CHAPTER 15
ALARIC
Gerald’s determined to take that dog out. Maybe that’s what happens when you consciously abstain from sex; you have to substitute in another physical activity to fill the gap. In my opinion, endless wanking and porn would scratch the itch more, but what do I know? I’m addicted to those,andI get my rocks off regularly.
So wrapped up in his own world, Gerald’s oblivious that he’s signposting his evening plans as more than simply a walk around the block. I’m no Poirot, but the clues are there: his water bottle, a pot of salad, the way he’s limbering up those impressive muscles with a few simple stretches in the kitchen. He thinks I’m too engrossed in catching up on last night’sLove Islandto notice. Trust me, none of the preening men on that shite come anywhere close to competing. Gerald probably buys his identical long sleeve tees in an online Sports Direct multipack for convenience, but from the way they hug his chest and shoulders, they might as well have been handstitched by a troupe of horny man whores especially with his delectable physique in mind.
Shame I won’t get to ogle it for much longer. The flat I’ve lined up to visit on Friday, after my shift finishes, sounds awesome: two single guys in their mid-twenties working in finance, my own en suite bathroom, satellite TV, and fifty yards from Clapham Common Tube station. If I can’t have Stefan, then it sounds like the next best thing.
But currently, I’m whiling away yet another evening in sleepy Sutton Common with only a restless night of insomnia to look forward to, given there’s not enough entertainment filling the next few hours to occupy my hyperactive brain cells.
On the spur of the moment, I decide to follow Gerald. One minute I’m waving him out the door and contemplating phoning my mum so I can bore the tits off her with a rundown of my afternoon clinic. The next I’m donning a black sweater and creeping from between parked cars twenty paces behind my mysterious landlord. It’s growing dark, it’s not raining, he’s not expecting it, and it’s a dumb, amusing diversion.
Three minutes later, all I glean is that collecting Elsa the dog from Mrs Gregson is not code for Gerald’s secret leather and lace kink. Though that would be super cool. Mrs Gregson must have been ready and waiting at the window, as he’s in and out of her flat in seconds, with a lively black-and-white border collie in tow. Easy to spot, they head in the general direction of the High Street. I shadow them at a modest distance, channelling my inner MI6 agent.
They detour via a recreation ground, more a large, fenced-off patch of grass, and Gerald unfastens the lead. I loiter behind a hedge, observing them from a safe distance. If he suddenly decides to turn around, I can pretend I’m popping out to the supermarket.
Unleashed, the dog zigzags off, sniffing, wagging, and pouncing on everything, before crouching to christen the grass. Hands in pockets, Gerald contentedly ambles behind her. Amodel citizen, he disposes of Elsa’s poo in a poo bin and nods his acknowledgement to another dog walker when their respective hounds sniff each other’s arses. It’s provincial, dull, and oddly heart-warming. But why has he brought snacks?
When he reaches the far end of the park, I’m poised to duck, expecting Gerald to turn back and retrace his steps. Instead, he whistles to Elsa, refastens the lead, and resumes walking in the direction of the High Street. I almost lose him when he turns a sharp left, and narrowly avoid smacking into a lamppost when he takes a sharp right. A few metres later, he leaves the pavement to stroll up a cracked concrete path, bordered by some grumpy-looking shrubs, coming to a halt outside a single-storey pebble-dashed building.Sutton Common Methodist Hallis spelled out above the entrance, in faded green paint. Gerald presses a combination on the key safe.
With my heart doing a dramaticthud-thud,I dodge behind a pillar box. I could be the lead in a thriller—I’m the sour-witted main character ofSlow Horses, except with much, much lower stakes. After all, this ain’t no mysterious M16 shit—this is Sutton Common fucking Methodist Hall. And I’m confused as hell. Is this really where hunky Gerald sneaks out to, three nights a week? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not knocking religion, Zumba classes, flower arranging, or parish council meetings, but so frequently, Gerald? Is his need to escape my company that powerful?
As the door snicks closed behind him and the lights flicker on, I creep closer. A couple of minutes tick by. Nobody else goes in and nobody comes out. Zumba for one, maybe? Dog obedience classes, and he’s the last person in? Or simply a solitary refuge from a vexing, garrulous housemate for an hour? Somewhere to read his highbrow books in peace?
