Muscling Through

  Dedication

  For Anna, who helped me carry this story to term and bring it, red-faced and howling, into the world; and for Shelley, who taught it its first words and smacked its bottom when it was naughty.

  Chapter One

  I know it’s just fucking, Larry and me. That’s what all his mates at college say, only they say it fancy, like “Well, quite clearly it’s not his brains Lawrence goes for,” and “God, when is he going to tire of slumming it with this moron?” I just smile at them, ’cause they’re his mates, and it’s all right. It doesn’t matter what they say about me, just as long as they’re nice to Larry.

  Larry never says nothing like that. He’s got class, Larry has. He’s clever and all. He works at the University, teaching people about paintings. I like paintings. Art was the only thing I could do at school, that and cookery. Domestic Science, they called it. Steve Hunter used to have a laugh about that, saying I’d make someone a lovely wife one day, until I got fed up with it and hit him, and after that he never said nothing about me no more.

  That’s the other thing I’m good at. Hitting. My PE teacher, Mr. Sanders, said I should get into boxing. He wanted to give me private lessons and not charge for them or nothing, but my mum wouldn’t let me. She said from what she’d heard, boxing wouldn’t be the only thing he’d be teaching me, but she never said what she meant, even when I asked her. I was dead surprised when he got sacked for being a kiddie-fiddler. So I started going to a gym instead and sparring around with the lads, but I never took it serious or nothing. Larry says that’s just as well, ’cause I’m scary enough already.

  People always ask how me and Larry met, and Larry tells this really complicated story how he thought he was going to be mugged or raped or something, and then I came along, and everyone always laughs, but it wasn’t like that, really. See, I’d just been to the pub with Daz and Phil and a couple of other lads. We was supposed to be cheering Phil up ’cause he’d broken up with his girlfriend, Leanne, who works on the checkout at Lidl, but some of them were pissing me off going on about poofs, so I left early. I got caught short on the way home, so I stopped to have a wazz in the street. I mean, I checked to make sure there wasn’t no one there before I got my cock out. I didn’t want to shock no one.

  But it took a while, ’cause I’d had a few pints, so by the time I was almost finished, this bloke had turned into the street. I could hear his footsteps, so I looked up, ’cause I didn’t want no one sneaking up on me when I had my cock out, and there he was. I mean, it was Larry, but I didn’t know that then. I just saw this really pretty guy in a posh suit. He had browny-blond hair, like straw that’s been left out in the rain—I don’t mean it was messy or nothing, it was just that mix of colours, like it couldn’t make its mind up if it wanted to be yellow or brown. And his face was kind of delicate, and he was really little. Way shorter than me. Skinny too. I like them skinny. And he was looking at my cock. So I smiled at him, ’cause he was pretty, and then I zipped up and headed his way. Which was my way home, I mean. I wasn’t planning to make a pass or nothing, ’cause I could tell he was too posh for me.

  “Shit,” he said, and he started backing up like he was scared or something. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  I wasn’t sure what he was on about, so I smiled again. He looked like he was about to piss himself, and I didn’t like it, you know? It’s not right, people being scared like that. “You look like you’re about to piss yourself,” I told him when I got close.

  “Shit,” he said again, and he sort of leaned against the wall and closed his eyes like he wasn’t feeling well, so I stopped and leaned over him.

  “You should let me take you home,” I said, ’cause I was worried he might not make it on his own. “Nice-looking bloke like you, stuff could happen. You meet all sorts on these streets. I saw a bloke getting the crap beat out of him last week just a couple of streets from here.”

  “You want money?” he said, and he was shaking a bit. “I’ve got money.”

  I didn’t say nothing for a bit, ’cause he was confusing me, and I don’t like making a prick of myself. See, you keep your mouth shut, most times people don’t realise you don’t know what they’re on about. So I just took his arm and set off down the alley, ’cause that was the way he’d been going. He came along with me all right, but he was still shaking. “You live near here?”

  “No! Er, yes—please don’t hurt me!”

  I didn’t say nothing for a bit, ’cause I didn’t understand why he thought I’d do that. I thought he must have had a lot to drink.

