Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

To his side, Will said, 'They spend a fortune trying to clear it up. I think they should ban it like they've done in Singapore.'

Tom cleared his throat. 'I imagine the council will keep close control. I know litter clearing is a massive priority with the number of visitors expected.' He looked around and lifted his voice. 'Shall we return to the office? I suppose it's time we got your bags and checked you in at your hotel.'

James looked at his watch. 'You're right. So you'll pick us up at around nine? We can't wait to try out Manchester's nightlife. Canal Street is where it all happens, isn't it?'

'Yeah, there are plenty of good bars there,' answered Tom, wondering if they knew it was the gay village.

Back home he found a note in the kitchen. 'At my evening aerobics class. See you later.' He flipped the square of paper over and wrote. 'Out with clients, back who-knows-when. See you in the morning.' After heating up a meal for one, he showered and changed into a Ralph Lauren shirt and DKNY jeans then sat down to start signing off the internal expenditure for that week. Clicking open his briefcase, he stifled a yawn and began leafing through the pile of paper inside, looking for where he'd stashed the sheath of purchase orders.

His eyes caught on a fax at the bottom and before he'd even read the first line, his head was in his hands and he was whispering 'Shit,' over and over again. In a gesture that combined despair with defeat, he drew his fingertips down his cheeks, pulling the skin around his eyes down and exposing the red insides of his eyelids. Blinking several times he looked back down at the piece of paper, suddenly feeling very tired. It was a reminder from Centri-Media telling him that, if he didn't immediately confirm their slot at Piccadilly Station for the X-treme chewing gum promotion, it would be offered to another company. He remembered shoving the papers in his briefcase before a pub lunch with his colleagues days ago. He hadn't looked at them since. Tom's eyes crept over the page to the date of the fax: it had been sent ten days ago.

The energy seeped out of him and he sat back in the seat. He felt like he was sinking. As fast as he cleared jobs, more were piling up. The only thing to keep the pressure from totally stifling him was the thought of resigning in just a few weeks' time. He imagined the bonus that he was due — the key to his move to Cornwall. The clock in the corner of his computer screen told him it was almost time to go out and meet his clients, but all he wanted to do was slump in front of the TV or, better still, go straight to bed and catch up on his sleep.

He stood up, raised a hand to his jaw and began massaging it, wondering what to do. There was nothing he could do but forget about the missed promotion until the morning and go and pick up his clients. Fatigue seemed to have suddenly rooted him to the spot. He reached up to the top shelf and felt around with his fingertips until he located the little plastic bag.

Brain's words came back to him: 'Just a leetle beet, amigo.' He licked the very tip of one finger and lightly dabbed the powder. It clung to the moist skin like a dusting of mould. Licking it off he rubbed his tongue on the roof of his mouth savouring for an instant the faintly sharp taste. Then it was gone, diluted by his saliva. He swallowed and put the sachet back on the shelf.

By the time his taxi dropped him off at the Malmaison a new lease of life was flowing through him. On the way he'd chatted animatedly with the cab driver about the forthcoming Games, the driver joking that if tourists wanted to walk through the likes of Beswick to get to Sportcity, the police had better form a corridor of officers the entire way or there would be the biggest mugging spree the city had ever seen.

Tom found himself laughing as he walked through the smoked glass doors into the hotel lobby. Will and James were waiting for him in the bar so he sat down, took out his company credit card and enthusiastically said, 'Another drink before we hit Canal Street?'

Five bars later and Tom was fairly certain his clients were gay. What had clinched it was Will's reaction on seeing the defaced CANAL STREET sign. Someone had scratched off the first letter of each word, causing Will to burst out laughing at the words 'ANAL TREET'.

As ten o'clock approached James said, 'A friend of mine recommended a club called Cruise — is it near here?'

'Yeah,' nodded Tom. 'Just over there. You want to go now?'

'Sounds good,' replied James.

They cut round the back of Bar Med, walking along the side of a deserted NCP car park towards the brightly lit rainbow banner hanging above the doors to Cruise. As they neared the club they could hear music thumping. Groups of immaculately dressed men were moving inside, the light colours of their clothes contrasting with the black suits of the bouncers. Stepping into the pool of light shining down from the lamps above the door, Tom saw that the pavement in front of the entrance was covered in a cluster of pale chewing gum circles. As he watched, a man approaching the open doorway paused to pick a piece of gum from his mouth and flick it away. Tom watched it land and then roll a few inches before sticking fast to the stone surface, glistening slightly in the bright light. Imagining the warm, slippery sensation of it in his mouth, his stomach contracted. To make it to the doors, he would have to cross the marbled patch of pavement.

'I'm sorry guys — I … 'He struggled for an excuse. 'I really need to call it a night.'

He looked at their confused faces.

'You don't want to go in?' asked James, frowning.

'Is that all right? It's just suddenly caught up on me.' He reached into his pocket. 'Here, you two go for it. Have a good time.' He held out a fan of ten-pound notes.

'Tom. 'Will stepped towards him with a patronizing smile. 'We're not a couple, you know. You won't be playing gooseberry while we snog on the dance floor.'

'No, it's not that. Loads of my friends are gay.' He couldn't believe he'd just come out with that. 'As I said, I'm just knackered. Here — please take it; it's all on expenses.' He held out the money but James waved it away. 'Not if you're not coming in with us. We'll pay our own way, thanks.'

'OK.' Tom knew he was breaking the cardinal rule of client entertainment by not being the last to bed. 'What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?'

'Ten?' said James, already moving away from him.

Unable to step any closer to the gum-spattered area in front of the doors, Tom could only stand where he was and weakly call out, 'Have a great time!'

1 November 2002

Jon shifted the shopping bag to his other hand and looked at his watch. 'I'm not going to make this. McCloughlin wants to see me at 11.30. If I walk with you back to Piccadilly station, you can get the train home and I'll get a cab over to the nick. Is that all right?'

Alice linked her arm through his. 'Two whole hours of shopping; I should count my lucky stars I've had you this long.' She looked up into his face. 'You're going to be buried in this new investigation, aren't you?'

Jon looked away, eyes on the passing traffic. 'Not necessarily. There are some promising leads.'

Alice squeezed his arm. 'Jon Spicer, the only time you agree to go shopping with me is when you're trying to atone in advance for something.'

Jon thought about the coming weekend. He'd already made himself unavailable for Cheadle Ironside's match on Saturday, receiving a load of grief from the coach when he did. He was fairly certain their plans to go walking in the Peak District with his sister on Sunday were going to fall by the wayside too. 'OK, yeah. You might be having Sunday lunch at the Nag's Head Inn without me.'

She pressed her head against his upper arm. 'There'll be other weekends when we can do that.'