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Authors: Anthony Camber
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help.”
Hands deep in my pockets for warmth, I shrugged and shifted from foot to foot. “Hey, I mean, I sympathise, but what the hell can I do? Your beef is with Geoff and I don’t want to be piggy in the middle. If I’m honest I’m only in this right now for the mojitos and the afters — and since we’re standing still in the cold I have the sneaking suspicion I’m gonna be eating dessert on my own tonight.”
Seb laughed sadly. “I apologise. I had no intention to lead you on. I want you to help because you say you want to right wrongs. You want to fight injustice. You want to put away the bad guys.”
“Yeah, but not the guy who pays my cocking wages.”
“So justice has a limit, and the limit is your wallet, is that what you are saying?”
“I’m saying—” I let out a frustrated breath, a cloud of steam rising into the night. “I’m saying you don’t get far in journalism by attacking the man with the spike, is all, even if he is a shithead.”
“Look at it this way. Who better to establish your credentials? You want to be an investigative journalist? Investigate.”
“It’s not as easy as that. There’s a contract, you know, reasons .”
“Of course. There are always reasons. And all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
“Is that from Hollyoaks ?” I said, giving him a grin. Then I looked up at the stars for a second or two, and sucked in a lungful of air, sharp and cold. “Look, I’ll see what I can do. I’m not saying no, I’m not saying yes. I have a bit of due diligence to work through. Make sure you’re not some kind of lunatic, that sort of thing. You’ve got to admit you haven’t given me a huge amount to go on, though.”
He held out his hand and I shook it. It near burned with heat, the passion of a wronged soul. “Sebastian Greatsholme. Spelled G-R-E-A-T-S-H-O-L-M-E, pronounced Gresham. Pain in the arse. I might change it one day — if I meet the right man. I shall be in touch.”
five
The Potential
“Was it something I said?” Best puppy-dog eyes at Claire as she ranted all over me.
“Oh, Spencer!” she growled, wrapping the god-awful scarf around her neck. “I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much and I’m afraid my patience is exhausted. You’re a spoiled child. I don’t see why I should have to change your nappy. It’s no wonder Amanda can barely tolerate you. In her position I’d probably be the same.”
“Don’t talk about her, that mangy old— Tonight is for dancing and flirting and loving and tomorrow is another hangover.” I might have been a little tipsy, perhaps one or two over the eight. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to upset Claire so, but she clattered to her feet and effected a vibrant and stentorian exit at a stomp unexpected in one usually so delicate. I suspect it likely I made an unfortunate remark about her little salesman fellow, probably occupying a double-seat on a red-eye to Taiwan at that very moment to pick up more door-to-door throwaways.
I granted myself a silent five minutes, huddled in the cubicle with what drops remained of bottle n , before a swift visit to the below-ground toiletry facilities for activities that were purely above board.
I returned to find the cubicle hijacked by two young things ascending each other’s learning curves at some velocity. No matter. In any case it was well past time for a leisurely sweep around the establishment to see and be seen, to sniff and be sniffed. It was always a similar pattern: the same faces with the same greeting rituals, the same vapid smalltalk. Yes, it’s nice and busy tonight. No, I haven’t seen so-and-so. I do hope the weather clears up. I fear punting season is at an end. Have you heard about such-and-such? I understand X is seeing Y, and Z is climbing the walls . I was not a gossipy queen, except in that I was (a) a bit of a queen and (b) a bit of a gossip.
Cambridge had a relatively small cabal of homosexualists for its size
Hands deep in my pockets for warmth, I shrugged and shifted from foot to foot. “Hey, I mean, I sympathise, but what the hell can I do? Your beef is with Geoff and I don’t want to be piggy in the middle. If I’m honest I’m only in this right now for the mojitos and the afters — and since we’re standing still in the cold I have the sneaking suspicion I’m gonna be eating dessert on my own tonight.”
Seb laughed sadly. “I apologise. I had no intention to lead you on. I want you to help because you say you want to right wrongs. You want to fight injustice. You want to put away the bad guys.”
“Yeah, but not the guy who pays my cocking wages.”
“So justice has a limit, and the limit is your wallet, is that what you are saying?”
“I’m saying—” I let out a frustrated breath, a cloud of steam rising into the night. “I’m saying you don’t get far in journalism by attacking the man with the spike, is all, even if he is a shithead.”
“Look at it this way. Who better to establish your credentials? You want to be an investigative journalist? Investigate.”
“It’s not as easy as that. There’s a contract, you know, reasons .”
“Of course. There are always reasons. And all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
“Is that from Hollyoaks ?” I said, giving him a grin. Then I looked up at the stars for a second or two, and sucked in a lungful of air, sharp and cold. “Look, I’ll see what I can do. I’m not saying no, I’m not saying yes. I have a bit of due diligence to work through. Make sure you’re not some kind of lunatic, that sort of thing. You’ve got to admit you haven’t given me a huge amount to go on, though.”
He held out his hand and I shook it. It near burned with heat, the passion of a wronged soul. “Sebastian Greatsholme. Spelled G-R-E-A-T-S-H-O-L-M-E, pronounced Gresham. Pain in the arse. I might change it one day — if I meet the right man. I shall be in touch.”
five
The Potential
“Was it something I said?” Best puppy-dog eyes at Claire as she ranted all over me.
“Oh, Spencer!” she growled, wrapping the god-awful scarf around her neck. “I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much and I’m afraid my patience is exhausted. You’re a spoiled child. I don’t see why I should have to change your nappy. It’s no wonder Amanda can barely tolerate you. In her position I’d probably be the same.”
“Don’t talk about her, that mangy old— Tonight is for dancing and flirting and loving and tomorrow is another hangover.” I might have been a little tipsy, perhaps one or two over the eight. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to upset Claire so, but she clattered to her feet and effected a vibrant and stentorian exit at a stomp unexpected in one usually so delicate. I suspect it likely I made an unfortunate remark about her little salesman fellow, probably occupying a double-seat on a red-eye to Taiwan at that very moment to pick up more door-to-door throwaways.
I granted myself a silent five minutes, huddled in the cubicle with what drops remained of bottle n , before a swift visit to the below-ground toiletry facilities for activities that were purely above board.
I returned to find the cubicle hijacked by two young things ascending each other’s learning curves at some velocity. No matter. In any case it was well past time for a leisurely sweep around the establishment to see and be seen, to sniff and be sniffed. It was always a similar pattern: the same faces with the same greeting rituals, the same vapid smalltalk. Yes, it’s nice and busy tonight. No, I haven’t seen so-and-so. I do hope the weather clears up. I fear punting season is at an end. Have you heard about such-and-such? I understand X is seeing Y, and Z is climbing the walls . I was not a gossipy queen, except in that I was (a) a bit of a queen and (b) a bit of a gossip.
Cambridge had a relatively small cabal of homosexualists for its size
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