Now that Dale and I were boyfriends, you might think that we would have lost interest in his erotic computer game. It was not designed for two to play at the same time, but we hit on a way of using it together.
One of us would set up situations in which the other had to overcome various challenges. We each created on-screen personae for ourselves, ‘avatars’ in the jargon of the game. Lots of scenarios could be generated by choosing from the options included with the software. It being an erotic computer game, events always ended with sexual coupling. When, one Sunday, he had to go in to work, he left a new scenario for me to explore. After a couple of hours cleaning the flat, I broke off to see what he had come up with. My avatar was a youthful Latino with broad shoulders and slim hips. Dale had dressed him in a leotard and placed him on the low end of a see-saw, surrounded by a troupe of acrobats. A member of the troupe climbed onto a platform, and when I clicked on him he jumped down onto the high end of the see-saw, flinging my avatar up into the air. He somersaulted on his way down again. When he landed the impact launched the man on the other end into flight, and he returned to his previous position on the platform.
This sequence could be repeated again and again; the challenge was to find how to progress to the next step. A third acrobat held the end of a trapeze, and by trial and error clicking all over the screen I found he could be made to grab the outstretched arms of my avatar, and carry him across to a trampoline, where the on-screen version of me bounced up and down performing mid-air acrobatics.
Meanwhile Dale’s avatar, created using a terrific photograph of him in the shorts and singlet he used for rowing, appeared and stood on the low end of the see-saw. He could similarly be transported up into the air and over to the trampoline. The other acrobats had then to be removed from the scene by sending them up to the trapeze and swinging them beyond the edge of the screen, leaving only the two of us. Our pleasure at bouncing up and down together became obvious well, in an erotic computer game, you can guess how the situation developed.
Since in real life we cuddled up to each other in bed every night, fooling around with on-screen versions of ourselves might be thought a bit unnecessary, but it was fun. Anyway, this made it my turn to devise a scenario for Dale. I clicked on the Historical scenes menu and chose Ancient Egypt, dressed his avatar in a loincloth, and had him climb up the side of a huge pyramid, pausing now and again to reposition his minimal clothing whenever it slipped slightly out of place. When his on-screen self reached the pyramid’s top, he would tumble down the other side and have to climb back up again. This would continue until the real-life Dale clicked on a protruding stone to trigger a trap door, making him fall down into the pyramid.
Two Nubian guards then appeared, dressed in long white flowing robes, translucent enough to reveal their handsome slender forms. They chased Dale’s avatar through the pyramid’s narrow passages. He turned this way and that, but they were never far behind. His only escape was to risk a drop of about six feet into a large chamber cluttered with grave goods. By dragging and dropping with the mouse he could be made to jump down and land on the lid of a sarcophagus.
The Nubians ran off to find a rope ladder. To escape from them again, he had to be made to jump off the sarcophagus. The lid then slid open. Guess who, apparently mummified but about to spring back into life, was waiting in the casket? It was of course my avatar, in full pharaoh’s regalia – the crown, false beard and so on, and to make sure he knew who it was really, I wrote Pharaoh Ben IV on the sarcophagus in fancy snake-like lettering. Dale’s avatar climbed in with me, the lid of the sarcophagus closed gently over us, and as Dale and I engaged with each other, the whole stone casket shuddered. When the Nubian guards saw it moving, they fled in terror. After they had gone the front panel fell off, revealing the two of us in the kind of action you might expect at the end of the game.
Fun as this was, Sunday dinner had to be prepared, and while peeling the vegetables my thoughts wandered back to Teef, and how peculiar our meeting had been. He had been very friendly, but since I had no intention of supplying him with drugs, my next visit could well be my last. So far, except for the photograph albums, he had given me nothing of any use for Rick Schwagger’s book.
My hopes that Rick’s ‘auto’biography might be my big chance in life were increasingly like pipe dreams. Why had I not been able to make more of the opening? If Dale had been given the chance instead of me, he would surely have planned everything out by now, or decided the idea was impractical and moved on. He would not be dithering as I was.
