Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘No,’ said George quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

‘I am a police officer, you know.’

Yeah, that’s why I thought of you first,’ George fired back.

‘Oh ha bloody ha,’ said Michelle.

Yeah. Yeah. But honestly, Michelle, I just said to Bob, I’m sure nobody outside of Sunday Club knows about Mr Tickle being my childhood favourite,’ George continued, serious again. ‘So it’s one of our lot having a laugh. Who else could it be?’

‘How do I know?’ queried Michelle. ‘Anyway, good job you can take a joke, isn’t it?’

There was a pause.

‘Yes,’ said George, forcing himself to sound as relaxed as he could.

‘You can take a joke, George, can’t you?’

‘’Course I can,’ said George.

‘Right. Will we see you at Sunday Club tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Well, maybe. I’m not sure.’

‘Hope so,’ said Michelle.

George did not turn up at Johnny’s Place the following evening. Neither did Alfonso, who had a Sunday shift at the Vine. Nor Ari, who was on a three-line whip for a family dinner.

Among the seven who did attend there was only one topic of conversation. The prank, as they saw it, that had been played on George.

Bob told his version of the story in full, even though he’d already called most of the group. Grateful to have the opportunity to be entertaining for once, he made sure he told the story well too. By the time he’d reached the point where a half-naked George was sitting in the foyer of Shannon’s wrapped in little more than a Mr Tickle suit everyone around the table was roaring with laughter. And Bob was thoroughly enjoying himself. He thought maybe he could be funny after all, provided he had a good enough tale to tell.

Tiny laughed so much he looked as if he might burst. Michelle said even though she was a copper, and technically a crime had been committed, this was definitely the biggest laugh she’d had since her Phil had walked out on her.

Marlena got the giggles and very nearly choked when a mouthful of braised lamb shank went down the wrong way. However, it was she, upon recovering some composure, who eventually counselled caution.

‘I’m not sure George is taking it all that well,’ she said. ‘And I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that he hasn’t turned up today. I don’t like to think of him being upset.’

‘Nope,’ said Greg. ‘None of us do, I’m sure. It’s just... it would be George, wouldn’t it? We all know what he’s like — prissy bastard. And left with nothing to wear but a Mr Tickle suit? I mean, nobody could help finding that bloody funny, could they?’

‘Of course it’s funny, and I’ve laughed as much as anyone around this table,’ said Marlena. ‘But one has to be so careful with practical jokes. They don’t always seem like jokes to the victims...’

‘Bloody hell, Marlena,’ interjected Greg. ‘George is no victim. He’s George.’

That brought another laugh.

‘But who is the comic genius who played this wondrous prank on the poor bastard?’ asked Billy. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

The group stopped laughing and began to look at each other. Each face registered only blank innocence.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Billy. ‘It has to be one of us, doesn’t it? Surely. George seems certain of it, anyway. One of us on a mega wind-up. Greg, I reckon it was you. There’s always a bit of edge between you and George. I reckon you thought you’d really land him in it and have a laugh at the same time.’

Greg held up both hands, palms outwards. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘Like you were ever a bloody scout!’

Greg shrugged. ‘And you were, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Mind you, come to think of it, would be a smorgasbord to you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Boys in shorts, lovely,’ said Billy.

‘In spite of that dubious assertion and whatever it does or doesn’t tell us about your character, I presume you’re maintaining your innocence in the matter in question?’ queried Marlena.

‘’Course I bloody am.’

Billy looked around him enquiringly. ‘So is anyone owning up?’ he asked, without sounding as if he expected an affirmative answer.

In turn everyone at the table denied responsibility.

‘It could be our absent friends,’ suggested Michelle.

‘Umm, Alfonso or Ari,’ mused Marlena. ‘I don’t think Ari has it in him, and I swear to God the Fonz fancies George gutless. Have you seen the way he looks at him?’

Karen grinned. ‘Who says Fonz is gay? Not him! Come on, Marlena, your claws are showing.’

She glanced towards her husband. ‘You sure it wasn’t you, Greg?’ she asked. ‘Right up your street I’d say.’

‘And that from his nearest and dearest,’ remarked Bob.

‘Boys and girls,’ said Greg. ‘If it were me, I’d shout it from the rafters. I’d be fucking pleased to bits with myself.’

‘He’s got a point. He’d be so full of himself, no way would he be able to keep shtum,’ said Bob.

‘Yep,’ agreed Billy.

‘I wish I’d thought of it,’ said Tiny.

‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘Come to think of it, any one of us would be proud to admit responsibility, wouldn’t we, sweetheart?’

Tiny smiled his assent.

Marlena glanced at Karen. Karen shrugged.

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I reckon this is a boy thing.’

‘Oh yes, and boys will be boys,’ interjected Marlena, a note of ironic resignation in her voice.

‘Billy and Tiny are right, there’s no need to get serious. I mean, what happened to George is just funny,’ said Bob, clearly not wanting to lose his own story-telling momentum. ‘Big-time funny.’

Marlena turned towards him.

‘Yes, Bob,’ she said. ‘But I somehow still don’t feel entirely at ease about it.’

‘Marlena’s right, you know,’ said Michelle. ‘When you stop to think, well, you’ve got to wonder what might be behind a prank like that...’

Six pairs of eyes fixed on her.

‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Karen.

‘Oh, take no notice of me,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s being in the job, I expect. Can’t help looking for hidden meaning and criminal intent all over the place.’

‘Criminal intent?’ echoed Greg. ‘For God’s sake, Michelle. George has got all his stuff back. This was a joke. Leaving a flash bastard like George nothing to wear except a Mr Tickle suit was, just like Billy says, an act of total comic genius. I mean, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michelle. ‘’Course it was. Like I said, take no notice of me.’

The following morning Bob made himself tea, and as usual, except in the very worst of weather, wandered out onto his terrace to admire the urban garden he had created. It might be tiny, but it was, he felt, a significant contribution to what he regarded as an oasis in the concrete jungle of central London.

Bob lived in Bishops Court, a Westminster Council development tucked away between Charing Cross Road and St Martin’s Lane, just where Covent Garden borders Soho. It was a kind of low-level park complex, unusual for a city centre, comprising three storeys of apartments accessed from shrub-lined communal walkways, and designed so that almost all had at least a small patch of their own private outside space. The lucky tenants inhabited possibly the most valuable public housing in the country. It was a good place to live. Particularly for an urban gardener like Bob.

Even at this time of year, there was colour on Bob’s terrace. Yellow winter jasmine and a couple of varieties of viburnum grew in the big planters around the perimeter fence and against the wall of his one-bedroomed home, multicoloured winter flowering pansies and assorted heathers filled terracotta pots. Tubs of daffodils were just coming into bud.