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Kris Karton

Dave McGee published by Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Dave McGee

Chapter 1: Campo Amor is born

Kris Karton MD, is 49 and lives with his partner Gordon in the North West of England. He works for Canis Carcinoma UK, a local pharmaceutical company that develops drugs by - amongst other things - forcing dogs to smoke themselves to death. It’s Kris’s unhappy task to disembowel and analyse these poor creatures, but the Company pays him well, so that’s OK. Kris is a smart little fellow, wearing only the best clothes and always appearing turned out immaculately. His trademark is his John Lennon specs, which make him look like a cross between Charles Hawtrey and Harry Potter’s grandfather. But he’s nobody’s fool! Kris has been partnered to Gordon for almost twenty years, though it should be pointed out that the last eighteen and a half have been free from any sort of sexual contact. Gordon Chapman is Kris’s opposite. He’s a big, shambling bear of a man, with a craggy, but kind face and a welcoming personality. He also has many friends. Or as Kris sourly put it: ‘You have a wide circle of acquaintances whereas I just have a wide circle.’ Gordon is a schoolteacher and earns much less than Kris, something the latter manages to slide into their conversation daily. Last summer, something changed; maybe it was the prospect of spending another holiday in Southport with Gordon’s mother that did it for Kris. He decided to holiday alone for the first time in twenty years. He’d visited Spain and it worked out better than he could have expected, but once he’d got back to work he felt stuck in the same old rut. His 50^th birthday fast approaching, it was time to take stock of his life. And so one day at work, a few weeks ago, having just terminated the lives of several beagles, it was time to make that leap. He grabbed a coffee, put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his door, and logged onto ‘MINCE-MEET’

Feeling he still had a lot of love to give and that he deserved a second chance Kris decided to set up a profile and put himself on the market once more. Soon, he was deep in concentration.....‘First things first, I need a good profile name. Get this right, and I’ll be inundated with cock for the foreseeable future. Now what shall I call myself? What name works and sounds good?’ He tapped on the table: ‘ Tra la la lá, tra la la lá. Man-ches-ter-whore, O-pen-back-door, Cam-po-a-mor. Campo Amor? God, how that name takes me back! Has it been a year already since that seminal holiday in Spain? How I remember those mornings, as Luis and I woke to see the sun rise over the Mediterranean. The Nicaraguan gardener had only entered my rented villa to water the pot plants but he stayed over and ended up fertilising my man-garden. Pity he stole the laptop! Oh well. Now concentrate Kris. You need a profile name that speaks eloquently of who you are, the essential you: Face-to-the-floor, I-can-take-four, Cam-po-a-mor. Campo Amor? Field of Love. Oh, those afternoons on the beach, when the cute deckchair attendant called by for the chair rent. And the odd way he thought I was some Spanish celebrity or other, Juan Kerr, wasn’t it? And how I finally had to ask him to spell out the name in the sand. ‘OUANQUER!’ he wrote; I still don’t know who that is. Come on Kris, think hard. What is it you seek, your dreams, your innermost cravings? O-lym-pic-jaw, Blow-till-it’s-sore, Cam-po-a-mor. Campo Amor! Sounds so right: I cherished those evenings in town, the smell of jasmine on the cool night air, and that woman in the funny little tapas bar who told me I looked like Ricky Martin’s brother. Well, she actually said ‘Dean Martin’s mother’ but I think she was pissed. Yes, CAMPO AMOR it is! That’s my lucky new profile name.’ And, with that key decision taken, Kris launched himself into the murky waters of Mince-Meet whose pitch was ‘Our mission is your emission!’, unless of course you opted for their platinum service in which case it was simply ‘a fuck within 24 hours or your money back.’ Can’t say fairer that that! But now Kris was confronted with the difficult business of completing the rest of the profile. He’d heard that, on sites like Mince-Meet, truth and declared age rarely sit side by side. He was nearly 50, two thirds through his life. If he truly wished to appear younger he could either move to Harrogate, where he’d be less than half the median age, or stay put, and tell the cyber-world he was 39. It was a no brainer really.

There was a sharp knock on the door of Kris’s office:‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Kris minimised the page and defaulted to a screensaver of hamsters playing in the sunshine. Standing up, he pulled on his immaculate Valentino jacket, straightened his specs, then called:‘Come on in.’ The door opened hesitantly, a coffee tray acting as a battering ram. ‘Oh you, Miss Haggard, I thought I said I didn’t want coffee this morning?’‘I realise that, Mr Karton, sir,’ cooed the old retainer, ‘ but I thought I’d bring it just the same: I’ve got some news.’ Kris, only mildly interested raised his eyesbrows.‘Yes, sir, they’re slaying a batch of gerbils this morning and I thought Lady Gaga might like the livers.’ Her boss pondered, finger to his lips.‘Mmm, it’s a tough one. She was poorly for weeks after I took her that pig’s penis.’ The pharmacist’s mind wandered back to the incident. There’d been quite a rumpus when his cat was found tearing around Didsbury with swine genitalia trailing from its jaw.Kris knew it was hard enough for an established gay couple to live in any mixed community, but when the neighbours raised particular objections because it was a pig’s cock and balls, that was the limit! Their next door neighbour Mrs Hussein had put it more succinctly: ‘Pleese, Mr Karton, never a peeg! Anything else, and make it halal if you can. Think of the cheel-dren.’ Oh dear. That was another time when he and Gordon had argued. His partner got on well with the neighbours and wanted very much to stay where they’d lived for twelve years. Kris on the other hand was always unsettled, and was constantly on the lookout for a house move that would take them upmarket, city central, away from prying eyes.

