Good Thing Bad Thing Read online

  Good Thing, Bad Thing

  Nick Alexander was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. When he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com. His latest novel, The Case of the Missing Boyfriend, was an eBook bestseller in early 2011, netting sixty thousand downloads and reaching number 1 on Amazon. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodovar films. Visit his website at www.nick-alexander.com

  Also by Nick Alexander

  THE FIFTY REASONS SERIES

  Fifty Reasons to Say Goodbye

  Sottopassaggio

  Good Thing, Bad Thing

  Better Than Easy

  Sleight of Hand

  SHORT STORIES

  13.55 Eastern Standard Time

  FICTION

  The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

  Good Thing, Bad Thing

  Nick Alexander

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by BIGfib Books.

  This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Nick Alexander, 2009

  The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-85789-637-7 (eBook)

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26-27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part One: When Sorry is the Hardest Word

  Part Two: What It Takes To Forgive

  Part Three: Good Thing Bad Thing

  Epilogue

  Do not pray for easy lives.

  Pray to be stronger men!

  Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers.

  Pray for power equal to your tasks.

  Phillips Brooks

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Richard Labonte and to Rosemary, Allan and Giovanni for their help with the final manuscript. Thanks to Apple computer for making such wonderful reliable work tools, and to BIGfib for making this book a reality.

  Part One:

  When Sorry is the Hardest Word

  There are so many good-looking men at Nice airport; I stand and watch as they stream through the stuttering automatic doors – a bizarre male beauty parade.

  There are young guys in trendy two-tone sweatshirts, and smooth businessmen in luxurious suits. Dreamily I imagine dating them, imagine being the person waiting for the guy with the bleached highlights, or the high-flying executive with the shiny briefcase – and wonder, how would that be?

  And now, here he is, the one I’m waiting for. He’s hiking his bag over his shoulder and looking around, scanning the room. He hasn’t seen me yet – and for a moment I am able to see him dispassionately – just a man in the crowd.

  Not the best looking of the bunch, I decide, not the best dressed, nor the most athletic. But there’s something about him all the same – an optimistic bounce in his step that makes him look less bored than most of the others, maybe more alive.

  And now he sees me, and when our eyes meet we break into matching grins, and that, I realise, is the thing that makes him the special one. The fact that simple eye contact makes us grin so broadly, stupidly even.

  He pushes through and drops his bag at my feet. “Jeeze that’s heavy,” he says.

  I laugh. “It’s a big old bag. What did you do? Bring a friend?”

  Tom smiles and hugs me. As he does so I feel him shrug. “It needs to be big,” he says. “A month is a long time.”

  I heave on the steering wheel and pull out onto the Promenade Des Anglais.

  “Are you sure you want to head straight off?” I say. “I mean there’s no reason at all why we can’t go home first, have a cuppa with Jenny, even spend the night there.”

  Tom shakes his head. “Nah, I like this idea,” he says. “Take a bus to get the train to get the plane, and then, hop! We’re away. The only thing missing is the Arab man.”

  I frown at him. “I’m sorry?”

  He starts to sing Oleta Adams’, Get Here.

  “Oh right, yeah,” I laugh. “Sometimes your musical references scare me.”

  “And I’ll see Jenny and Sarah when we get back,” Tom continues. He raps the dashboard. “So, just drive baby.”

  I lean over and peer in the side mirror.

  “Isn’t it hard driving this thing,” he asks. “I mean, here, in France?”

  I shrug. “It’s not the easiest thing,” I say. “I’d rather have a left-hand drive… But you get used to it.” I click on the indicators and swap lanes then settle back into my seat.

  “The worst thing is parking it,” I say. “Especially in Nice. It’s been a bitch trying to find any spaces big enough.”

  Tom pulls some chewing gum from the pocket of his denim jacket and offers me a stick. “She’s keeping it then?” he asks.

  I glance at him briefly and frown. “Oh, Jenny? I really don’t know,” I say. “She intended to… I mean, that’s why she brought it here, but I think now she’s driven all across France with it… well she’s had enough really.”

  “Good for us.” Tom strokes the door. “I love these old things.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Good for us.” I smile at Tom and then glance back at the road. “Only don’t ever say that to her, will you?”

  “Say what?”

  “Don’t call her beloved van an old thing,” I laugh. “It may look like a 1960’s hippy bus, but it’s almost new.”

  Tom chats to me a while as I drive east into Nice, then out north towards the Autoroute. He tells me about his new job in foreign exchange.

  “It’s weird really,” he says. “My uncle only reappeared on the family scene last month… I don’t remember ever having met him before – I mean, I did when I was tiny – and now, suddenly I’ll be working for him. Anyway, he’s almost doubling my salary,” he tells me excitedly.

