Mortaumal - 23. Hale

Relieved at having a plan, he stood, brushed leaves off the seat of his shorts and was about to set off in what he hoped was the right direction when a smart green van drove past on the other side of the narrow road. The window was down and the driver sent him broad grin. Mort returned it with interest. With a friendly wave the car disappeared around the bend, leaving behind a young man whose future suddenly seemed less miserable. To be smiled at by a stranger was such a rare and wonderful event he could remember every time it had happened. He was wondering why so few people smiled, even to people they knew, when the van returned and pulled up beside him. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door.

Imagining he was being asked for directions, Mort approached.

‘Hop in.’ The voice was deep and slightly amused, the age in the late twenties; the body lean, tough, and tanned. The head boasted a beaked nose, square jaw, heavy green/blue shaving shadow, narrow mouth and shaven head making the best of semi-baldness. Bare feet, jeans and an unbuttoned short-sleeved white shirt were the extent of the clothes. A powerful chest was decorated with a tiny gold medallion nestled among close-cropped black hair.

‘Are you offering me a lift?’

‘What else?’

‘That’d be great! Where to?’

‘Not too far. Just a few kilometres north.’

‘That’s brilliant. I've no idea where I am and need to get some lunch and buy a few clothes. I wasn’t looking forward to any more jogging; it’s too hot.’

‘I wouldn’t bother buying clothes—you look great as you are. As for lunch, I can make you something at my place. My name’s Hale.’ The driver held out his hand.

‘Fabricato,’ Mort said cautiously, immediately regretting concocting such a stupid name. ‘But everyone calls me Fabri. And you don’t have to give me lunch.’

‘I'll be making some for myself, so you might as well join me.’

‘Great! Thanks.’

They'd driven a hundred metres when Mort realised what he'd done—accepted a lift with a total stranger. Three hitchhiker murders in the past twelve months, and he’d been the target of a murderous attack only a few hours previously, yet he leaped blithely into the first car that came along driven by a reasonably good looking bloke offering a lift. He ventured a quick look at the man who called himself Hale. He didn’t look dangerous—quite the opposite. But that’s how con men got away with cheating and murder.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked nervously. ‘I'm expected at home and they’ll be worried if I’m late.’

Hale looked across. ‘You're nervous.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn't it?’

‘I could open the window and scream for help. Pull on the handbrake. Punch you in the side of the head…’

‘You could also grab the steering wheel and make us crash.’ Hale pulled into the side of the road, opened the glove box and handed his wallet to Mort. ‘Open it and check my name, driver’s licence and anything else you like. If you're still worried you can leave.’

‘I feel stupid.’

‘You're not. Go on.’

Embarrassed, Mort scanned the contents of the wallet. ‘You’re thirty-one.’

‘Yep.’

‘You look more like twenty-one’

‘Thanks. How old are you?’

‘I’ll be twenty in two weeks.’

‘You also look younger.’

‘I know! I hate that.’

‘Do I also get a look at your ID to check I’m not picking up a mass murderer?’

Mort froze. Fuck! Was Hale a plainclothes cop, one of dozens guarding all exits from the park? That’d be the logical thing for the police to do. Someone had seen him running away dressed as a jogger. All joggers went to the park. Hale was a cop! The colour left his face. He couldn’t speak, just stared at the dashboard in sick despair.

‘It’s OK!’ Hale sounded concerned. ‘I don’t really want to see your identification. Forget it. I’m an excellent judge of character and I trust you... OK? Calm down.’

Mort turned bleak eyes on the man. ‘Do you really trust that I’m not a criminal?’

‘Yes!’ There was no hesitation.

‘Thanks, because I’m not, but I have got myself into a spot of bother. There’s something about you I trust too, so here’s my Driver’s Licence.’

Hale opened it and laughed. ‘Thanks, Mortaumal. I knew you weren’t twenty; your body’s too smooth. You look like a tough sixteen year old, but your eyes could be those of a man twenty years older; they’ve seen more than they should have, I suspect.’