When he returned from work he was worn out. Dinner was in the oven and the smell of roasting food drifted appetizingly into the hall. I gave him a drink and encouraged him to watch TV until it was time to eat. When we were at the table he said, ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Sorry. I’ve been thinking about Rick Schwagger and his so-called autobiography. I don’t want to worry you about it. You’ve done a day’s work already.’
‘What makes you think you’d be worrying me? The weird situations you get yourself into are part of your attraction… they can’t be coincidence entirely… must be something about you. How could you get them to believe you were going to write a book using psychic powers you haven’t got?’
‘So what’s the answer then? Give up the whole idea? Tell them it was all a misunderstanding?’
‘How about having a “brainstorming” session with Jeremy, where we all throw in ideas and you follow up the best ones? We may or may not find a way forward, but at least we’d have tried. Better ask Alicia as well. We don’t want her to feel left out, though since she started all this you being psychic nonsense, heaven knows what she’ll come up with.’
We arranged to get together in the little office at the back of Jeremy’s shop; Dale sat on a pile of encyclopaedias as there were only three chairs. Alicia wore an outsize beige trilby, not for her an outlandish piece of headgear, but it reminded me of the episode with the bio-thaumaturgical hat and made me feel guilty all over again.
Dale took charge and asked me to summarise the situation with the ‘auto’biography. I said a little about meeting Teef at the villa. Alicia interrupted, saying: ‘I’ve found the answer: low frequency energy fields. They’re very big in the States now. They’re being written about all the time in magazines and on the web. I saw a report from the Minnesota Mystics only last week. Basically what happens is that everybody emits lots of energy every single moment in a range of wavelengths, you can feel it, that unmistakable ‘buzz’ you sometimes find at a party. Naturally the energy fades over time, but residues always linger on in low-frequency energy fields, and these traces can be picked up by sensitives like Ben.’ She stopped abruptly and sat up very straight, waiting for an enthusiastic response.
None of us knew what to say. At last Dale spoke calmly and moderately. ‘Thank you for the thought you’ve given to the problem, but how exactly could these energy fields help to write a book?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Throughout his life Rick Schwagger has been emitting energies, a whole spectrum of frequencies, and given the kind of person he is, they will have streamed out from him with great gusto. Residues of his emanations, reflecting all his thoughts, experiences and emotions, still linger in low-frequency energy fields, so someone gifted like Ben has only to tune in to them, and hey presto, he will have a fully detailed record of every incident and experience Schwagger has ever known, big or small. The only problem will be sifting through such a vast quantity of knowledge to pick out the most suitable events for his book.’
Jeremy diplomatically raised a finger to ask for our attention. ‘In a situation like this all ideas are worth an airing,’ he said, ‘and low-frequency energy fields are certainly not something I would have thought of, but I have a more mundane suggestion to make. It might be worth consulting my old friend Loyd. You probably know that he’s been busy recently promoting the omnibus edition of his novels, but that is not taking up so much of his time now. He has a huge range of knowledge and experience to draw on. He knows as much as anyone does about writing books. At any rate, Ben, it would do no harm if you made contact again.’
Alicia protested volubly, calling Loyd an ‘old fool’, but as three of us thought this worthwhile Dale added consult Loyd Larcher to the list of ideas, under Alicia’s emanations. He then made his own suggestion, unfortunately the very thing I was going to propose myself. ‘What about press and magazine cuttings?’ he said. The Rocking Boulders’ more notorious escapades were widely reported in the papers.’
‘Oh yes,’ Jeremy agreed. ‘Good thinking. You have to watch out though, some of the stories may not be reliable. And ploughing through news reports can take forever. I remember once, before you joined us Ben… He rambled on and on about a customer who came into the shop asking for a book he had seen a review of, but his memory of the title and author were vague. Hours of searching the internet were needed to track it down. By the time Jeremy finished this reminiscence, my mind had wandered off the meeting and back to the villa, and how odd it was that Teef, who played electric guitar, should be summoned to dinner by the sound of a old-fashioned gong.