‘Mr Karton?’ Miss Haggard was still holding the tray. ‘OK, just put it down. Tell despatch they can donate their gerbil livers to a worthier cause. You may go now, and make sure that ‘do not disturb’ sign is in place.’ And he waved his hand in the direction of the door as his personal assistant tossed her head and left. Privacy restored Kris resumed completion of the profile. The pig’s dick incident segued neatly into the next part of the profile - penis size? Kris felt his face grow warm, ‘extra large, please’ he muttered under his breath, knowing, sadly that the question referred not to his stated preference but rather what he was putting on the table. But here, we should add Kris had an invaluable weapon at his disposal. Though possessed of a puny physique, he was a dab hand with the camera; if anyone could photograph a dick and make it look larger then it was he. Lord, how he hoped these questions weren’t going to get any worse; just one more hurdle to leap, sexual preference. A deft click on ‘I’m a bottom only.’ ended Kris’s ordeal and he proceeded to upload the photographs that were going to be the finishing touch, and raise his profile above the sea of anonymity. Of course, he thought, quickly reigning himself in, I must not go too far – absolutely NO face pics!

The phone rang, Kris snatching it angrily: ‘Pathology. Kris Karton here, don’t tell me you’ve run out of Marlboros again!’ ‘Kris, it’s me Gordon, what on earth were you talking about just then?’ Kris puffed,‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, what is it anyway Gordon? You know I’d prefer you not to call me at work.’‘Well, yes, I know you’ve told me more than once. But I just needed to tell you that I’ve been called in to a parent teacher thing tonight.’ ‘But you assured me you weren’t involved in that.’ added Kris sharply. Gordon remained calm: ‘And I shouldn’t be by rights, but I subbed so much in physics last term that I’ve got to show up. I should be home by ten at the latest.’ Secretly Kris was delighted with this turn of events, but, practised as he was in the art of turning any situation into one where he came out the victim, and the other person a shit, he whined: ‘I suppose it’ll have to be; and I’d planned some nice liver for tea.’ ‘Sorry, Kris; shall I bring something in?’ his partner offered. ‘No, you just sort yourself out, I suppose I can manage. I just wish you’d given me more notice. I’ve got to go now, some of us have real jobs you know, unlike you teachers; catch you later.’And he crashed the phone down. At the other end Gordon blinked, looking only mildly surprised. He was used to this. Alison, Head of the English Department and his best friend in school looked up from her paper.’ ‘Everything OK?’ ‘I think so’ She reached over: ‘I can get cover for you tonight if it’s really urgent’ ‘No, no. I’ll manage. But thanks Alison.’

The afternoon wore on. To his considerable satisfaction Kris successfully uploaded many flattering images onto his profile, including some impressive rear shots. The day was going well and he felt he was on a roll. He rang maintenance and gave instructions for his car to be washed and made ready for his departure at 15.30 at the latest. Cancelling lunch, he surfed a number of sites ranging from Spanish resorts to Brazilian rent boys, and soon it was time to head home. Even the appalling traffic chaos of North West England could not dampen Kris’s mood as he piloted his BMW 8 series through the snarl ups, graciously giving way to white van men, old ladies, bus drivers and others who, on a more typical day, he’d have wished dead. When he finally reached the large comfortable mid-war semi that was the home he shared with Gordon, he parked on the drive just as Mrs Hussein was bundling her three children out of the family people carrier. ‘Hi, lovely day, isn’t it?’ he grinned. His neighbour, clearly in shock, replied inaudibly and quickly shepherded the kids indoors. Kris was carrying a large bag and she didn’t dare think what might be inside. Kris went indoors and Lady Gaga came down the stairs to meet him, howling balefully. ‘I’ll feed you in a minute, sweetheart, let’s just get the mail.’ Kris went to the door at the end of the hall and gathered up the post. Top of the pile was the local newspaper; the headline read: ‘Animal activists plan action against Canis Carcinoma!’ Kris’s smile gave way to a look of disgust. ‘Why can’t they leave us alone? Let them campaign around the council estates, there’s enough animal abuse there to keep them busy, damn trouble makers.’ Lady Gaga was surveying her master with narrowed, jade eyes. She always knew when he was upset - didn’t care, of course - but knew. The headline news gave Kris the excuse he needed to go online, ostensibly to check out the activists, but also to see how things were progressing on his social networking site. He unpacked his laptop and switched it on. Frantically stabbing at the buttons, he logged onto Mince-Meet and checked his profile. Each second he waited seemed like eternity. Then ping! Up it came. He had messages!

Chapter 2: Who’s Out There?

Kris’s head was spinning with excitement as he sat down at his laptop. The first message received was from someone still online. Their profile name was one of those made up of punctuation marks and letters, and the message read: ‘Hi. You up for it, in half an hour?’ Kris gasped in disgust, then typed frantically, his bony fingers hammering on the keys like tiny, demented woodpeckers: ‘Tempted as I am by your exciting offer, I work in a fish gutting plant in Grimsby, and by the time I get home, and wash the smell of rotting cod out of my hair, I may be running too late to meet your punishing deadline. Why not stretch your kind offer to ten minutes next time?’ He was just about to check the next message when a reply popped up: ‘No need to be so fucking obnoxious, a simple ‘no’ would have done.’ Kris had learned his first lesson; not everybody out there was as dumb as he imagined. Moving swiftly on to the next message, he saw that it came from ‘Ridiculously-large’ - just the sort of member he liked! But as Kris read the text the colour drained from his face. ‘Are you really 39? I like your pics, but judging by the back door shots, I’d say you’ve been around a bit longer.’ Kris fished around wildly for the ‘block’ button and consigned extra-large dick to cyber oblivion. This was not going well! ‘One more attempt, then I’m done’ he snarled. But the next message looked little better. It was from 19-year-old ‘FitYungHungChav.’ Kris wasn’t optimistic. A swift survey of the profile revealed scant detail, no photographs, and – Kris hated himself for this – ‘FitYung..’ had described himself as ‘extra large’ Kris opened with a disingenuous apology: ‘I think I might be a bit old for you’ Fit got straight back: ‘No probs, I just like old guys with really hairy arseholes, so... Click, and he too was gone. Kris’s optimism was evaporating fast. And Lady Gaga could read the signs; she’d seen those wild eyes before, and the way her master pushed his specs up onto his brow, and scratched the back of his head. It was time to clear out. Kris slammed shut his laptop and walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a stiff gin and tonic, stood by the window and stared blankly into the garden. This wasn’t how things were meant to go.

