“Do you think my dick’s big?” Wayne studied it in the mirror. “I mean bigger than normal?”
“Bleeding enormous. Now put it away and get a move on before someone comes in and thinks we’ve been at it.”
Wayne laughed at the notion. Who’d do it with Bert? Not even old baggy pants in accounts would do it with Bert, and she must be desperate. He shoved his cock back inside his pants and zipped up. They came out the toilets and went downstairs. Half way down Bert said, “Hang on, I’ve forgotten me paper.” He tutted. “I’ll have to go back to Dining and get it, you go on down.”
Wayne ran downstairs, skipping every second. He enjoyed winding old Bert up. His dick was like a shrivelled rasher of bacon, it was a laugh to parade his fat chunk of meat in front of the old twat and make him suffer. He grinned and pushed through the rubber swing doors to the stock room.
He was there, swinging round to look at him like a startled bird on a perch, with an odd little shuffle and jump. Wayne suddenly remembered yesterday morning in the toilet. He’d thought he’d heard him come in, but he hadn’t been there after. Maybe he’d imagined the whole bloody thing, including the sucking he’d supposedly given himself because he damn well couldn’t do it now. It was physically impossible.
He felt surly, angry, as if somehow it was Grant’s fault that the whole confusing thing had happened. He’d very nearly put him off wanking.
Grant smiled. It was a funny lazy smile he had, like you’d told him a joke and the humour of it was just sinking in. There was something irritating about it.
“I’ve come to take a look at the new Thai silk.”
“It’s still packed.”
“If you show me where it is it can be unpacked.”
Wayne led the way. He could hear him breathing behind him as they moved down the gondolas. It made him think of panting wolves in horror movies; it was giving him the creeps.
They got to the end aisle, round the corner, and there was the Thai silk. Wayne felt a moment’s embarrassment. It was already unpacked, of course. He never could resist; the new fabrics, his old favourites. He unpacked them all, handled them all, smelt them all, loved them all.
Grant was rubbing his hand over Wayne’s all time favourite. That’s why he’d put them right back here, misering them up, keeping them secret, keeping them to himself till the last possible moment before they took them out and let the creeps loose on them. It was rape.
Grant was fingering the orange silk. Bright… no, wine red velvet, pile raised on its surface, the pattern swirling. It was a flame photograph, fire caught in fabric.
“Elemental,” Grant said.
Wayne stared at him. It was like he was reading your mind. He found himself saying, “Do you think my dick’s big?”
Grant smiled.
Wayne said, “I mean, bigger than normal?” His eyes bugged out of his face. Sweat began to form on his brow. He undid his trousers and pulled them off his feet, throwing them on top of the cistern, which wasn’t there.
Grant watched him. Wayne’s cock stood up like a peg, he took a hold of it and began to talk to it, but he was still staring at Grant. “Want a nice hard fisting or a long slow pull?”
Tears of effort began to form in his eyes, his face was beetroot. He turned towards the huge fabric rack and pressed his cock down. He urinated. It came out like a fireman’s hose. He could see it saturating the pale cream damasks, turning them ochre. He said, “God, look at my prick..” It was huge, curving, the long thick rope of urine spraying everywhere, going on and on. “God I wish I could suck that.”
“I bet you could.” Grant’s soft Irish lilt behind him.
Wayne put a foot up on the rack and bent himself in half. He felt his back scream in agony, tears dripped off his face. He slid his mouth over his knob. He tried to say, “God, sucking my knob, sucking my…” but all that came out was, “Mmm… mmm… mm.” After all, his mouth was full. He shoved his tongue in his own pee hole. He crammed it under his foreskin, he said, “Mmm…mmm…mmm.” And then he came.
Distantly he heard Grant say, “I told you you could,” and heard him pad away.
Percy followed him home. He’d had no idea he was going to do it and, in fact, he wouldn’t have done it if his car hadn’t been on the blink. Percy drove a red Datsun. It had belonged to his father, who’d bought himself a new one and given Percy the old for his birthday, along with some driving lessons. But the transmission was shot so Percy was taking the tube and, lo and behold, who was standing along the platform? Mr Surgical Boot himself.
He’d surreptitiously followed him into the carriage. It was easy enough, the train was packed.
It had started out as a childish game of spying then as the train had gone past his stop he realised he was in it more seriously. Might as well see it through, he thought, feeling really rather important.