‘Not really.’ Mort put his licence back in his wallet and returned Hale’s to the glove box, keeping the Business Card. ‘Your card says, “Hale Lightfoot’s Astounding Acrobatics. Performances anywhere, any time.” What sort of acrobatics? Can I see them?’

‘When we get to my place I’ll show you—if you're still coming.’

‘Of course I am… if you still want me to.’

Hale was the product of parental indulgence and classically handsome features. Natural charm and a smile that could disarm an assassin ensured that his equally natural self-indulgence and thoughtless unconcern for others were dismissed by all who knew him as charming quirks. Looks, brains and physical agility had eased his way though boyhood and youth, and a substantial inheritance from paternal grandparents ensured that adulthood was no less free from worry.

His parents had been smart enough to give up attempts to curb his self-will by the time he went to school, thus freeing themselves to enjoy the development of their precocious offspring without the usual pangs of self doubt. If his life went belly up, it was his fault, not theirs. The wisdom of that decision was evident in the result—a well-balanced man who continued to love and respect them, while living a fulfilling life of his own.

At fifteen, Hale had joined a travelling troupe of acrobats; Cirque du de la Lune, whose handsome high-wire hero promised Hale’s nervous parents he would take great care of their only child and not let him out of his sight, even at night. He was a Cretan, so being ardent admirers of Knossos and Bull Dancers, they entrusted their son to him.

Life on the road was hard. Hale became skilful in several acrobatic disciplines, familiar with many countries and their inhabitants, learned three languages, and discovered that wherever he went his head and thoughts went along as well. Therefore, he figured, as it was impossible to escape himself, he might as well settle somewhere he liked and learn to relax and stop trying to be anything other than himself.

In Mortaumal’s body he saw a rare prize, and didn’t doubt his ability to snare him as a cheap and attractive sidekick in a new series of acrobatic performances he was planning. The kid was no fool, he could see that, and would be a challenge, but he obviously had something to hide and that made him vulnerable. There was something feline in Hale’s nature; he enjoyed playing with his prey before devouring him, never imagining he could become the prey.

Thus, instead of answering Mort’s question, Hale smiled softly and drove off, causing his passenger to once again doubt his decision.

Mort had always prided himself on not panicking and usually not rushing into a situation without careful planning. In sixteen years of sharing the planet with his inferiors had no serious regrets. He knew he wasn’t super intelligent—but he was observant, rational and logical, which was more useful. He didn’t want fame; he wanted to be independent like professor Higgins, to live his life, free of strife, doing whatever he thought was best for him. And this meant keeping a safe distance from all humans he didn’t know well. Especially strangers. Only… there was something about Hale’s smile that had lowered his defences. Was he losing his grip, or just feeling vulnerable after a trying afternoon? Whatever the reason he determined to be more on his guard than usual.

They were passing through a small shopping centre when Mort suddenly asked Hale to stop. ‘I think I saw a mobile phone shop back there, would you mind letting me out? I need a new prepaid.’

‘No probs. But I’ll come with you. Dressed like that in this suburb you’re likely to be set upon by frustrated viragos desperate for succulent flesh.’

He wasn’t set upon, but he did attract some curious looks and a muttered, ‘Disgusting!’

Hale dropped behind to look at a shop window, and when he caught up patted Mort on the bum. ‘Are you aware, young man, that at least two centimetres of your bum-cheeks are exposed?’

‘Only two? I’m losing my touch. At least that’s all that’s hanging out, you should have seen me a couple of hours ago.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Later... if you’re a good boy.’

That was Hale’s line—or should have been. He smiled to himself.

Back in the van they’d only driven a hundred metres when Mort thrust his left hand down his shorts and fiddled. Began to sweat. Looked across to a curious Hale and asked meekly, ‘If you don’t mind, I need to tell you now. Please pull over.’

Hale didn’t mind. He pulled over to the side of the road and watched in delight as Mort pulled desperately at his shorts, finally ripping them open and tenderly lifting out an engorged brown sausage.

‘I need your help, I think. Talking about my bum and stuff gave me a hard on and there’s nowhere for it to go because I’ve tied off the end and I can’t untie the string so please! Help!’

