as I want him and that’s what I need right now.

It’s nearly five before George disappears and we’ve made a date to go to the park on Sunday. Her ladyship wakes up and we hit the Square before I get ready to see Matt and this ‘performer’ his pal has recommended.

I give Mrs Chan her tablets and clean her teeth with the stuff Harry recommended.

“Be good! I’ll be back a bit later although not too late,” I inform her.

I meet Matt at the bar; a cabaret bar near Saint Giles’ Circus.

“Hey!”

“Hey, Matt …”

“Madame Butterfly is coming on in half an hour.”

“What does she do?”

“I have no idea. Drink?”

“Large vodka please, Matt.”

Madame Butterfly is both MC and performer. She does her star turn first and then announces the rest as they appear throughout the evening. The place is already packed but we’ve got seats just off centre, one row from the front. The lady is ‘statuesque’ to say the least; a good six feet-two and then some, courtesy of the heels. Swathed in leopard print and if I can make the allusion, a young Julie Goodyear with a couple of Goodyear tyres stuffed down her bra, barely supported by the dress. That said, she can move and apparently with the aid of feather boas and peacock fans, completely undress and you don’t see even the merest hint of nipple or beaver.

“Christ! She’s amazing,” I shout to Matt as the ‘lady’ is belting out ‘Like a Virgin’ and there’s no miming, she’s really singing and pretty fucking good she is too. Rapturous applause and a standing ovation signal that her first turn of the evening is over and she disappears for a few minutes before re-appearing in a sequined evening dress to start the show and announce the first act.

“If she does that at the party, we’d best warn the nurses to have the CPR machine plugged in and primed!” I suggest to Matt.

“They’ll die happy!”

The evening proceeds and at the intermission, Matt and I go back stage to meet Madam Butterfly and introduce ourselves. It isn’t too long, once you’re up close and personal with the lady herself, that you realise that she ain’t no lady. It’s all prime beef under the corsetry and padding which just makes it all the more remarkable.

“What’s the name of the birthday boy?” Madame Butterfly asks, simultaneously applying lip gloss, dragging on a cigarette and throwing back a vodka.

“Joe, Joe Dalton,” I reply.

“Well, boys, I’ll give Joe a party he won’t forget. There is a piano, right?”

“There is a piano,” I confirm.

“Wednesday at six …”

“Wednesday at six.”

Act booked, we enjoy the rest of the show and clock the ventriloquist and the magician whom Madame Butterfly intends to bring along as well. Mavis is making the cake and save the purchase of a box of dark chocolate covered Brazil nuts for Joe, it’s done.

“That’s close on a thousand pounds, Zac,” Matt informs me, tentatively.

“I’ll pay for it out of the fee from ‘Porter’. You said that one was more than ‘Saville’.”

“A lot more. Fingers crossed, one of your hopefuls has the matching DNA.”

There’s a point, after we leave the bar, when if you were with ‘the date’ you’d be thinking about what might happen next. I know Matt is thinking about what he’d like to happen next. I know what is going to happen next.

“Back to yours for a nightcap then?” He asks, all too hopefully.

“Sure, just a quick one though.”

Seated on the sofa like always, bodies mirroring each other, upper body half turned in, one leg drawn up, with heel resting on the edge of the cushion, glass in hand.

“Matt, I’ve met someone. It’s early days but I have a feeling this one might stay the course.”

I explain how I met George.

“That’s great!”

“Yeah … it is.”

Matt’s letting his leg rock from side to side, allowing his to touch mine in that annoying but still cute, ‘younger sibling wants attention’ way of his. How do I tell him that I would love him if I wasn’t scared to death of ballsing it up?

“Invite him to the party,” Matt suggests.

“I will. I’m thinking of asking him to go on holiday with me.”

The only other proper holiday I’ve had was that one time with Matt when we went to Ibiza. The import of what I’ve said has just been understood.

“Oh! That’s … serious.”

“Yeah … it is a bit.” I don’t want to stumble into any declarations as I teeter on the edge of the conversation we are not having. “Drink up! I want to go to bed,” I signal, hoping he doesn’t plead for the sofa tonight.

“Sure. I’m working tomorrow,” he lies.

“Goodnight, Matt.”

“Goodnight, Zac.”

Mrs Chan makes an appearance, looking like she slept in a hedge and then got dragged out backwards.

“Alright, sweetheart?” It wanders over, stretches, farts, belches and jumps up to then crawl onto my lap where she squirms for a second to get comfortable and immediately drops off. Despite the suffocating fog which has enveloped me, I’m still pleased it’s her and not Matt who is asleep on my lap tonight. “Fancy a holiday, Mrs Chan? Mavis’ daughter’s caravan on the Isle of Wight; with George?”

She lets out a shuddering sigh and starts dreaming.

