7

  Humphrey sank into his chair.

  The pleasure of seeing the back of Barney was almost worth the hassle of having him there, bugging him, in the first place.

  He sighed.

  He was just going to have to be patient, that was all.

  He could be patient.

  He could be very patient. He’d once patiently played seventy-seven games of Minesweeper on the computer, waiting for Anthea to give up waiting for him and go to bed on her own.

  And he could easily have played another seventy-seven games as well.

  Not that he wouldn’t happily have engaged in any number of different carnal activities with the woman: once he’d steeled his nerves with at least a bottle and a half of vodka, that is. It was simply that any appointment of that nature seemed to be always – always – doomed to failure.

  Anthea’s expectations far exceeded his – rather pathetic – abilities.

  Although, there was some comfort to be derived from the certainty that even an exchange visitor from Krypton would’ve felt nervous about a potential romantic encounter with Anthea.

  Even if he escaped, relatively unscathed, during the performance, there would still be hostile reviews – of some description – to be faced.

  Which sort of sounded like Barney’s singing career really.

  Perhaps he and Barney were a lot more similar than he’d ever, fully, appreciated?

  Except there was still some hope for Barney.

  They really were both just going to have to be patient. At the end of the day, Barney was still only learning the ropes of his chosen profession.

  ‘Learning the ropes’.

  Wasn’t that some old nautical term?

  He quickly ran through the lyrics of ‘In the Navy’ but was left with few answers. He resolved to play himself the accompanying video – in his mind – later on that evening, purely for research purposes.

  He might even allow himself a look at ‘Macho Man’ too, while he was about it.

  Something about that idea unsettled him.

  Maybe it was the thought that his old ‘Village People Biker’ costume might be too big for him these days?

  The moustache would be good to go though, surely?

  After all, a good moustache fits any face.

  And why was he thinking of Anthea?

  He was thinking of something else too, what was that?

  Whatever it was, it was the image of that moustachioed character that was doing it.

  Where was he now?

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  1985.

  Christmas?

  Yes.

  Christmas Day, 1985.

  Just him and his father.

  Oh yes, he could see him there now, checking his watch every five minutes and drinking whisky by the festive barrel.

  Fifteen years old, that whisky was.

  The same age Humphrey had been, at the time.

  And there were no prizes for guessing which one of them the old bastard was happier spending his Christmas with.

  Oh look, he was wearing his new belt.

  A strange, almost bizarre, gift for Humphrey to have got him although, in some ways, it had been perfect.

  He’d certainly not been expecting it.

  Humphrey hadn’t been expecting any of the things he’d received that day either.

  There’d been no ‘Sindy’ doll, that was the biggest trauma.

  No, of course there hadn’t.

  Never mind the fact that he may well have wanted her for quite legitimate purposes… like irritating the hell out of his father, for instance. Nobody had even thought to ask him why she’d appeared on his Christmas wish-list.

  Nope.

  Santa Claus had, quite obviously, just leaked the list to his father, who had stepped in and – apparently – taken it upon himself to write Humphrey a new one requesting rugby boots, an Action Man and a signed photograph of Jill Gascoine.

  Maggie Forbes had subsequently disappeared into the depths of his father’s briefcase. That was her life over then, over and done with.

  Poor woman; there would be no more Gentle Touches for her.

  Meanwhile, the rugby boots had been filled with compost before Noel Edmonds had even pulled his first televised cracker that day and were set to be planted – in the not too distant future – with the most effeminate flowers Humphrey could come up with.

  Something pink, definitely.

  And not carnations either, they were far too respectable.

  The Action Man, that had to be the reason for Humphrey’s trip back to this particular memory.

  It hadn’t even been the real one, just some half-price version.

  But it had been a really macho one, with a number one haircut and a moustache.

  Really macho.

  Like his father in fact, with his calfskin gloves and his sheepskin slippers. But unlike his father, Mr Man had clearly been overcompensating in his choice of profession.

  That was quite obvious to a trained observer.

  Mr Man had, no doubt, been forced, against his will, to follow a career, as near as dammit, one hundred and eighty degrees away from the one he’d been born to.

  Which was a ballet dancer, more than likely.

  Or possibly a flower arranger.

  Perhaps he could even advise Humphrey when the time came to plant out his new rugby boots?

  Anyway, it was the fault of a greedy multinational toy empire – or its Romford Market equivalent – that he had, instead, enlisted in the Marine Corps.

  He had to have a secret.

  That uniform; that haircut, that moustache… there had to be something. Nobody could possibly be that masculine in real life.

  Although that was clearly the reason he’d been parachuted into Humphrey’s stocking in the first place.

  Or, at least, into Humphrey’s pair of stockings.

  Ten denier.

  Well, he did have the legs for them!

  And he’d taken the calculated risk that his father would be highly unlikely to want to break in his new, high-quality, leather gift quite that soon.

  Maybe Mr Man himself wore tights, perhaps that was his secret?

  Maybe he sobbed until his heart broke during ‘Bambi’?

  Maybe he cried every time he had to chow down, overwhelmed by the sacrifice made, on his behalf, by any sort of reconstituted former living creature?

  Whatever it was, there was no way that Man – or, indeed, any other – could possibly be one hundred per cent masculine.

  Whatever ‘being a man’ actually meant.

  And what about his father, what was his secret?

  Being a greedy, arrogant and vain son of a bitch probably didn’t betray too much in the way of a feminine side. Most women of Humphrey’s experience were far too intelligent to feel the need to get involved with any of that sort of rubbish.

  Michael Lovewell would – most definitely – not have cried during ‘Bambi’. He would never have had the time to watch something like that and, even if he had, he would have empathised far more with the huntsman who pulled the trigger.

  In fact, he’d probably have helped him sell off the venison steaks down at the golf club.

  What about the silk underwear, was that feminine?

  It would’ve been if Humphrey had been wearing it, he’d have made sure of that. He’d have nipped straight down to the Marks and Spencer lingerie department and let rip. Although probably not literally, as he hadn’t yet embraced obesity to quite that extent.

  He’d definitely embraced his feminine side though.

  What was the difference between a pair of silk boxers and a pair of silk panties anyway? After all, neither one of them could offer all that much by way of testicular support.

  Humphrey could no more answer that question now than he’d been able to in 1985.

  All he did know was that the presence of silk panties about his person had pretty much guaranteed his father’s attention. Especially that first time, where they had – at least in part – been responsible for the man’s immediate physical return from some fundamentally unimportant, far-flung field of legal flimflam.

  Which had then brought Humphrey a dual lashing, from both tongue and belt.

  But that hadn’t really been the point.

  His father had been there with him.

  That was all that mattered.