Flimsy curtains obscure my view through most of the windows. After padding around the perimeter, I spy a thinsliver of light where the curtains don’t quite meet in the middle. Tiptoeing closer, I half expect a heavy hand to land on my shoulder, attached to the vicar, or an upstanding parish councillor, come to give me a bollocking for flattening the daffodils. I’ll be reported to the General Medical Council, hauled in front of the hospital Medical Director, struck off, splattered across the local papers, shame my proud working-class family, never dare to show my face again and–
I pull myself together. It’s Sutton Common and a few daffs, for Christ sakes. At this time of night, the vicar’s bound to be tucked up in bed with a mug of cocoa, listening to The Archers, and the parish councillors are all furtively wanking off over pictures of Fiona Bruce.
From inside the village hall, the opening bars of an infectiously upbeat pop song start up. My gay credentials are reassuringly intact; I recognise it instantly. Scissor Sisters, ‘I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’’.
Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser.
Elsa barks, once, excitedly. In response, Gerald shouts something over the sound of the music. Given the pounding of my heart, I’m surprised I can hear anything. Stealthily, like the absolute demon gumshoe I’ve morphed into, I duck below the semi-curtained window, suck in a deep breath, then gradually lift my head up, and dare to peer inside.
Oh my giddy aunt. Forget Zumba. Forget Poirot. Forget leather, lace, daffodils, imaginary dogs, and every other bloody fictional scenario conjectured by my crazy mind over the past few weeks. In its wildest dreams it would never have invoked this. My mouth must be literally hanging open while my inner voice conducts a full-blown disagreement with the startling images pinging into my visual cortex.
It can’t be true. For a split second, my brain lags behind my eyes. It can’t be.Gerald?My uppity, introverted, serious Gerald?If, five minutes ago, I’d been asked to select one guy with the wordsI don’t feel like dancin’(or doing anything else vaguely sociable) stamped into his DNA and summing up his entire persona, then it would be him. But not now. Now I’m watching him coordinate synchronized fucking magic.
In a word, the boy can dance. I mean,reallydance, in the way most gays in clubs think they dance after downing a pitcher of mojitos but actually look more as if they’re being electrocuted. And I absolutely one hundred percent include myself in that group. But not Gerald. Not my reticent, sceptical, book-loving Gerald.
Every move his big body makes is super smooth. Effortless. Slicing through each beat like a knife through butter. The pulsing rhythm of the song is stitched to his limbs. And what a song choice for a man like Gerald. Elsa weaves backwards through his legs as Gerald spins in the opposite direction. He does a shoulder shimmy; Elsa does a waggy bottom shimmy. He clicks his fingers, she claps her paws, he smiles at her, she lolls her tongue back. When she gracefully leaps into his arms, he pirouettes away, twirling her above his head until she’s also spinning like a top.
Did I mention Gerald’s legs?Crikey, his legs. He possesses two of them, and they’re every bit as fucking delicious as those tartan jim-jams suggested. Stripped down to a vest top and loose running shorts, both insubstantial garments stick to him in all the right places. I can’t take it all in: muscled quads, veiny forearms, flushed cheeks, thick sweaty hair, even thicker wads of armpit hair, and… and his dick print.
Oh my god, his fat dick print.
Elsa doesn’t dance badly either. I mean, she’s got four legs, which must make arabesques fairly problematic, especially with a brain roughly the size of a tangerine. But, from the threenanoseconds of my attention I drag away from Gerald, she’s making a decent stab.
As Jake Shears winds down, I dip below the window and take a minute to process. I can’t. It’s like taking a sip from a waterfall: too much, too fast, too fucking awesome.
Sagging against the cool brick wall, I inhale a couple of deep sobering breaths. Gerald bloody Mason. Who’d have thunk it. I shake my head; my mum always says it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Quiet? Gerald’s been on bloody stealth mode, hiding this little hobby.
Around now, I notice moisture from the flowerbed seeping into my trainers. It’s spotting with rain, and a violent shiver slips down my spine, followed by another. In the gloom, I tuck my hands under my pits and glance down at myself, all kitted out in black. A damp, cold Peeping Tom crouched under a window.
And, just like that, the thrill of discovering Gerald’s secret, not to mention perving over his fucking killer moves and his killer body, dissipates. Guilt slides in to take its place, twisting my stomach with low-level shame. I scan around, checking no one else is behaving as disgracefully as me. Inside the village hall, the snappy, shimmery opening chords of the Scissor Sisters track start up again.
Briefly, I close my eyes. Now what do I do? I’ve inserted myself as a principal player in a detective story I have no right to be part of. Gerald doesn’t tell me he’s booked Sutton Common Methodist Hall to practise a dance routine with his elderly neighbour’s clever dog because he doesn’t fucking want me to know. Maybe no one knows. I’d lay money his dad doesn’t. What Gerald does in his own time is his thing, not mine. Except that, as well as hanging my head in shame, I have an overwhelming urge to barge through that closed door.
