Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘It looks like a Mr Tickle suit to me. My Dan used to love those Roger Hargreaves books,’ said Bob. ‘Oh my God, you’re wearing a Mr Tickle suit!’

‘Not exactly wearing,’ said George.

‘Near enough,’ responded Bob, starting to laugh.

George glowered at him. ‘I hope those are my clothes in the bag you’ve thrown on the floor — and if so, do you think I could have them?’ he said. ‘Now!’

He realized he was snapping and had raised his voice. He couldn’t help himself.

‘So that’s the thanks a good friend gets for bailing you out, is it?’ enquired Bob. But he didn’t look offended. By then he was laughing so much he could hardly get the words out. Pretty much like Justin.

‘This is not fucking funny,’ snarled George.

‘Oh yes it fucking is,’ responded Bob.

Bob kicked the carrier bag across to George, who grabbed it, removed the jeans and sweater Bob had brought, and hastily pulled them on over his still-damp Speedos. There was also a leather jacket. He slipped that on too, grateful for its heavy warmth.

Then he turned his attention back to the laughing Bob.

‘I did tell you that my phone and my wallet including all my credit cards are also missing, didn’t I?’ enquired George frostily. ‘Oh, and my door key. I shall have to spend the rest of this evening cancelling my cards and getting a locksmith in. I’m so glad you find that funny.’

Bob made a big effort to pull himself together.

‘Of course I don’t, George,’ he said. ‘It’s just, seeing you — you of all people, you vain bastard — wrapped up in a Mr Tickle suit... well, nobody could help having a bit of a laugh, could they?’

He stifled a final giggle.

George glared at him and returned his attention to the carrier bag. He looked up at Bob.

‘Tell me you brought a pair of shoes?’ he enquired.

‘Eh?’ responded Bob. ‘What?’

‘Shoes, Bob. Obviously you brought me a pair of shoes, didn’t you?’

‘Uh, no, I’m not sure that I did, actually. I sort of didn’t think of it...’

Bob let his voice fade lamely away.

George glowered and headed for the door, barefoot. Bob followed in silence.

George ignored Justin, who was leaning against the reception desk watching proceedings with interest.

‘And goodnight and thank you to you too,’ said Justin.

George still ignored him as he slammed the big double doors shut. Bob, right behind him, only narrowly avoided being smashed in the face. Bob wasn’t having a lot of luck with those doors.

‘Always remember, no good turn will remain unpunished,’ Bob muttered to himself.

It was the middle of March, 2013, the coldest March in fifty years, and at 10 p.m. the temperature outside Shannon’s was already below freezing. As George stepped onto the pavement his bare feet did an involuntary dance. It felt as if he was walking on blocks of ice. He gritted his teeth and carried on.

‘Thank you, Bob, for stopping everything and helping me out,’ Bob said. ‘It was very kind of you, Bob. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a friend like you. I really can’t thank you...’

George ignored Bob too.

Two days later, on Saturday morning, George took receipt of a large parcel sent by post. It contained his stolen clothes, his phone, his shoes, his credit cards and his door keys. Nothing was missing. There was also a card bearing a picture of the distinctive Mr Tickle. Inside was a brief typed message.

Thanks for the loan, it said. If you could return my suit at your earliest convenience the entire Tickle family would be most grateful. You can Google my address.

George called Bob to tell him the news. And he read him the Mr Tickle message.

‘Just somebody’s idea of a joke, then,’ said Bob. ‘Anyway, I’m very happy you got your stuff back. Do I get a thank you, now, by the way?’

‘Of course you do,’ said George. ‘You get a bloody ginormous great thank you, mate. I sent you a note yesterday, actually. You not got it yet? A thank you and a sorry. I really am sorry I was so moody.’

‘Ummm,’ said Bob just a tad grudgingly. ‘I suppose that’s all right then.’

‘Oh, Bob, honestly, you should try sitting in the foyer of Shannon’s wearing fuck-all but a Mr Tickle suit. And with Justin on top effing form.’

‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, old boy,’ said Bob.

You’re a good judge,’ said George. ‘It’s weird though. You should see this parcel. Everything neatly folded and carefully packed. Do you want to come over and see it, Bob?’

‘Not really, George. No.’

‘Right...’ George paused. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea who pulled this stunt, do you?’

‘Nope,’ said Bob.

‘Like you said, mate, someone who thought it was one hilarious joke,’ continued George. ‘Mind you, you seemed to find it pretty funny.’

‘George, anyone would have found that sight funny.’

‘Well, yes, I know, but—’

‘No buts, you stupid bastard. You’re not about to accuse me of having nicked your stuff and set you up, are you?’

‘No, no, it’s just... well, it must be one of our lot, mustn’t it. Surely?’

‘Why? The way you treat the women in your life, I’d say it was more likely to be one of your exes getting their own back.’

‘Yeah, but only you lot know I liked Mr Tickle when I was a kid. The Game, remember?’ George couldn’t remember which members of the group had been present when he told them about his mum reading him Mr Tickle at bedtime. They hadn’t played The Game the last two Sundays. The last time had been over three weeks ago, that night the entire group were together and it had ended up with Billy and Tiny getting into a domestic and Michelle storming off to the loo in tears. Hardly surprising then that nobody had suggested they play The Game again.

Realizing Bob was still hanging on at the other end of the phone, he added: ‘I’m sure I’ve never told anyone else. And I wish I’d never let it slip at Sunday Club — Mr fucking Slap and Tickle indeed.’

‘Suits you though,’ said Bob, chuckling.

‘You sure it wasn’t you, mate?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Bob. ‘I have better things to do than spend my time winding you up.’

He hung up.

George hoped he hadn’t offended him too much. He was fond of Bob.

Then he considered what he should do next. Probably he should do nothing. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was convinced all the friends would already know about the Mr Tickle incident. Bob wouldn’t have been able to resist spreading the news.

Indeed, Michelle and Marlena had called the previous day to express concern and ask if there’d been anything they could do to help.

But he’d felt that both of them had been stifling laughter, particularly Marlena.

And when Michelle had asked him if he’d reported the theft to the police he’d assumed she was winding him up. But it turned out she’d been quite serious.

‘Insurance, George,’ she said. ‘You’ll need a crime number.’

Good advice, obviously, which somehow he never did get around to taking. Now there was no need to. However, the thought occurred to him that Michelle, who was after all a police officer, might have taken matters into her own hands.

He didn’t think she would have done, but all the same he decided to give her a call.

She answered her mobile straight away.

‘George, are you OK?’

He told her about his stuff being returned.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘All’s well that ends well, I suppose. So it was just a stupid prank then.’

‘You can say that again,’ said George. ‘The stupid bit anyway. Who could be that stupid, I wonder?’

You’re not accusing me, are you?’ asked Michelle, just as Bob had done earlier. ‘Is that why you’re calling me, you bugger?’