Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

There could be no doubt, could there? Had I misunderstood? Was it possible that this was sheer coincidence, totally unconnected to anything in my past? Was I trying to make a connection where none existed?

I don’t know how long I sat there, going over those words again and again. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that, far from misunderstanding, I had finally understood.

And now that I understood, I had no choice but to act.

My skin seemed to be getting hotter until I felt as if I was on fire.

In spite of everything, against all the odds, I’d made a life for myself. Nobody knew what I was. Nor what I might have been. Even I didn’t know that. All I knew was that I had been turned into a creature like no other. Like some kind of alien that passes for human. As if there was another being inhabiting my body, controlling my impulses.

Whenever I’d watch sci-fi programmes or films like Close Encounters, I’d see those humans whose souls had been invaded and think of them as kindred spirits. For almost as long as I can remember, I’ve been wrestling with that alien being within — the creature that made its home inside me, uninvited and beyond my control.

There had been times when it all got too much and I gave up the fight, let that dark side lead me where it chose. I ought to regret those times, but I can’t. It was inevitable, given the unbearable pressure, the strain of trying to contain it.

That pressure was building within me again, with every moment that I sat there under the tree. And inevitably it would be released, just as it had been in the past. Soon. I knew that. I’d known it in the restaurant, the words of the others washing over me. Somehow I’d kept up a pretence of joining in despite the voice screaming inside my head. But then, I was used to pretending, keeping up appearances.

Calm now, my skin once again cool to the touch, I got up from the bench. My mind was clear, all doubt removed. From this moment on I would be following the path of my destiny, although my route would not be as others might expect. It would be designed to create the maximum confusion before I allowed my true purpose to become apparent. But there would be no turning back. Not until it was settled. All of it. My misery avenged and my honour restored. Finally.

The changing rooms at Shannon’s Health and Fitness Club in Covent Garden are situated at one end of the building and the swimming pool at the other. This means swimmers have to walk right past the gym along a glass-walled corridor.

George, being a bit of a show-off, rather liked that. Conscious of having caught the attention of a girl pumping hard on an exercise bike beyond the glass wall, he allowed himself a sideways peek. She had small breasts and thick legs and was not nearly pretty enough to interest him.

All the same he pulled his shoulders back and sucked in his stomach muscles as he walked. George could never resist posing. He knew he had a good body, its muscle definition emphasized by the perma-tan he maintained with regular visits to a tanning shop.

He was returning to the changing rooms having swum his regular mile up and down Shannon’s lap pool. It was much cooler in the corridor than in the pool area and he had to tense his muscles in order not to shiver. Water droplets stood up on his shoulders and upper back, but he never bothered to dry off until he reached his locker. Unlike most swimmers he did not even carry a towel or a robe. He told himself that was because he preferred his towel to stay warm and dry while he shed most of the excess water during the short walk.

He also had just about enough self-awareness to recognize what an exhibitionist he was. Why bother working out if you couldn’t enjoy showing yourself off in skimpy scarlet Speedos?

Fleetingly he looked down at the satisfactory bulge in the front of his Speedos and nearly bumped into two fully dressed men who were walking towards him, probably on their way to the exit. They turned out to be a gay couple George knew vaguely, and after calling his apologies as he carried on along the corridor he couldn’t help glancing back. The two of them were both still looking at him, as he had known they would be. George flashed them what he considered to be his most enigmatic smile.

George frequently attracted the attention of men as well as women. He wasn’t gay, but sometimes indulged in playing up to those who were, just as he rewarded the attentions of unattractive women by appearing to flirt with them. It was the least he could do if someone was treating his body with the respect and admiration he felt it deserved.

He brushed a few strands of wet black hair from his forehead, feeling invigorated, as he always did after his regular Thursday workout and swim. By the time he reached the changing room, on what had so far been a thoroughly unremarkable visit to the health centre, there was only one other regular present: an older man with a belly the gym seemed unable to diminish. George knew the guy by sight but had never deigned to acknowledge him. Instead he busied himself removing the safety pin and key which he’d attached to his Speedos and then unlocked the door to his locker. He reached inside for his towel.

There was no towel. George peered into the locker.

‘What the fuck’s happened to my stuff?’ he muttered.

The older man, perched on a bench in the far corner, broke off from lacing up his shoes and shot George a curious look.

‘I definitely put a towel in there and now it’s gone,’ said George.

He leaned forward and began to rummage with both hands. There was something at the back of the locker, but his clothes were missing. And his wallet, his door keys and his mobile phone.

‘Oh fuck, all my stuff’s gone!’ George continued, still rummaging.

He could see a bundle of brightly coloured cloth that had been crammed into a corner of the locker.

George pulled it out, shook it, and held it up before him. It was a garment of some sort. It took the form of two large orange discs held together with black ribbon, and had matching elongated orange arms.

It was a Mr Tickle suit. George recognized it at once.

By now he had the full attention of the other occupant of the changing room, whose mouth had dropped open. George glowered at him.

The orange disc that formed the front of the Mr Tickle suit bore the image of a face sketched in black. The face smiled gleefully at George.

George did not smile back.

The man with the belly didn’t stick around to offer George any assistance. He might have done so, and indeed at one point looked as if he were about to, but the openly hostile looks from the man with the Mr Tickle suit made him think better of it.

George hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d been hostile to the man simply because he was there.

After the man left, scurrying through the door without a backward glance, George held the ridiculous costume up in front of him. It would surely be far too small for him to wear even if he was daft enough to try to do so.

George shivered. He was beginning to feel very cold. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He supposed he should make his way to reception. But even he was not enough of an exhibitionist to be comfortable in the reception area, which had windows onto Endel Street, wearing only his skimpy Speedos. He desperately needed something with which to cover himself. He looked around the changing room. Sometimes towels were left lying about. Tonight there were no towels.

And as it was so late in the evening no further gym members had entered the changing room, nor were likely to do so, which George in any case considered to be a mixed blessing.