Sipping the drink, he looked back over his life. He’d been raised in a rough part of Manchester. His parents, already quite old at the time of his birth, were kind and well meaning, but Kris, bright, wayward and sharp tongued, had often been too much of a challenge for them. School had been a particularly difficult time for the boy, even before he came out. His neat clothes were envied, his academic ability resented, and his ‘posh accent’ mimicked. Wearing specs had earned him repeated beatings from the other boys, and when, one day, he foolishly let slip that he liked the Carpenters, that guaranteed certain death from his tormentors but for the intervention of several girls whose close combat skills proved more effective the bullies’. Of course, these fearsome females didn’t find Kris attractive, but they did value him as someone who could do their homework, and give occasional much needed advice on cosmetics and colour co-ordination. Kris should have learned then the value of friends. It was at university that he met the man who’d change his life, and ultimately prove to be the truest ally he had. Gordon Chapman was reading English and wanted to be a journalist. And his inventive mind, ready wit, and prop forward’s frame would have equipped him perfectly for that, except that he lacked the rhino hide that such people need. For, sad to say, Gordon was sensitive beyond words. He’d met Kris at a college gay-lesbian disco; he’d first encountered the slightly built young man crawling around on all fours in the gentlemen’s washroom. Kris had explained he was simply looking for a lost contact lens. Gordon couldn’t understand why, in such circumstances, Kris should have his jeans and shorts around his ankles, but he settled for complimenting him on his ‘cute bottom’. The kind remark had been like aloes to a scorched brow, and Kris was smitten by the man who was destined to be his knight in shining armour, lover and protector. Kris jolted himself back into the present. ‘But that was then.’ he thought, pouring himself another extra large gin. ‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since and I need to make a new life for myself.’ And with these thoughts he returned to the laptop and the cornucopia of carnal delights that is Mince-Meet

‘Fancy a ciggie? Come on, let’s go outside. I’ve got to get away from parents for at least ten minutes, or I’ll scream.’ Alison smiled manically and Gordon took the hint, picking up his folder and following her towards the emergency exit on the ground floor of Levenshawe High School. Parent evenings could be a grind at the best of times, tonight was no exception. They exited the building and stole over to the cycle sheds like a couple of kids making out for the first time. Alison stopped, then lit two cigarettes, handing one to Gordon. ‘You would not believe what Natasha Wright’s mother just accused me of.’ But Gordon laughed out loud and squeezed her around the waist. ‘Remember our deal, you don’t mention any parents to me and I return the favour. Just chill, only six more weeks till the end of term.’ ‘How on earth do you manage to remain so positive about everything?’ Gordon suddenly looked serious, his brow wrinkling, as if in sympathy with his unfashionably wavy hair. ‘What’s the alternative? Life’s short, brutish and rough, or tough, or something like that, as someone once said.’ ‘Thomas Hobbes’ Alison offered.‘Smart Arse!’‘No, it was Hobbes, Arse came later!’ They both laughed, then drew on their cigarettes, creating tiny red semaphores in the blackness. ‘So how’s Greene doing? Has he got a job yet?’ Alison’s smile evaporated. ‘You are joking! He’s the laziest thing on God’s earth. Why couldn’t I have had a sister? The latest craze is media and tourism. He goes to this night class, all free of course as he’s unemployed, a complete waste of time.’‘Why’s that?’ asked Gordon. Alison looked tired: ‘What can he do with media and tourism? I thought he only signed up for the course ‘cos he fancied the tutor.’ ‘Sounds a good enough reason to me’ laughed Gordon. ‘You would say that! Well, I’ve met the guy. Greene invited me to join them for a coffee. He’s called Roberto’ ‘Oooh, se--xy!’ quipped Gordon. ‘You better believe it! Broad shoulders, great smile, eye lashes any woman would kill for, but I don’t trust him.’ ‘That’s a bit harsh’ added Gordon, ‘What’s the guy done?’ ‘Come on Gordon, you know what it’s like when you’ve got a bad feeling about something. This guy’s 28, or something; years younger than Greene, but he’s way more streetwise. We’d better be getting back.’ Alison cast a nervous glance at her watch. ‘So what’s this guy done to get under your skin?’ Gordon persisted. ‘Nothing I can put my finger on, obviously, but he just has to clap his hands and Greene jumps.’ ‘Are they dating?’ ‘No, but they’ve had sex.’ Gordon feigned outrage: ‘I’m not even going to begin to ask you how you know that!’ ‘Good, ‘cos I wouldn’t tell you.’ Alison stubbed out her cigarette and turned to go back in. ‘Hey not so fast, I was meaning to pick your brains.’ countered Gordon, ‘I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s Kris’s and my twentieth anniversary coming up and I wanted to surprise him. He’s the sharp, switched on, stylish one. Just for once I wanted to knock his socks off with a really wild, sexy present. That’s where you come in.’ Alison looked thoughtful: ‘Listen Gordon, if you’ve both made it through 20 years and are still happy that’s pretty much the best present you could have.’ Gordon suddenly looked wistful.‘I knew you would say something sensible like that. But give it some thought, won’t you?’ ‘I can do better’ added Alison, ‘why don’t we go for a drink after this is done and we can talk about it then?’ ‘Great! I’ll give Kris a call’ Then it was time to return indoors and face the hordes of breeders.