  “Your mates shouldn’t of let you go home on your own,” I told him. See, he’s just a little thing; you’d need about three of him to make one of me. “You’re such a little thing.”

  “Oh God,” he said, and his voice was all thin and shaky, like the rest of him. “Look, take my wallet, please?”

  So I stopped while he got his wallet out, and he had his driving licence in there, so I read his name—Lawrence Morton—and his address. “Fifteen Bewdsley Close, Cambridge. That’s that posh bit near the river,” I said to prove I’d read it. I tried to give him his wallet back, but he had his eyes shut again, so I put it in my pocket. I think he needed to get to bed. “I’m going to get you home and in bed,” I told him.

  He wasn’t walking too good, so I put my arm round his skinny little waist. I could have snapped him in half. “I could snap you in half,” I said, and I smiled so he’d know it was a joke, but he still had his eyes shut.

  We went down the back ways ’cause it’s quicker and I wasn’t sure how long he was going to be able to stand up. I mean, I could have carried him easy, but I thought he might have thrown up on me, and I didn’t fancy that, no matter how pretty he was. He was all pale and shaky still. “This it?” I asked when we got to number fifteen. It was a nice place—one of those terraced houses, all tall and thin with no front garden and a skylight into the basement. Pretty windows.

  “Yes—please, you’ve been really kind helping me home, but I’ll be fine now,” he said, but he looked funny when he said it, so I didn’t think I ought to leave him till he was safe inside. His hands were shaking, and the key skidded on the lock, so I took it from him and opened the door.

  “You didn’t ought to drink so much,” I told him as I went in. I thought I’d better make sure he had a glass of water or something, or he’d be feeling like crap in the morning. He looked funny, like he was going to run away or something, which would have been a bit weird as there I was in his house and him still standing on the doorstep. I grabbed his arm and pulled him in after me, in case he was so drunk he’d forgotten this was where he lived. “You got a kitchen?”

  “Yes—this way,” he said, like he’d just woken up, and he darted through a door. I was surprised he could move so quick, him being drunk and all, so I let go of his arm and just followed him into the kitchen.

  He was standing by a knife block with this big knife in one hand and a phone in the other. I thought, he’s going to have trouble trying to dial one-handed. “I’m calling the police,” he said in this funny high voice.

  I didn’t get why he wanted the police, but the knife in his hand was shaking all over the shop, so I went and took it off him before he could hurt himself. Then he sort of collapsed down on the floor and said, “Please don’t hurt me” again.

  “Okay,” I said, and I took the knives over to the other side of the kitchen and got the biggest mug I could find and filled it with water. I held it out to him, but he had his eyes shut again and didn’t take it. “You should drink this. Then you won’t feel so bad in the morning.”

  He looked up, and his brown eyes were all wild-looking. “No drugs!”

  “Good,” I said, ’cause drugs and stuff are rea
lly bad for you. I put the mug down where he could reach it and sat cross-legged on the floor so I could keep an eye on him, ’cause he was freaking me out a bit. It wasn’t very comfortable. I got big thighs.

  “Please go,” he said. “Just take my money—take anything—and go.”

  I didn’t get why he wanted me to take something, but he seemed really worried about it. So I looked around, and he had a bowl of fruit on the side, so I grabbed an apple, ’cause I always get hungry after I’ve been drinking. “I’ll take this, okay?” Then I left him there, but I took the knives and I hid them in the hall cupboard, just in case.

  When I got out in the street, I could see there was a light on in the next-door house, so I knocked on the door. It opened on the security chain, and I could see a thin slice of a woman in a dressing gown the colour of marshmallows. I thought, good, she’ll take care of him. “Sorry to bother you, but I just brung your neighbour home and he’s not looking too good. I’d of stayed with him, but he told me to go.”

  Her eye went all big as she looked at me through the gap. “And you are?”

  “Al Fletcher. I work down Scudamore’s. I pull the punts in when the tourists have finished with them.” I don’t do the guided tours, ’cause my boss Harry says I’d scare off the customers and sink the bloody punt. Plus I’m no good at remembering stuff, like which bridge is s’posed to be mathematical and why.