  But I can hear that he’s tired, and I’m not surprised at all when I glance across a few minutes later and see his head lolling forwards.

  At the Italian border I have to lean across him to grab a ticket from the tollbooth – one of the disadvantages of having a right-hand drive car – and he briefly awakens, giggles and pecks me on the cheek before falling back to sleep.

  The Brazilian-built VW drives like a roller coaster, inexorably gathering speed on the downhill runs, and then chugging its way reluctantly through the climbs. It may be nearly new, but it drives like a sixties’ original.

  The sky is unusually grey for the beginning of June and I worry about the dark tint along the northern skyline, wondering if we’re going to get early summer storms. It’s amazing how like England just about anywhere can look when you replace azure blue with blanket grey. At least with the van we don’t have to sleep in a tent.

  As I drive, Tom shifts and stirs a
s he tries to get comfortable. I’m feeling really happy – all my favourite things are rolled into one: travelling, driving, camping, Italy, Tom … A wave of love – for Tom, for life – sweeps over me, and my vision mists. It’s all just too perfect.

  I stop that thought in its tracks. “Yes, things can work out,” I tell myself, “even if only for a while.”

  Tom drags me from my reverie. “I need a piss,” he says.

  I turn and see him notice the look in my eyes. I see him register right where I am right now. He smiles broadly and winks at me.

  “No problem,” I say. “I need petrol anyway. This thing drinks more than …” I shrug searching for a comparison.

  “Liza?” Tom laughs.

  “Liza?”

  “Yeah, Liza with a Zee,” Tom says.

  “Yeah, she’ll do,” I laugh, “though I hear she’s on the wagon now, so that’s maybe a bit unfair.”

  The service station is as Italian as a service station can be, the long standing-only bar filled with a boisterous rabble of Italian lorry drivers jostling for service. Everyone is knocking back microscopic doses of caffeine served by the waist-coated barman.

  “Madness,” Tom laughs.

  I nod. “I’m so glad everything′s not the same though,” I say. “I love all this.”

  Tom nods as he looks around. “Yeah,” he says. “Give it ten years and this’ll be a Little Chef.”

  “Or a McDonald’s,” I say, bleakly.

  *

  The campsite at Bonassola is a disappointment, but we’re both too tired to care. We accept the proffered square of muddy turf set amongst random caravans that look, for the most part, as though they will probably never move again. The guy at the check-in desk is ugly too – a spotty adolescent with a thick top lip and a spluttering lisp.

  I put a pan of water on to boil and peer out at the desolation.

  “Not a good start to the holiday,” I say.

  Tom rubs my shoulder as he squeezes past. “A night in a camper van, snuggled up with you,” he says. “Sounds okay to me.”

  He starts to fold out the cushions that form the sleeping area. “Anyway, we can always move on tomorrow.”

  I pull a face. “Erm, hello?” I say. “We’re definitely moving tomorrow!”

  We sit on the side step and eat bowls of pasta with tinned tomato sauce, then dump the bowls in the tiny sink and crawl into bed.

  “It’s actually really comfortable,” Tom says, snuggling to my back.

  “Mmmm,” I agree. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

  We listen to the sounds of Bonassola: an Italian TV from the caravan behind us, a main road far away to the left, and the ubiquitous Mediterranean moped buzzing up some distant hill.

  As the first wave of sleep drifts over me, I hear someone snoring, and the last thing I realise is that it’s me.

  I wake up early; the sun has returned and is pushing through the deep orange curtains. Somewhere on-site a baby screams.

  I snuggle against Tom and he groans and stretches, then pushes back against me. I move and push my morning hardness against his buttocks and he makes an “um” noise and wriggles still closer. I reach round to touch him but he intercepts my hand with his own and pulls it up around his chest with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

  The dozing ends suddenly when Tom leaps from the bed and starts pulling on his jogger bottoms. “The time has come to check out the local plumbing,” he declares, pulling a face.

  I grimace, roll over and watch him leave. “Good luck,” I say. “It’s grim.”

  When Tom returns, I look up from the kettle which is just starting to whistle. “God I love all this,” I tell him.

  “I’m not loving the toilets,” he says.

  I grin. “No, all this,” I say sweeping my hand over the mini kitchen. “I can’t explain why, but every bit of it, from the smell of the butane gas to the taste of plastic cups. It just all leaves me ecstatic.”

  “There’s something about the sound too,” Tom says. “The dull echo in here that makes it sound like camping, you know what I mean?”

  I nod and pour the water. “I do,” I say.

  “It’s all a bit girly I guess,” Tom says. “Maybe that’s why we gay boys like camping so much.”

  I frown, indicating non-comprehension and fiddle in the tiny drawer for a teaspoon.

  “You know, like a wendy-house,” he explains. “Play tea-sets and all.”