Manchester. Night approached and the great metropolis began its daily transformation. Shops closed, workers left, traffic eased and even the birds retreated to the trees. Then the lights appeared, gently at first, like a carpet of stars, but growing in intensity as the darkness deepened. By late evening they strafed the night with garish brilliance. And somewhere amidst this kaleidoscope of neon was the club Spurtz. The club was at capacity but it was two people, seated on high stools at the end of the bar, who were commanding most of the attention. A barman approached them: ‘Miss Morales, you’re on in ten minutes.’ The recipient of this intelligence threw back her head by way of acknowledgement, and blew smoke into the air. Luce Morales was a tribute act, homage à Dusty Springfield, and no-one did the late, much loved diva better. Luce, though past her prime - nobody quite knew her age except the GUM clinic and the Inland Revenue – could still give an account of ‘Yesterday when I was young’ that moistened many a hardened, Mancunian eye. But for once, all eyes in the room were turned not towards her but her companion. Relaxing, with all the assurance of one who knows he’s the most attractive person in the bar by a factor of ten, Luce’s new friend looked casual in his oatmeal linen suit and white shirt. His eyes were blacker than her mascara and his smile, when it came, was dazzling. For nearly half an hour the two sat, chatted and sipped sparkling water. Getting into rôle, Luce’s voice developed a sort of Diana Dors sultriness as she turned to her handsome neighbour: ‘Will you stay to watch the show?’ ‘Of course, and once again thanks for all your help.’ ‘Glad to be of help, sweetheart. Kris and I go back a long way. There’s nothing about him I can’t tell you.’ So saying, the diva stepped down off the stool and headed off to the washroom to re-apply. The vision in linen didn’t waste a second. He glanced rapidly at his Tag, adjusted his cuffs, took one contemptuous scan of the room, and strode out, confident in the knowledge that all eyes were on him. On the street, the stranger hailed a cab, and, as it drew up, made a call. ‘I’ve managed to get most of what I wanted, though the drag act couldn’t be sure which house Karton lives in. I’ll get that tomorrow. See you later.’

We don’t know what we don’t know. Kris’s day, which had started out so well had ended drearily. The stellar evening he’d planned online had not materialised. If Mr Right was out there he was lying low, and most of the messages Kris received were depressing if not outright insulting. As the night wore on the contributors to Mince-Meet appeared to be drunk, drugged, demented or desperate, and in some cases all four. Kris got ready for bed; his own bed in his own room. He was spikier than usual because Gordon had rung and explained he’d be late because he was having a drink with Alison. Would Kris have been kinder had he known that his partner was planning an anniversary surprise for them both? Possibly not. Would he have replied a little less sharply to Gordon if he’d taken time to reflect on just what he’d been doing all evening? Probably not. And would his sleep have been just that little bit less disturbed if he’d known exactly what someone out there did have planned for him? Certainly not!

Chapter 3: Sound Bites

Kris sat down at his desk, catching sight of himself in one of the many mirrors that adorned his office. ‘In some lights I look rather like Michael Caine’ he mused. It’s doubtful Michael Caine would have derived any comfort from that. Just then Miss Haggard knocked on the door in timid, genteel fashion. ‘Come in.’ She bustled in, the tea tray welded to her stomach, making her look like a cinema usherette of the 1950s.‘What would you like today, Mr Karton? Chef tells me the sausage rolls are nice.’ ‘Oh, just get me a coffee and a Beagle.’ Miss Haggard recoiled at the inappropriateness of the remark, but Kris brayed, sounding like a goat on acid. Picking up the tray, his personal secretary prepared to leave: ‘It’s probably as well you don’t have anything right now, sir, there’ll be coffee and biscuits at ten when we all meet in the conference room.’ Kris barked: ‘What! What are you talking about?’ ‘Haven’t you heard yet? You’ll get a shock when you check your mail.’ That’s nothing to the shock she’d have got if she’d checked his mail. ‘The builders are arriving today to start work on our new extension, the state of the art laboratory, over by the kennels.’

Kris melted at the mention of the word builders. For years he’d fantasised about them, stemming from one incident in his youth. Nowadays it would be fair to say that Kris is a catcher rather than a pitcher, but it wasn’t always so. Many years earlier, when he was yet a student he’d worked on a building site. He was required mainly to clean equipment and make tea, but one day he found other services were required of him. Though he could scarcely believe it, a ripped, hot builder, stripped to the waist, had enticed him over to the workmen’s portacabin. Once inside he’d closed and locked the door behind them. They were alone. Kris took a swig of water, lubricating his mouth for what, he imagined, was shaping up to be a marathon throat job on the god with the hod. But to his shock and amazement the fit labourer dropped his pants, leaned over the table facing the wall, and said: ‘Go to it, sunshine! But when I call out Jesus F****** Christ, you stop, OK’ Happy days! Then it was time to rejoin the room. ‘Mr Karton!’ Miss Haggard put down the tray. ‘And you’ll not know what else has happened?’ ‘But you’re going to tell me’ added Kris wearily. ‘Well someone in the media has leaked news our new planned laboratory to the animal rights activists. They’re going to be here early afternoon. They’re having a demonstration.’ Kris was depressed. He’d bookmarked the morning to trawl for cock in all the Manchester postcodes and beyond. This news was the last thing he needed, and it was about to get worse. ‘Mr Blumenthal, the CEO in Milwaukee is staying up all night. He’s going to talk to us on the video link; how exciting!’ ‘Yes, very’ Kris had buried his head in his hands. ‘And that’s not all, we’ve got some American Peta coming over.’ Kris brightened up immediately. ‘American peter? I’m up for some of that.’ Yes Kris, we know; American peter, Canadian cock, Dutch dick, Polish prick, French phallus etc, but Miss Haggard persevered: ‘No, Mr Karton. You don’t understand. It’s those people who believe in the ethical treatment of animals. And one of the top interviewers from American television is coming too, to interview you.’ ‘Interview me? Are you mad, woman? Go and get me that coffee right now.’ And as she left the office, he reached into his drawer, withdrew the hip flask he kept for emergencies, and drained it to the last drop.