‘Did you have any suggestions, Ben?’ Dale asked.
‘Erm… oh… erm… how about researching records of births, marriages, deaths, and old census information? Maybe I could trace Rick’s relatives and unearth enough for a chapter on his family background.’
Mention of searching official records set Jeremy off on another tale about how he had traced the history of all the shops in the parade back to the early twentieth century. When he paused for breath Alicia said impatiently, ‘Local history is all very interesting, but we are supposed to be helping Ben with the ‘auto’biography. Here you are, Ben, this should help you to tune in,’ she said, and produced from her bag a funny little metal bar with a sort of zigzag electrical spark shape at one end, and an odd, rounded nodule at the other.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an antenna for detecting low-frequency energy fields. You need to take it somewhere as quiet as possible, free of interference from current goings on, preferably places where Rick himself has been.’ Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I put the antenna in my pocket, intending to drop it into a drawer at Fulrose Court and forget about it.
Jeremy’s suggestion of talking to Loyd was the best thing to come out of our meeting. When I rang him he invited me to go round to his flat, where he welcomed me with a vigorous handshake. ‘Dear, dear boy! Good of you to come! How’ve you been? Afraid I’ve had to endure one of those wretched periods when the commercial side, the selling of books, had priority. My publisher ordered me to be available to reviewers, TV presenters and similarly tiresome people. So good that has all quietened down and I am able to see friends again. Jeremy said you were having a spot of trouble. Let me offer you something to drink before you tell me about it.’
I asked for coffee, thinking this would be quick, but he was in the kitchen for ten minutes, and returned with a silver tray, coffee pot, bone china milk jug, cups and saucers. I explained about Rick Schwagger’s ‘auto’biography and the difficulty of getting started. He exclaimed: ‘Amazing! Uncanny! How on earth did you know?’
‘Sorry, not with you…’
‘It was years and years ago, of course, before my literary career took off. I did the odd spell of what’s now called supply teaching. For a couple of weeks I stood in for Schwagger’s form master, who was ill – having a knife removed from his back, I shouldn’t wonder. I hardly ever think of those longgone days when starting out as a writer was such a struggle. Somehow you must have picked up on it. Perhaps you are psychic. Of course it could be a fluke, pure coincidence, but the fact is here you are, asking me about an ex-pupil. Afraid I can’t tell you much, though. My impression of the lad was that he was bright, but had a terribly short attention span. Even then something about his voice commanded attention in an irritating, rasping sort of way. Deputy headmaster had a poor opinion of him. Something to do with a cricket match with a neighbouring school. Their pads had been tampered with, pins or spikes or something worked into the lining. Schwagger was the main suspect but nothing was ever proven.’
‘Really? You actually taught Rick Schwagger at school? You’re not joking? Do you remember the Boulders’ guitarist, Heath Prityards, who went there as well?’
‘The experience was not the high point of my life. Can’t bring Prityards to mind, I’m afraid.’ He went on to tell me everything he could remember of Rick and the school, and I jotted down a couple of pages of notes. I mentioned Alicia’s mistaken belief that I was ‘gifted’, and showed him the antenna, still in my pocket, that was supposed to help me detect low-frequency energy fields.
‘Afraid she has it in for me. Years ago at some do of Jeremy’s I launched into a demolition of the French writer Simone de Beauvoir, among other things referring to her as Simone de Boudoir, without realizing she was Alicia’s great feminist idol. By the way, you know her real name is Alice Hatchette, don’t you? She always indulged in a fascination with silly hats. I say, I couldn’t borrow that antenna thing for a minute, could I?’
‘Surely you don’t believe in low-frequency energy fields?’
‘Well, no, though just what did make you decide to consult me about Schwagger, eh? But my reason for asking is entirely down to earth, or to be precise, a couple of floors above ground, where we ourselves are at this very moment. The other day the key broke off in the lock of the balcony door, and that little implement might just serve to winkle out the remains.’