  She nodded. “I’ll get my husband to go round.” And she shut the door.

  I wasn’t sure if I should wait or not, but then I remembered I still had Lawrence’s wallet, so I stood there by the front door, eating my apple. I was wondering what to do with the core when a bloke came out, nearly as tall as me but not so built. “You still here, are you?”

  I didn’t say anything, ’cause he could see I was. I don’t think he meant it as a question.

  “What happened? You two have a fight?”

  That made me laugh. If I’d tried to fight Lawrence, I’d have probably killed him.

  I don’t think he liked me laughing. “Try anything with me and you’ll be sorry, mate,” he said as he pushed Lawrence’s door open. “Bigger they come, harder they fall, you remember that.”

  He was all talk, though. I could’ve had him easy. Knockout in the first round. But I didn’t say nothing, ’cause if you say stuff like that, some blokes think you’re asking for a fight, and I didn’t want to knock him down. I wanted him to look after Lawrence. “I can’t go in,” I told him.

  “You what?”

  “He told me to go away. I think he’s a bit pissed. Can you give him this? It’s his wallet.”

  “I can see it’s his bleeding wallet. Why’ve you got it, then?”

  “He said to take it, but I think he’s just drunk. I don’t think he really wants me to have it.”

  “You don’t bloody say. All right, give it here.”

  I gave it to him, and he went into Lawrence’s house, so I went home.

  Next day, I’d hauled in a punt and was mopping out the water from the bottom, ’cause they’d been playing silly buggers with the punt pole, and I heard this sort of cough behind me. So I looked round and it was Lawrence. I checked, but he didn’t have a knife in his hand.

  He was still looking like he was going to piss himself, though. “Er, Al?” he said. “That is your name?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “I appear to have made the most awful fool of myself last night,” he said, his face all red.

  I thought he must mean the stuff with the knives. “You just had a few, that was all,” I said, ’cause I didn’t like to see him looking so unhappy. “Wasn’t your fault. But you ought to get one of your mates to walk you home next time.”

  He wasn’t looking as posh as he had last night. He was wearing a sort of crumpled blue jacket. Linen, I think it was. Or cotton, maybe. No tie. He had his hands balled up in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, and he looked so sweet standing there, his dirty-blond hair all over his collar. Made me want to push it back and kiss his neck. I wondered what he’d say if I told him that. He’d probably freak out again, I thought.

  He coughed again. “Thank you for giving back my wallet. And for taking the trouble to make sure I was all right. That was kind of you, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to face my neighbours for a while.” He laughed, so I guess he didn’t mean it, really.

  “’S all right,” I said.

  He was drawing patterns in the dust with his feet. It was making his nice shoes all dirty, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Can I, ah, buy you a drink after you finish work?” he asked, giving me a quick look, then staring down at the dirt again. “To make up for being such an awful bother?”

  I wanted to tell him he wasn’t a bother, but I wanted him to go for a drink with me more, so I just nodded. “Six. ’S when I finish.”

  I hadn’t seen him smile before. It was lovely, like my sister in her wedding photos or her kids at Christmas. So I smiled back, and then I got on with my work.

  He wasn’t there when I finished, and I thought maybe he’d changed his mind, but he came running up looking worried after I’d hung about for ten minutes or so. “Al, I am so sorry. Got grabbed by the Praelector just as I was leaving college.”

  I laughed, ’cause it sounded funny. He smiled back at me. He’d changed into a pale cream shirt that made his hair look blonder and a navy jacket. He looked really posh again. I looked down at my work clothes, which was a Scudamore’s T-shirt and jogging bottoms, ’cause they dry faster than jeans when you get them wet. “Do I need to get changed first?”

  “No! No, you look great.” He blushed a bit. “And we’re only going to the pub.”

  “I’m all sweaty,” I said, ’cause it’d been a warm day.

  He went even redder. “It’s all right—we can sit outside if you feel uncomfortable.”