Greene Carter lived with his sister Alison - sometimes. He lived with his mother sometimes too, and had lived with a series of partners, roommates, and boyfriends at one time or other. In fact, so used had Greene become to his itinerant life that he’d managed to slim down his worldly possessions to precious little, and to store it in boxes, bags, and carriers, ready for the inevitable next move. It was sad, because Greene was a nice guy; everybody said so. He’d reached thirty eight, but little else. His tall, willowy stature, and fine, dark, floppy hair suggested he might be younger; and his predilection for A & F fashion might have confirmed it. But the game was given away when he stared at you with those restless, tired eyes that spoke more eloquently than could he of the many disappointments he’d endured. Greene had no job; in the past he’d flirted with degrees in fashion, diplomas in design and much else, but nothing lasted. Time and again his sister Alison bailed him, Greene readily drawing on any resource she offered him, save the very one he needed most – her advice! Recently she’d suggested he might consider the care profession. Days later he’d come home and told her he’d signed up for some media course. She’d been incandescent and had found it hard to speak to him. But this morning curiosity had got the better of her. It was mid morning, and it appeared that Greene did have somewhere to go. Alison broke the silence, ‘You look very smart. Going somewhere special?’‘I don’t expect you’d approve, but Roberto has singled me out from the group and today, he and I, just us two, are going to the pill factory. It seems there’s going to be a major row today, demonstrators, police, television, and he wants me to see how the media are involved in these things.’Alison was dubious, but, anxious to repair things with her brother, she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and sit this one out.

The media had leaked news to animal rights campaigners about Canis Carcinoma’s new laboratory, but the police too had got hold of the same information, and when Greene and Roberto arrived on site they found a massive security presence, and were able to get within only a hundred yards of the main gate. Steadily, the news teams from around the UK and from further afield began to gather. The latest to arrive was from the US. ‘Oh, this should be interesting. It’ll be a chance for you to see how an American news team operates’ enthused Roberto. But as the SUV pulled up, and all personnel climbed out, Roberto drew back, staring in disbelief. Out of the back of the vehicle stepped a slightly built woman in her early forties. She had Carole King hair, but the eyes, nose and mouth of a bird of prey. This was Jezebel Roth. If you had only one place left at your dinner table, you’d invite Rasputin ahead of this woman. Greene now sensed that his companion would rather be elsewhere. But Roberto was in no way a low key person. Looking like a refugee from Fantasy Island he was utterly out of place in the all pervading gloom of England. The bird of prey looked about her, then spotted the Latino: ‘My God, it’s Javier Sanchez, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.’ She made a beeline for him. ‘So you finally managed to get a green card, did you, guapo? Pity it’s the UK, I thought you were in the market for an upgrade.’ Roberto’s eyes were flashing, but with perfect composure he replied: ‘I’m afraid I have no idea who you are. We’ve clearly never met before.’ ‘My, my, that IS good. I’m loving the Hugh-Grant-accent. You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?’ They eyed each other for the longest five seconds Greene had ever experienced, until she broke the spell and turned away. ‘Who’s that?’ rasped Greene in a suppressed whisper. ‘I have no idea, some stupid bitch who’s clearly mistaken me for someone else.’ But try as he might Greene couldn’t shake the notion that these two had meant something to one another in the past.

Kris’s morning had been chaotic. First there was the ten o’ clock meeting of all staff, followed by a special emergency get together of the managerial grades. This led directly into an executive lunch during which the wine flowed. That over, Kris retired to his office for a much needed rest. But it was not to be. Miss Haggard thumped the door: ‘Mr Karton.’ ‘Yes, for God’s sake, what is it now?’ ‘The chief says he wants you in the car park in five minutes, ready for your first interview.’ Kris gulped, straightened his tie, left his room, and walked down the hall, out of the building and into the media scrum. The journalists and camera crews were ready, and slavering. Jezebel Roth’s crew surveyed the scene with deadpan expressions. They’d noted in particular the pasty faces of the assembled factory staff, a crew member commenting: ‘Good thing we’re not indoors. I don’t think we’ve enough make up. These Brits are so white they look like they’ve just stepped out of The Mikado.’ Just then Kris appeared, Rod, the cameraman giggled: ‘Uh oh, it looks like he’s already in makeup!’ But Kris had heard him. ‘Excuse me! It’s gentlemen’s foundation and a touch of guyliner, essential for coping with unexpected, damp conditions.’ ‘Bit like his boxers, I expect’ added the other, turning away. But if anything was going to cause an accident in Kris’s underwear it was the appearance of Jezebel Roth herself. With a voice like a buzz saw through a chalk board, she opened her presentation: ‘This is Jezebel Roth, from Vapid News – Keep it rapid, keep it Vapid, reporting from a very wet and unpleasant Manchester, England. I’m here at the site of Canis Carcinoma’s main European production. The workmen have just arrived to start work on a new laboratory. I have with me Mr Kris Karton. She advanced threateningly towards Kris: ‘You the guy that chops up the animals?’ She thrust the mike into his face. ‘I think you’ll find I’m the senior pathologist.’ ‘So what do you make of all these demonstrators, do they have a point? Kris cleared his throat, looking nervously about him: ‘Of course, this is a complex issue, and too involved for sound bites, I think I can best....’ The harpy’s eyes blazeed: ‘Sound bites? This is a serious interview.’ Chris smirked, looking fouler than ever: ‘Oh come off it love. Everybody knows that the average viewer of Vapid News has the attention span of the Venezuelan dung beetle.’‘CUT!’ Jezebel Roth aimed her laser eyes at Kris, fixing the puny creature to the spot. ‘Are you for real? They told me you’d been briefed. Do you know how any of this works?’ Kris recovered nimbly. Fifty years, as a gay man on the streets of Manchester had given him the most acid of tongues, and he wasn’t taking this lying down, as he did most other things. Jezebel turned to her cameraman simultaneously consulting her Blackberry. She spat out her instructions: ‘Rod, make sure we’re on a flight out of here by six at the latest. I don’t care if we have to go via Atlanta, just get me out.’ Kris stepped forward: ‘And not a moment too soon, ‘chop up animals’ How dare you? I’m a scientist, a qualified pathologist.’ ‘Yeah, whatever’ Jezebel had already decided this interview wasn’t going to fly, but Kris persisted: ‘Why didn’t you visit the plant in Milwaukee? They ‘chop up’ animals too?’ ‘Yeah, but they’re not about to be burned down by a group of activists.’ ‘Burned down?’ Kris’s head had begun to spin. He’d been up since five thirty, it was raining, cold, and he’d spent the day mixing coffee with whisky, steak with red wine, and bagels with rum. His vision was blurring. ‘Oh no, the buzzard’s attacking me’....Then his guts cramped and convulsed: ‘Bloooooaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!’ And the entire contents of his stomach found a new home over Jezebel’s Armani slacks and Gucci loafers.‘You little asshole’ she screeched. Oh boy, she got it sooooo wrong there! That’s not the Kris we know.