Chapter Five – Sunday with George

Guiltily, I have to let Harry down as we had a date on the Saturday.

“Have I lost you?” He asks plaintively.

“For a while, Harry; maybe a long while … don’t know.”

“Good luck!” He says genuinely.

George has a van so we head out to Richmond Park. The smell of paint, ink and turpentine masks the worst that Mrs Chan has to offer and not being used to motorised transport, she does her worst. I open the window and smile benignly, much in the same way as one might when one gently pats an infant’s head, whilst it is picking its nose as you pass the time of day with a neighbour.

I’m also choosing my moment to broach the subject of the holiday. The invitation to the party was no sweat and it was met with an enthusiastic, ‘love to!’

“George …”

“Yes, Zac …”

“I really do need a holiday and as it happens, a friend has a caravan on a campsite near the beach on the Isle of Wight. So, I was wondering …”

“Love to!”

“Really? We have to take the ‘weapon of mass destruction’.”

“It’ll be great. Walks on the beach, sea air, fish and chips …”

“Not too … ’tame’?”

“We’ll hunt by night!”

I smile broadly. Each affirmative answer, each suggestion met with unbridled enthusiasm; each glance, each time he squeezes my hand, ratchets me up another notch and tightens the knot in my stomach. I’m half expecting to wake up and find it was a dream and that in actual fact, I turned down his offer of a coffee at the Tate.

“Once, ‘Porter’, and ‘Metamorphosis’ are put to bed, I can take a couple of weeks; probably in about two weeks', maybe three weeks’ time.”

“I’ll start to clear the decks.”

“You really do want to come?”

“Yes. I really do.”

It’s not long before Mrs Chan is tired and, popping her in the van, we have lunch at a nice little pub.

“Better still if we come back to the picture on display,” George says.

“Gotta finish it yet.”

“Finish it before we go.”

Asking him to come away was a darn sight easier than contemplating lifting the painting from the easel and handing it over.

“I’ll try.”

“How long has it taken so far?”

“Three years.”

“Then it’s already finished, bar the signing.”

We wander, we saunter, and we drift, ending up in bed. He’s got a knob which just begs to be manhandled and a peachy arse that demands to be caressed, peeled, de-stoned, cut up into pieces and smothered in cream. I do my best. He makes me feel like nothing in the world matters … except me.

Chapter Six – The Birthday Party

Without any guilt, I let Justin down.

“Have I lost you?”

“For a while; maybe a long while.”

Elizabeth is acting quite strangely; coy about her comings and goings and the reason for the appearance of various new articles: handbag, shoes, gloves and bonnet.

I leave her to it. I have my own Brave New World to navigate through in dealing with a man who actually sends flowers, turns up on time, pays half and makes me cum just by watching him shower. He adores Mrs Chan and doesn’t she fucking know it! She ignores me and sidles up to him, rubbing herself against his leg. I swear she’s holding her breath and clenching her buttocks whilst he’s in the flat; judging by the ‘evacuations’ after he has left.

However, this week is dominated by the birthday party. We don’t even bother to open the office on Wednesday, so that there is time to get ready and transport the cake and the buffet to the home for the six o’clock ‘curtain up’.

Matt, Elizabeth, George and I arrive at five-thirty for the dressing of the cake table and the trimming of the wicks on seventy-five candles. Inmates shuffle in from all corners of the home; mostly women in hand-knitted cardigans and slippers. Briscoe and Pendleton are brought in from opposite sides of the room and chaperoned by a couple of nursing auxiliaries. The piano has been moved and the chairs set up in a semi-circle with Joe’s dead centre and me and George on one side, Matt and Elizabeth on the other. Joe comes in and plonks himself down.

“Lot of fuss over nothing!” He exclaims.

“It’s your seventy-fifth birthday, Joe; come on!” I admonish the petulant child and wink at the others, hearing the opening bars of ‘Life is a cabaret’.

Silent, face like a slapped arse and arms folded determinedly across the chest until Madame Butterfly emerges dressed as a peacock. Her dress is slit up the side all the way to the hip. Joe and quite a few others, find their false teeth in their laps.

She belts out the number and sprinkles fragrant rose petals over everyone. By now, Joe is mesmerised and dribbling. Show tune after show tune and the crowd starts to tap its feet, banging sticks against their neighbour’s Zimmer frame and ending up with the entire congregation joining in for ‘The Hackney Carriage Driver’; Joe’s favourite. Then, whilst we sing the obligatory ‘Happy Birthday’ medley, matron lights the candles and the four of us escort Joe to the cake to blow them out. ‘Cheers’ and ‘good on ya me old fruit’, the odd pop of a flash bulb, a party trumpet salute and the old bugger is finally happy.

Madame Butterfly steps forward with Joe on her arm to say a few words. She calls for silence and scans the happy, shiny faces for a second before bellowing out … “GRANDDAD?”