  We settle for cornflakes with long-life milk and promise each other that we’ll buy proper Italian food just as soon as we can, and then – my favourite bit of all – we close the side door, climb into the front seats, and drive our home right out of there.

  Bonassola is a beautiful little town – it turns out to that we missed the centre completely last night. Nestled against the azure sea it’s truly tempting, but after a moment’s hesitation we drive on through. Tom has his heart set on Cinque Terra, five seaside towns linked by rocky walkways, which his ex, Antonio, told him are amongst Italy’s most beautiful tourist spots.

  The road swoops and climbs back up into the sumptuous greenery of the vine-covered hills, hills that echo and throw back the spluttering sound of the rear, air-cooled engine.

  Zigzagging down the hillsides are networks of seated lawnmower contraptions mounted on flimsy steel monorails. We figure out that they must be the grape harvesting solution in this difficult terrain.

  “I’d love to have a go on one of those,” I tell Tom.

  “Yeah,” he laughs. “I wonder how fast they go.”

  Just after Levanto, I pull over to a siding and we buy ripe, red tomatoes and deep-green lettuce along with the smallest most vibrantly coloured courgettes I have ever seen. While Tom boils eggs and prepares a tuna salad, I sit and peer out through the sliding windows at the glimmering sea. A gentle breeze flutters the roped-back curtains and makes the cooker flame flicker and spit.

  Tom leans down and peers out over the rolling blue. “It’s a great spot,” he laughs. “Can’t we just stay here?”

  By the time we get to Monterosso, the first of the Cinque Terra towns, it’s already gone half-past eight.

  “The light will be fading soon,” Tom comments glumly. “And it ain’t gonna get any easier to find another campsite in the dark. We should have left earlier.”

  It’s true we had a long lunch – I even dozed off in the sun – but the road was unexpectedly slow, a veritable obstacle course of hairpin bends, tractors, mopeds and other, more leisurely camper-vans.

  “Oh I expect we have another hour,” I say already noisily accelerating back up the hill. “There’ll be another campsite soon enough.”

  “If it’s not chock-a-block as well,” Tom says.

  We’re both feeling grumpy and tired. I’m starting to wish we had stayed in the car park.

  “Yeah, well,” I say. “Let’s wait and see, eh?”

  *

  Tempers finally fray as the last light fades.

  “So where are you going now?” Tom asks.

  I know that it’s just run-of-the-mill holiday stress, but Tom’s negativity is starting to wind me up.

  “Where does it look like I’m going?” I retort, pointing at the muddy track in front.

  “Okay, let me rephrase that,” Tom says. “I can see where you’re going…” he says. “You’re driving me into the middle of a forest. What I don’t know is why.”

  “Probably to slit your throat,” I mutter.

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing, look…” I slow to a stop and put the handbrake one. The forest looks eerie and dangerous, the night overpoweringly present.

  “Tom,” I say, keeping my voice as measured as possible. “We’ve been driving for hours… I’ve been driving for hours. We’ve been told that there are three campsites around here, and we’ve found two, both of which are full. The third one clearly doesn’t want to be found, and I’m frankly sick of going up and down looking for the fucking thing. Especially with the love of my life – who i
s fast turning into Lucifer himself – barking in my ear.”

  I glance across at him. He does a slow blink, duly admonished. I reckon it’s as close as I’ll get to an apology tonight.

  “So I thought I would just drive along this track here,” I continue, “into the middle of the woods and find a spot to sleep. Then we can sort out a better plan in daylight, okay?”

  Tom sighs and nods.

  “Now if you have a better plan,” I say, “Please, I mean, per-lease… take the wheel, and put it into action.”

  Tom blows through his lips. “Sorry,” he says, “it’s just… whatever… That’s fine.”

  The “Sorry,” calms me, but the “it’s just,” doesn’t. I am about to ask what he means when headlights sweep through the cabin. A vehicle is bumpily heading down the track.

  “Shit,” I say. “Now I’ll have to reverse this fucker all the way…”

  I crunch the gears into reverse, but the second we start to move, the car gives us a blue flash and emits the tiniest hint of a wail.

  “Oh great,” Tom says. “Polizia.”

  The policeman who steps from the car is the short, dark, fantasy kind you only really find in Italy. His impeccable Italian police uniform, red-striped trousers-and-all, does nothing to lessen the effect.

  “Hello!” I mumble as he heads, naturally, to Tom’s window.

  He rattles off a bout of high-energy triple-speed Italian.

  Tom glances at me with raised eyebrows and says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “He wants to know where you’re going as well,” before turning back to the policeman and starting, hesitantly, to reply.

  He’s stuttering and stammering and playing up his foreignness, but even so, I only really catch about one word per sentence. The gestures though are clear enough. The policeman is pointing back the way we came.

  “He wants the passports,” Tom explains, digging into the glove compartment.