Kris cleaned up, packed up and shipped out. He took a sleeping pill when he got home and crashed for an hour or so. Gordon was as solicitous as usual but his kindness was curtly declined. Then just before eleven, with Gordon retired for the night, Kris got up, went downstairs to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. In the silence he sat down and opened his laptop. He checked; there’d been no messages. Maybe it was for the best, he’d had enough drama for one day, but just as he was about to log off contact was made: ‘Hola, I’m Roberto. I just have to meet you’

Chapter 4: Musical Chairs

‘It’s crap. You must do better.’ Roberto closed his laptop and looked at Greene: ‘You don’t understand. This needs analysis. I need evidence for each side of the argument; why animals have to be tortured for the sake of scientific research, and, conversely, why that position is intolerable, unacceptable.’ Greene looked winded. It was bruising enough that his first foray into studying The Media had been so comprehensively rubbished, but the scorn hurt all the more coming as it did from a man ten years his junior. Roberto Subero could often look sophisticated and mature, but right now he looked younger even than his 28 years. Subero gazed out of the window for a while as Greene gathered up his papers and case. The would-be student was just on the point of leaving when his mentor turned: ‘Wait! I realise that I have a responsibility to guide, encourage and sustain as well as criticise. I’ve been a bit harsh. This is a complex brief.’ He walked over to Greene and stood in front of him. Being slightly smaller than his student Roberto was obliged to look up at him. Greene put his bag down on the desk and met Roberto’s eyes. It was true, they weren’t brown, but black! black as Hell, and devoid of warmth, compassion, even lust. Greene studied his seducer, powerless to escape or resist. The Latino’s features were near perfect, the voluptuous lips, faultless, white teeth and finely trimmed goatee. When his lips touched Greene’s the latter’s fate was sealed. They kissed long and hard, then fell to the floor, undressing, enjoying each other, arousing, pleasuring and being aroused and pleasured in turn. But deep in his heart Greene knew how it would end. Almost without warning Roberto sprang up and sat astride his lover. The mood had changed: ‘Stay where you are, don’t move.’ His face was frozen into a mask of arrogance. Roberto reached over with his left hand and held Greene’s head down firmly to the floor. With his free hand he continued to stroke himself until his carefully planned moment. And when the time came his urgent pumping delivered full and equal measures of satisfaction and humiliation.

Few drinking establishments on the Manchester gay scene are as celebrated as ‘Twisted Fister’ or ‘The Fist’ as it is known locally. The bar was the brainchild of Frank McBride, businessman, developer, and avid follower of American heavy metal bands. Nobody knew how ‘Sister’ managed to become ‘Fister’. Some argued it was the natural consequence of a bad speech impediment Frank had; others, that the signpainter was pissed the day he called round. But all were agreed that whilst the bar had never been graced by the presence of the band Twisted Sister, numerous fisters, twisted and otherwise had made the pub their home. Kris, too, was no stranger to ‘The Fist’ so when his late night caller Roberto suggested meeting up in that very place, he raised no objections. Kris arrived first and breezed through the door, confident of recognition by staff and clientele alike: the barman greeted him: ‘Hi Kris, what’ll it be? your usual?’ His customer smirked, ‘Usual? There’s nothing usual about me, lover. I’ll have a cider.’ ‘I have a nice pear?’remarked the barman. ‘So I’ve heard. OK, I’ll try your nice pair.’ Ripple of laughter, as the barman poured. ‘Shall I fill it right up?’ ‘Many have tried that, and failed.’ Machine gun laughter. Cabaret over, Kris walked to a window seat and sat down. He positioned himself so that he could survey the entire bar and keep an eye on the entrance. Then he reflected on recent events: my Lord, what a week it had been, and how unfair of everybody to blame him! Jezebel Roth had been enough to cause the PR Officer at work – the only member of the team trained to deal with the media - to flee to the toilets, where he’d barricaded himself in. Kris had been their second choice, and his encounter with Jezebel was now history. The doyenne of American networks was a laughing stock, images of her puke-soaked garments topping over five million hits on YouTube. And it wasn’t just that he’d used her legs as a vomitorium: more importantly nobody had got the message that animals must suffer if research into cures for human disease is to make progress. The whole horrible affair had been death to Kris’s career; the managing director had given him a dressing down, ordered him to take time off - which he never ordinarily did - and to keep his head down, which he often did! Kris sipped disinterestedly his cider as the minutes ticked by. All about him, The Fist’s customers were resorting to time honoured devices to mask the awkwardness of being there alone. Mobile phones were checked and re-examined, cigarettes lit, magazines perused. And from time to time eyes would look up as a newcomer entered the bar. But nobody caused more eyebrows to rise than the next customer. Roberto Subero walked through the door and paused for the briefest of moments. It gave him all the time he needed to take stock of his new surroundings. Scanning the room, he identified his target and, displaying no emotion walked directly towards him: ‘Campo Amor?’ he queried, stretching out his hand. Kris almost choked when he saw the apparition in a suit. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he spluttered. ‘That would be very nice. A small New World Chardonnay in a chilled glass, if it’s no problem.’ It wasn’t a problem, it was an impossibility! Kris made a rapid calculation that the only part of the request The Fist’s bar staff could meet was ‘glass.’ Roberto, sensing at once Kris’s discomfort, amended his order, and in a scathing tone added: ‘OK, how about water? And I’ll settle for sparkling or still, no ice, warm or very warm, with a dirty glass, and slice of day old lemon, à la your wonderful British customer service?’ Kris walked to the counter, aware that he was colouring. He liked the idea that the most glamorous man for miles around was sitting at his table, but he was stinging from the barbed tongue.