Mort lay back in his seat, Hale leaned over, tried not to laugh, failed, picked at the knot with neatly trimmed fingernails, failed to loosen it, so with two fingers managed to slide it off the end of the foreskin, to be greeted by a sudden flowering as it peeled back to release a rapidly swelling shaft and engorging deep brown glans.

‘Ahhh…’ Mort sighed. ‘I thought I could last till we got to your place and I’d go to the loo or something. But that was too much agony! What do Papuans do when they get erections?’

‘Better give me those shorts,’ Hale said with authority. ‘They’re torn right down the front. I can lend you some till we get these mended. Lift your bum.’

Docilely, Mort lifted his hips while Hale pulled the shorts from under him and tossed them into the back of the van between neat racks of shiny metal tubing, ropes and other interesting looking gear.

Mort started playing with the knot of the string around his waist.

‘Need a hand?’

‘Please.’ Mort lay back in apparent resignation, enjoying the attention, knowing full well that having done something for him, Hale would feel even better disposed towards him than before. That meant Mort had somewhere to stay the night. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what the string was for.’

‘To keep it from flopping as you’re not wearing underpants?’

You’re a genius! I got the idea from Papuan highlanders after I lost my jockstrap.’

‘You lost your jockstrap... how?’

Another sad sigh. ‘The usual way.’ And that was all Hale was going to get... for the moment.

Hale drove on; amused and confused. Was the kid playing hard to get? Not possible. He was the one in strife. He should be grovelling by now. He turned the van into a short driveway and pulled up in front of an unprepossessing suburban house and garage.

 

 

The house looked dreary. Worse than dreary. It was one of a row of identical brick and tile bungalows built on the cheap in the nineteen sixties. A remote control on the dash opened the garage doors. They drove in and the place became dark as the door clanked into place behind them. Hale led the way through a side door into muted sunlight and Mort uttered a shout of elation. The large back yard was surrounded on both sides by a high paling fence. The rear boundary of the property was invisible behind a veritable forest of tall eucalyptus trees and assorted flowering shrubs.

‘How large is this block?’

‘Two thousand square metres. Twice the usual. All the blocks on this street are very long because the backs of the properties used to flood. It hasn’t since I’ve been here, but the size and the trees are the main reasons I bought it.’

‘Wonderful. I can’t wait to explore. It’s like living on the edge of a forest. And so quiet!’

‘Just about everyone in the street’s a pensioner. They also love the peace and don’t want to leave. Lights out at eight o’clock, no loud radios, no kids on drums or barking dogs.’

‘I want to live here!’ It was obviously an exclamation of delight, not a request, but Hale smiled none the less.

On the lawn directly behind the house were arranged several metal frames that reminded Mort of his primary school jungle gym. He turned around in delight, inspecting the house. A wide, tiled verandah extended the full length of the rear of the building, with comfortable chairs, a table and several urns filled with trailing flowering plants. Three sets of French doors complete with shutters created an exotic, quasi-Mediterranean atmosphere.

‘This is surreal!’ Mort whispered. ‘The front’s horrible and the back’s paradise. Why don’t you change the front as well?’

‘I don’t want thieves to get any ideas.’

‘Good thinking. Can I see inside? Does it matter that I’m naked?’

‘ I forbid you to wear any clothes while you are my guest.’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Mort’s grin was smug.

‘Go inside for a wander around while I throw some food on a plate. We’ll eat out here. But take your shoes off first!’

Ten minutes later they were seated at the heavy wooden table on the verandah.

‘I can’t believe the inside of this place; it’s exactly what I like. High ceilings, lots of paintings, heavy curtains, comfy chairs, table lamps instead of central lights, bookshelves full, lots of interesting carpets… things that look as if you’ve brought them back from other countries. It’s cosy! I've always wanted a cosy house. Most houses I’ve seen are either bleak and poor or bleak and more or less modern. And I'm raving.’

‘No, you're not. I'm flattered. But eat.’

‘Mmm. The food’s delicious too. What is it?’

‘Imam Bayeldi. Stuffed aubergine Turkish style.’