  We went to this place down the river. Punters, it’s called. Used to be the Red Lion, but it’s gone all trendy. We sat outside and looked at the river, except I kept looking at Lawrence, and half the time, he was looking back at me. “Um,” he said, holding a glass of wine in his little hand. His nails were really clean. “Tell me about yourself?”

  I just shrugged and had a swig of my pint, because I never know what people want to hear when they say that stuff. And it’s not like anything about me is interesting or nothing.

  “Have you always lived in Cambridge?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you live alone?”

  I nodded again.

  So then he gave up on twenty questions and started telling me about himself. I liked hearing him talk. I thought he had a lovely voice. He talked with his hands, too, waving them about like he was doing sign language. He told me about teaching History of Art, about how the students didn’t get stuff, like making Jesus bigger than the saints in the pictures because he was more important.

  “I used to think that was funny too,” I said. “But my art teacher explained it to me. It’s like this modern art stuff, innit? You’re showing what stuff’s like inside, not on the outside like a photo.”

  “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” He smiled at me and leaned over the table, and I felt a bit funny, so I had another swig of my pint.

  “Did you know you have the most incredibly sinister smile?” Lawrence said after a bit. He put his elbows on the table and leaned over toward me again. “It’s that scar by your mouth—sort of twists. I think that’s what really scared the shit out of me last night—your smile.”

  I frowned, because why would anyone be scared of a smile? “You got a lovely smile,” I said, because I knew that was true. He went all pink. “Are you a poof?” I asked. I didn’t think he’d mind. And even if he did, there wasn’t nothing a little bloke like him could do to me, so that was all right.

  “Er, yes. I hope that’s not a problem?” His ears went so red it was like they was sunburnt, and he leaned back a bit.

  “Nah. I’m a poof and all.”

  Lawrence laughed. “You know, you’re
really rather refreshingly direct.” He didn’t say nothing for a minute, just put his elbows on the table again and played with the beer mats. “So, have you, er, got a partner?”

  “Nah. I had this bloke, Ryan, but we split up.”

  “Oh. What was he like?”

  I had to think about it. See, I could have drawn him a picture easy, but I didn’t have a pencil. “Little,” I said. “And pretty.” I smiled, remembering, ’cause I’d thought Ryan was really pretty, but Lawrence was much prettier.

  “Oh,” said Lawrence. His shoulders went a bit stiff. “That’s the sort of men you find attractive?”

  I didn’t say nothing, because there Lawrence was sitting in front of me and he was perfect, but I knew I couldn’t say that, because it’d get awkward. I knew he wouldn’t fancy me or nothing.

  He was building card houses with the beer mats. I couldn’t do nothing like that. My hands are too big and clumsy, ’cept when I’ve got a pencil or a brush in them. ’Course, Lawrence couldn’t bench press the table we were sitting at, neither. “Would you… Would you consider going out with someone like me?” he asked without looking at me.

  Someone like him? That was all right, because then we weren’t talking about him. “Yeah, but someone like you wouldn’t go for a bloke like me.”

  He looked up then. “Why not?”

  “Someone like you’d want someone he could talk to. Not someone thick as pigshit.”

  He looked at me like I’d told him he was a wanker or something. “We’ve been talking just fine.”

  I had to think about that. ’Cause it was true, we’d been talking for ages, and he didn’t look like he was bored. I smiled. Then I remembered what he’d said and wondered if I should stop smiling, but I thought, what the hell.

  “The last thing I want on a date is intellectual conversation,” Lawrence carried on. “I get quite enough of that at work—bloody Hardwicke with his well, of course, if you want to take the simplistic view of the Renaissance.” Lawrence put on a funny voice for that bit. I thought he probably didn’t like that Hardwicke bloke much. Then he downed his drink in one. I probably should have told him to slow down, ’cause of how he’d been last night, but I didn’t want to make him not like me so much, so I didn’t. “Come back to my place. We’ll get a takeaway—you like Chinese?” I nodded. I love Chinese. He laughed. “You’ll probably need to order the banquet for four, the size you are.” He got up, and so did I, and then he said, “And while we’re there, maybe you can tell me what happened to my kitchen knives? I haven’t been able to find them since last night!”