He returned with a fairy respectable attempt at the refreshment, and set it down before Roberto. The Latino barely acknowledged, took a tissue from his pocket and dusted the table. Kris responded feebly: ‘We can always go somewhere else if you’d prefer.’ ‘You mean you can take me to another festering shithole?’ Kris remained silent, Señor Subero continued: ‘Now tell me about ‘Campo Amor.’ The little man felt on safer ground and began to gush: ‘Well, that comes from my love of Spain, I’m sure you can appreciate that.’ ‘You think so, considering what Spain has done to my country over the course of the last four hundred and fifty years? If ever there was a non sequitur this was it so Kris gave no reply. Roberto stood up, stifling his irritation. ‘Let’s go for a walk, along the side of your city’s delightful canal, and we can talk.’ Kris dutifully followed. For the first few moments nothing was said, the Latino glancing up at the buildings, down at the cobbles, into the murky water. Then he broke the silence: ‘So have things settled down after the debacle at Canis?’ Kris was rather startled but could hardly be surprised that his contretemps with Ms Roth had reached the ears of his companion. But before he could reply Roberto went in for the kill: ‘It really seemed like you weren’t prepared for that interview.’ Kris found his voice: ‘It’s not my brief. I was pulled in at the last minute. And nobody told me I’d get that harpy for the first interview. I’ve met some hard boiled eggs but she’s ten minutes!’ Had Kris taken the trouble to look into Roberto’s eyes at that moment he’d have seen a light of recognition at the mention of her name. But none of that mattered after the next communication. ‘My apartment’s just along here. Maybe you’d like to join me?’ The Latino stud had already been through his paces earlier that day with Greene. But he was still up for more. And for Kris it couldn’t be simpler; when would he ever get a chance like this again?

Elsewhere, another meeting of gay men was taking place. At Levenshawe Community Centre the monthly gathering known as ‘Man Overboard’ was getting underway. This forum existed to provide comfort, advice and practical help to gay men who’d been abused at home and, in some cases, thrown out. Amongst the benefactors present was Kris’s partner Gordon.And tonight the victim in focus was Justin, a seventeen year old who’d been badly beaten by his mother’s boyfriend. The police had refused to help and there’d been nobody else to turn to. Gordon had already spoken to Justin and decided that he must offer the boy shelter for the night. He tried contacting Kris at home and by mobile to clear this with him, but he could not get through. Other members of the group too were showing concern for Justin, one of the most prominent and influential of them being Horst Von Hung, principal flautist with the Royal Manchester Philharmonic Orchestra. Horst had an impressive record for rescuing young men; his opulent residence lay close to the city centre and boasted, among other things, an indoor pool and sauna. In Horst’s mind only one thing was better than sharing his Jacuzzi with a sixteen year old, and that was sharing it with two. The flautist was born in Bavaria, and raised in a rather austere Catholic family. He’d grown up believing that the performance of good works can improve the condition of one’s soul, and he was determined from a young age to help his gay brothers. His devoutly held belief was that, though any gay man in desperate need was worthy of help, special priority must be given to those who were under twenty and cute. And he was comforted to know that many of his gay brothers shared his point of view.

Gordon was no stranger to the wiles of Herr Von Hung and had in the past offered his own humble, but safe alternative to the lecherous old musician’s. Horst had of course already sounded out the young man, so Gordon, realising that urgent action was required planned to spirit Justin away during the break. Nine o’clock came and cups of tea and watery orange were handed around. Gordon broke through the throng engulfing Justin and whispered: ‘After the break Horst presents a slide show. Tonight, it’s ‘Cottages and Public Toilets of the North West.’ He’ll be trapped, operating his projector, that’s when we’ll nip out.’ And that’s exactly what they did, though Gordon’s exit was not quite as stealthy as he’d have liked. Horst Von Hung saw it all. He pursed his lips in suppressed rage, as though he were about to blow a high ‘c’ but there was nothing he could do. Justin was happy to accompany Gordon. Though the boy was young and inexperienced an inner voice was guiding him. He reviewed the different approaches to him that evening by both Gordon and Horst. Gordon’s first question to him had been ‘How’s your mother coping?’ whereas Horst’s was ‘Have you ever tried a water bed?’ Justin made the right choice. When they arrived home Gordon braced himself for the frosty reception that awaited him whenever he turned up with ‘waifs and gays’ as Kris put it. But to his surprise he found his partner relaxing in the lounge, watching comedy on the television and sipping a gin and tonic. Kris turned in his comfortable chair, his little bespectacled head popping up above the arm: ‘Oh hello love, I see you’ve got a friend.’ Gordon was taken aback. ‘Yes, it’s Justin. I’ve told him we’ll shelter him for a few days, till he can contact his mother and get himself sorted.’ ‘Of course, the spare room’s ready, and I can make some tea if you like. Hello, Justin.’ Gordon was relieved but puzzled. This wasn’t how it normally went, but he was grateful anyway. Justin declined the offer of tea and said he just wanted to turn in. Gordon returned downstairs and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He sat in silence in the kitchen while in the next room his partner sniggered at some banal sitcom. He felt that something wasn’t quite right. Oh Gordon, if only you knew!