The train rattled on, eventually coming out into the twilight. He looked at his watch. God, where did Grant live? End of the line? They’d been on here for ages. Actually the carriage was emptying rather alarmingly; he’d spot him if he wasn’t careful.
He got his paper out his jacket and began reading it, keeping it well up and hiding his face.
The train went on.
It was almost dark, summer dark, that eerie never quite dark, by the time they finally stopped. He nearly missed Grant getting off. He’d looked up to see where they were and only by chance saw him passing behind his own reflection in the lit window of the interior. Shit.
He threw his paper down and bolted for the door, much faster than he normally moved. He could feel his stomach wobbling. The doors slid shut behind him, the train pulling out in an almost ghostly hush. The station was dimly lit, obviously a distant suburb. He looked at the sign, where was he? But half of it was missing. Something Wood. He peered across the track but he couldn’t make the other sign out in the darkness. Christ, there was Gimpy.
He took off at a trot trying to catch Grant up. Grant was up overhead, crossing the footbridge to the other side.
He was panting by the time he managed to narrow the distance between them down to about fifty yards. They turned out into a small footpath caved over with horse chestnuts. The air was sweet, warm, full of moths battering thick furred bodies on the random streetlights. Grant’s shape loped up ahead. He’d changed his clothes before leaving work. He was wearing a plain white shirt and Levi’s now. His dark curly head looked very…. well, dark, every time he passed under a lamp.
There was no one else on the path. The other two or three straggling passengers had got into cars, been met, evaporated. No one had met Grant. They were alone on a path that seemed as interminable as the train journey. There was no sound of their footfalls. An owl hooted, it sounded directly overhead. Percy jumped, in fact he froze and hissed, “Shit.”
“It’s alright.”
Percy stared, eyes rooted to that figure still bobbing up ahead with that steady erratic rhythm.
“Come on, Percy. Follow on.”
His voice, as carrying and perfectly soft as if he was standing two feet away instead of disappearing thirty yards up ahead.
“You don’t want to miss it, Percy.”
And he didn’t. Oh, he didn’t. It was important. He scurried after him. Grant was whistling, an odd random collection of soft piping noises like shepherds used for sheep, tuneless but with an odd cadence. If anything he was further away now, drawing away from him entirely, but his voice was still two foot close. It occurred to Percy he’d never heard it any other way. Just like he’d never heard anyone ask him to repeat himself.
“Percy……” he was calling as he disappeared from sight. It was followed by a long piercing whistle and it was then Percy realised he was lost.
Monday.
Laura found herself at 7:02, standing in the kitchen eating raw meat. That was alarming enough, but she had no memory of how she’d got there, or why she appeared to have rubbed it all over herself first and how exactly she had managed to eat meat that was deep frozen anyway.
At precisely the same moment Jon Dalziel had found himself standing in front of the fridge eating honey with a tablespoon right out the jar, but his memory was perfect. He’d bought the honey yesterday from Sainsbury’s, driven by an urge so strong he’d missed his train to fulfil it. He’d bought the honey, a large jar of almost crystalline white, which was in reality a kind of luminous beige, and stared at it, sat Buddha like in the seat opposite him in the train. He hated honey, and red wine and retsina and he didn’t even know why he was telling himself that.
He’d had a dream about eating Elmer Grant’s cock, literally eating it, and it had been like sugar cane in his mouth, crushing and fibrous, filling his mouth with intense sweetness and he’d hated it. Like being force fed sweetmeats by his aunt Mim. It had been so bad it had woken him. And here he was in the kitchen spooning honey down his throat, which he hated, and which he’d bought on an off chance, in case he had a bad dream about sucking Elmer Grant’s staff.
Not real.
Which, of course, possibly it wasn’t.
Elmer Grant was not his real name. Jon had long suspected it probably wasn’t, that query of Billy’s had alerted him. He’d looked up his CV in Personnel (it did exist – he’d had some dread that it too would have disappeared) and found his address. Woodmans Park. He’d never even heard of it. He’d actually gone and looked it up in the electoral roll. The address existed alright, it was just Grant who didn’t. The actual tenant was called Norman Hewison. If it was another pseudonym it didn’t suit him any better.
He sighed. The deceit still hadn’t stopped him from asking Grant to play squash with him. Grant had accepted with that easy amused charm he accepted everything. In fact, when he came to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever hearing Grant refuse anyone anything.
He smiled to himself, felt like the first time in days.
Could be useful that.
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