This vocal ejaculation has the place stunned for a second or two.

“Neville?” And the voice is broken and shrill.

In the seconds before the room erupts, Pendleton can be heard laughing and coughing and whilst he’s still laughing, he’s complaining that he’s pissed himself.

Chapter Seven – Partings make for such sweet … bollocks!

“Is it all in?” I smirk, addressing this comment to George’s rump which is thrust out of the back of the van as he attempts to pack everything in, Mrs Chan included.

“It’s in!”

Later me ol’ china!

“If the traffic through Hindhead isn’t too bad, then we should make the earlier ferry and be at the caravan for six.”

“Excellent! I’m so excited …”

“Save some of that for the opening …”

“Later, tiger …”

“At the gallery!”

“I knew what you meant! Still, if the opportunity presents itself …”

“On the beach, in the moonlight?”

“On Mars. I don’t care as long as I’m with you.”

Now, you might be forgiven for thinking that a different story has somehow become attached to the case file of ‘Metamorphosis’. Well, it hasn’t. This is the glistening-eyed ending you so rarely get in ‘private dick lit’. Let’s back track and deal with the all-important conclusion of the case which began, the conclusion that is, with Neville Briscoe dressed as a peacock and recognising his grandfather, Briscoe, in the crowd at Joe’s birthday party.

Said ‘Neville’ being the key to the resolution of this case, since Briscoe had asserted vociferously that his grandson, Neville, designed the ‘Metamorphosis’ machine, countering Pendleton’s claims that he designed it. Theories abounded and the most believable of them, namely that Briscoe had paid Neville to stay out of the picture so that Neville couldn’t admit to having had anything to do with the machine. Clearly, Briscoe hadn’t been paying Neville to stay out of the picture but out of the picture he had remained.

Despised and spurned by his homophobic, fascist of a grandfather, Neville had quit the family home and disappeared, becoming a stage performer under the name of ‘Madame Butterfly’, changing his given name to Cedric Peterson and for the largest part, inhabiting cruise ships chugging their way up and down the West Coast of the States between Los Angeles and Seattle.

With that theory torn up, the next was that Briscoe stole the design from Pendleton who couldn’t counter the claim because, he’d said, a house fire had destroyed his original drawings and prototype. Pendleton had also claimed that Briscoe, pretending to be gay, had lured Pendleton’s lover, Oliver Arkwright, out of Pendleton’s arms and had stolen the designs which Arkwright had in fact penned. Arkwright’s death, shortly afterwards had provided the perfect veil for the ruse.

With Neville standing in the spot light, it was time for someone to come clean!

Briscoe had broken down at the sight of his grandson who he hadn’t seen for years. Pendleton was leaping for joy, now that the boy had been found, knowing that Neville would of course, deny any involvement in the design which would leave Briscoe to admit to the truth.

Briscoe did lure Oliver Arkwright out of Pendleton’s arms but not by lying and cheating. He did love him and Arkwright cast Pendleton aside because Pendleton refused to give him due credit for the design work that he had put in. In fact, Arkwright was the one playing both sides against the middle, hoping that Briscoe would give him due credit and Briscoe would have, had Arkwright not died shortly after from a brain haemorrhage. Trying to prevent Arkwright’s estate from claiming any of the potential earnings from the patent, Briscoe had concocted the story about his grandson and ‘Metamorphosis’ was then buried in legal wrangling for the next thirty years.

Epilogue

“What’s gonna happen now?” George asks over a Merlot, bangers sizzling on the BBQ and Mrs Chan snoring at his feet, having chased waves up and down the beach all day.

“Pendleton gets the patent but has to pay over fifty percent of the earnings to Arkwright’s estate. Briscoe gets fuck all besides a huge legal bill … but he does get his Grandson back and from what Joe tells me, Briscoe ain’t long for this world so it’s just in the nick of time.

“But Briscoe despises Neville.”

“Joe reckons Briscoe is gay and just won’t admit to it. Welcoming his Grandson back is as far as he is going to allow himself to climb out of the closet.”

“But can’t Briscoe still claim that he and Arkwright designed the machine?”

“He could have, had Pendleton not found the original drawings. They were on the back of the photographs he had of Arkwright, in his album; the only thing he saved from the fire, as it happens.”

“How did he discover they were there?”

“He had the album on his lap most of the time. When he pissed himself laughing at the party, a nurse took it to clean it up and found them. She handed them back to Pendleton who then pissed himself again.”

“Those bangers look ready.”

“Split your roll then, sweetheart!”

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Cryptic

Chapter Two – ‘Porter’

Chapter Three – Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

Chapter Four – George and Matt and Friday’s jaunt

Chapter Five – Sunday with George

Chapter Six – The Birthday Party

Chapter Seven – Partings make for such sweet … bollocks!

Epilogue