Loyd scratched around in the lock, and after a minute or so the end of the broken key fell to the floor. ‘You see, Ben, you should never underestimate the value of the paranormal,’ he said, smiling. ‘You came to ask my advice on this book about Rick Schwagger. Obviously you are going to want some help. I need to give it a little thought. My publisher keeps what he refers to as “the Loyd Larcher brand” under tight control, so my involvement would have to be unofficial, but I’ll do what I can.’
When I told Dale of my visit to Loyd, he was not at all surprised to hear Alicia’s real name. He already knew it, having seen it on an envelope in the shop one day. ‘I didn’t need to be “gifted” to find that out,’ he said wryly.
Loyd had given me my first usable material for Rick’s ‘auto’biography, but I left out the part about him having sabotaged a rival team’s cricket pads, thinking he would not want it included. Given my lack of progress during two visits to The Rocking Boulders’ villa, the pages of notes were a real achievement. Until then my folder contained only peripheral papers – the print-outs of the e-mails that preceded my first meeting with The Handyman and Teef – and the suggestions from the brainstorming session in the bookshop. To this, surely, could be added what Alicia knew of Rick’s involvement with the Oracles of Aten. I resolved also to read the sect’s book and note anything of use.
Most important, I was able to report my progress to The Handyman and Teef. For my third trip to the villa, I was collected from home as before, and ushered up to the first-floor sitting room, where The Handyman left me alone with Teef. He was preoccupied with counting some white oval tablets, presumably part of his prescribed medication, which he had laid out in an evenly spaced row on the table. At first he did not respond to my news about Loyd having taught Rick at school, but said, ‘Ah yeah, Quick’s book. Great to see you, Bendy. You brought me any gear?’
He grimaced at my excuses. ‘We’ve got to think of something, Bendy. Me being stuck here with nothing but the pills the doctor gives me and the odd shot of Jack Daniel’s,and that’s if I’m lucky,for someone who’s been used all his life to taking everything he could swallow, shove up his nose, or shoot into his veins, it is real purgatory. You could get hold of a couple of lines of coke or a few pills for me, course you could, no trouble, especially you being a bender. The gay clubs are swamped with stuff, more than even I could dream of. Remember the maracas I showed you last time? It would be too risky to let you take Quick’s away with you, but a friend of mine has managed to smuggle in another pair for me.’
He went to check the landing outside in case anyone might be listening, then pulled a leather holdall containing the maracas from under an armchair. The highly polished surfaces were flawless, but with a wink he unscrewed the handles, which were hollow inside. Then pressing and twisting the tops with the palm of his hand, he unscrewed the upper section, revealing two more hidden compartments. ‘See Bendy, you can hide enough stuff in them to keep me happy for a whole week. I don’t want to cause you hassle. Just get what you can for me, hide it in the maracas and bring them back next time. What we’ll do is this. We’ll practise a few numbers together, and when The Handyman comes back we’ll tell him you’re learning to play them; then when you leave, you just pick them up; all natural like, act easy and, er, nonchalant, don’t overdo it mind, and take them home with you. Before you come to see me again, take yourself down to a club and get whatever you can, especially a few grams of coke. I can’t give you cash now, they make it difficult for me to get my hands on ready money, but I’ll definitely be able to pay you next time you come.’
I tried to divert him by asking, since he had been to the same school as Rick, if he remembered Loyd.
‘Oh yes, you were saying earlier. You’ve actually made contact with some geezer who taught Quick and me? How did you find out about him? He might have taught us, but with my memory…’ He shook his head, ‘Not that I doubt what you say. Shows you must be psychic after all. Waiting for so long without hearing of any progress, Quick and me were beginning to think you was a lot of whistle but no tune. He’ll be really chuffed when I tell him.’