Chapter 5: The Worm Turns

The call came from Canis Carcinoma inviting Kris to return to work. His absence had created a depressing backlog of work for him, but he was nonetheless glad to be back. Where else could he enjoy daily fresh flowers on his desk, access free phone calls, and have the services of Miss Haggard fetching and carrying? Not that he was grateful to her, oh dear me no! The faithful retainer greeted her boss with genuine delight: ‘It’s so good to have you back again, sir.’ Kris looked up, face twisted with spite: ‘Have you been at my biscuits?’ ‘Certainly not, Mr Karton.’ ‘Don’t act like it’s not possible! Judging by the size of your backside, I’d say you’re no stranger to the cookie jar, and I was sure I left a full box of gypsy crèmes. This is what happens when I’m gone five minutes.’ The insulted PA departed, slamming the door. This, of course was exactly what Kris wanted, and going online he logged onto Mince-Meet and found the profile for ‘Guapo-Robo’ one of Roberto’s many soubriquets. Immediately he fired off a message to his one-night-stand lover, gushing: ‘OMG, It’s true what they say about Latin men! I just had to tell you the other evening was the best time! I still can’t sit down, I’m so excited. I know you said you never do second meets, and I respect that, but I’d love to take you to dinner. Please send me a picture AND lose the clothes! I need something to get me through the day at this doggie-death-camp, ever yours, Kris, XXX.’ With a flutter of his finely manicured fingers Kris despatched the sickly sentiments. But there was no time to savour the moment; being online on such sites as Mince-Meet carries a downside, and opens one up to many uninvited attentions. A message popped up; but it was not from Guapo! Instead it was: ‘SickStalyLad’ of Stalybridge. ‘You’ve got a nice hairy hole,’ observed the youth. Kris was not cheered by this unflattering, if accurate statement and was about to quit when,‘do you like cider?’ Of course he did, but, puzzled as to how the sick messenger could know this, he foolishly prolonged the dialogue. ‘Yes, I do, why?’ ‘Cos I’d like to stick a cider bottle up your hole, and film it. Would you be up for that?’ Kris sank back in his chair, momentarily depressed. Days earlier, an Hispanic Adonis had enriched his life beyond all expectations. Now, this uncultivated yob was offering to impale him anally with a bottle of Woodpecker. How could both men be moulded from the same clay? Life was an enduring mystery. And, fearing lest the scrapings of the British underclass assail him with more obscene offers the senior pathologist clicked off. Reaching into his desk’s bottom drawer he withdrew an impressive dildo, reputed to have been fashioned on Jimmy Hendrix’s manhood. He stood the tumescent torpedo end up on the desk, and observed ruefully that his in tray was piled higher even than the mammoth cock; it was time to get back to work!

Greene Carter sat patiently in an empty class room on the first floor of the Bridgewater building. As instructed, he was half an hour early for tutorial, awaiting the arrival of Roberto. Greene knew only too well how Roberto had profited from this surplus time in the past. He winced as he recalled their first encounter, how he had excitedly reported to Alison his meeting with the new tutor, and how she had spent five minutes trying to brush some of that excitement out of his hair! This time he wanted to take back something to his sister that he could count as an achievement. But that was easier said than done. Roberto was like a juggernaut driving all before it, and Greene feared that, once he was in that domineering presence all his best intentions would evaporate. Roberto entered the room, swept over to Greene, smiling broadly, and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Setting down his laptop on the desk he switched it on, then said, ‘I liked your last paper, much improved. I think we can really start to make progress now.’ Greene felt like a dormouse in the presence of its most feared predator. Had he got this right - Roberto was in the mood for study rather than sex? Then his tutor’s phone rang. Checking the caller, the Latino laughed out loud,‘hola, chaval!’ A rapid fire conversation ensued in Spanish, and after less than thirty seconds Roberto ended the call, ran to the window, and waved wildly at someone in the car park. Without even glancing at Greene, he left the room. The abandoned student was bemused rather than interested, but after a few moments he too went to the window. Below he could see Roberto run across the campus car park to where another male was standing beside a rather vulgar sports car. They embraced, generally making a fuss of one another, then walked over to a burger van to order a snack. Greene watched as the two friends stood eating, laughing, and catching up. Struggling to suppress waves of rejection and worthlessness; he determined to fight back; and what came into his mind on this occasion was inspired. He glanced at Roberto’s unsecured laptop. It interested him to learn what his tutor-lover might have written about him or his work. His first instinct was to search the computer for ‘Greene Carter’ but he found nothing. When, on the other hand, he decided to try ‘Canis Carcinoma’ he was deluged with a bewildering amount of material! Taking from his pocket the flash drive he carried to all his tutorials he decided to copy all the files. Greene’s motive was silly and rather pathetic; he felt he might learn something material that would help him when preparing written work for his moody master. But he had no idea just what he was accessing. He moved the laptop close to the window to check that Roberto was still comfortably occupied with his friend in the car park. Sitting down, he composed himself and began to monitor the files, one after another, till all were saved. Greene had no idea what he’d just done, and the impact this information would have. But in the contest that is life he’d turned the tables – completely, and the dormouse had become the cat!