‘Coincidence, that’s all it was…’
‘Yeah, yeah, if you say so, Bendy. The genuine ones have to play it down, don’t they, too worried about people taking advantage. You can trust me, I won’t spread it around. Obviously you have to be careful who knows about the old sixth sense. You don’t want to be plagued with punters trying to get you to tell them which horse is going to win the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Anyway, better get started with the music. Remember? We want The Handyman to find us playing when he comes in.’
Even though my role was merely to shake the maracas as instructed by vigorous nods of Teef ’s head while he played guitar, and even though he had only suggested it as part of a scheme to get some ‘gear’, I happily did as he asked. How strange that Teef, with his enormous fortune from records and concert tours, with millions of devoted fans, was so much in The Handyman’s control. After almost fifteen minutes we reached a rhythmic climax. Then the dinner gong sounded downstairs, and as on my earlier visits The Handyman appeared at the door. ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ he said, ‘what have we here?’
‘Nothing,’ Teef said. ‘We were just making music together.’ He took the maracas from me, put them in the holdall, and dropped it in my lap.
The Handyman’s expression softened and he said jokingly, ‘Was that what it was? I’ll give you a tip. Next time you’re thinking of playing together, try taking your clothes off first.’ We gave his attempt at humour a stony response. He shrugged and said, ‘All serious tonight, are we? All right, but a bit of fun wouldn’t do you no harm, Teef. He’s a nice-looking boy… anyway, suit yourself… time to go, Bendy.’
I took the holdall with me, only realizing on the way to the car this would encourage Teef to think the maracas would be packed with ‘gear’ the next time he saw them.
Rather than having me sit in the back of the car, The Handyman opened the front passenger door and gestured for me to get in. He slowed down and glanced across at me quizzically as the car passed a very dark area under trees by the gate, but I kept my eyes ahead. He edged us forward and turned onto the main road. ‘Your visits have gone all right so far, Bendy. We don’t want anything to happen that might spoil it all, do we?’
‘Why should anything?’ I said, turning towards him. He returned my stare. ‘No phone message from Quick this time though,’ I added, trying not to sound guilty.
‘You keep in your mind that I’m watching out for signs of any goings-on that Quick wouldn’t approve of.’ His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. ‘Actually, it is possible you might get to meet him. He is in London. Got his eye on a woman he met at some posh party. Lady-in-waiting at the Palace, he says. Got to be extra careful whenever he’s about, we don’t want him turning nasty. And don’t go expecting anything much to develop with Teef. Remember, he doesn’t really have sex any more, not as you and I know it.’
‘I do have a boyfriend.’ I reminded him. ‘Can’t imagine Quick with a lady-in-waiting. Not becoming respectable, is he?’
‘He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. What I’ve heard is, every now and again one of them in the big house fancies a bit of rough. Expect that’s the reason.’
He pulled up outside Fulrose Court and turned towards me again. In the same flat voice he said, ‘Give us a kiss, Bendy.’
‘What?
‘Go on, why not? Before you go, give us a kiss.’
What harm could there be in a kiss? The request was a big improvement on his offer last time, to give me a ‘quick one’ in the back of the car. He had not turned off the engine, so he was probably just being friendly. I leaned forward and gently touched my lips on his. He pulled me to him, hugged me tightly and pushed his tongue into my mouth. After perhaps half a minute he let me go.
‘You excite me, you know. I’m a happily married man, but you excite me.’
‘I don’t play around, well, not these days. Dale… my boyfriend… we really want things to work out for us. It’s not because I don’t like you, but my partner is in and he’s waiting for me.’
‘Okay, if that’s how it is. No hard feelings. Let me know if you change your mind.’ He shrugged and turned away. I got out of the car and said goodbye.
To give myself time to think, when the lift doors closed I did not immediately push the button for the sixth floor. Might refusing The Handyman a second time have harmed my chances of at last meeting Rick Schwagger? Casual sex might well be a sort of entry ticket to their world. Yet, Dale was more important to me than anything or anyone else, even more important than the chance of working on Quick’s ‘auto’biography.