They ate in silence, enjoying the shade, the peace and the company.

Mort paused as if he’d encountered a problem. ‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Usually.’

‘Seems a shame. Don’t you get lonely?’

‘Not lonely. But there are some things I miss.’

‘Such as?’

‘An open, enquiring mind on tap. Sharing a joke. Chatting. Sex when I want it.’ Hale’s smile was indecipherable.

‘Why aren’t you married?’

‘Apart from the fact that I’ve never met anyone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with, marriage hasn’t been an option for me until recently.’

‘Now it is, would you marry?’

‘Can’t see the point. Either two people stay together because they want to, or they part. I can’t see a piece of paper making any difference. Half of all marriages end in divorce despite the expensive ceremony. It’s a waste of money in my opinion.’

‘Yeah I agree.’

‘I’m taking a wild guess here, but you aren’t by any chance gay, are you?’

Mort managed to look shocked. ‘No way! I’m a very serious same-sex-oriented male. There’s nothing of the flibbertigibbet about me!’

Hale laughed. ‘Why not gay?’

‘Gay’s a stupid word; makes me think of scatty queens and prancing fairies. I’m a sexual creature, like most other so-called higher animals, and as with about ten percent of them I prefer to cuddle with my own sex. What about you?’

‘That pretty well describes me, and means we’re both exceedingly lucky.’

‘No one’s ever called me lucky before. How do you arrive at that?’

‘There’s an old saying—Greek, I think; “A woman in the house means a storm in the house.” Neither of us will have to endure that.’

‘Yeah! My grandfather was always saying he wished he’d never married; reckoned men and women were too different to share anything, especially their lives. He and my Grandmother waged constant war, and the people I was living with up till today existed in a state of cool truce for twenty-six years, according to the husband.’

‘Most married couples are more or less like that,’ Hale said knowledgeably. ‘Marriage is a trap with no exit. The woman takes over the house like a great fat spider, and if her cringing husband doesn’t do as he’s told she has a tantrum. If that doesn’t work she cries, because het men are unable to cope with a woman crying and will do anything or promise anything to stop her. Then over the years there’s a progression from the silent treatment through psychological violence when she tells him he’s a useless provider, his penis is pathetic and he can’t give her an orgasm; to physical violence in which she kicks, hits, punches smashes anything to hand, often against his head with no care for his health, while screaming loud enough to alert the neighbours. The only place he can do as he likes is in his shed; as long as he remains at her beck and call. And they can’t divorce because she’ll get everything and live like a queen, leaving him with the mortgage to pay off, the kids to provide for, and only enough money to share the rent of a crappy unit with some other poor bugger who’s also lost everything.’

‘Have you had experience of this?’

My brother was ruined by the bitch he married. He suicided when she reckoned he was fiddling with his children when they visited him on the weekend. He wasn’t, but they believed her and he was denied further access to them.’

‘That’s horrible. She’s the one who should have died.’

‘A US Department of Justice study of murder in families contains some surprising information. An analysis of ten thousand cases showed that wives murder their husbands far more frequently than people realise, but are punished only about a third as severely. Forty percent of spousal murders are by women, and when it comes to killing children, mothers kill more often than fathers and are more likely to murder their boys.’

Mort was grinning widely. ‘I’ll buy you a soapbox for Christmas.’

‘Don’t get me started on Christmas, Mortaumal!’ Hale laughed. ‘Was I raving?’

‘Never. Pure unadulterated rational discourse. And please call me Mort, all my friends do.’

‘Thank you, Mort. Now, where was I? Oh yes, you’re too intelligent to be heterosexual, that was the giveaway.’

‘You mean I don’t look queer?’

‘You look too sexy to describe.’

‘Yeah... I wank all the time.’

‘Are you a virgin?’

‘How can you doubt it?’

‘We’ll continue that line of inquiry in a minute. Are you into casual sex?’

‘Nope, it’s too dangerous. I’m well able to defend myself, but the idea of going back to some stranger’s place would be…’ Mort stopped, blushed and stared in dawning comprehension at his host. ‘That’s why you picked me up, isn’t it? That’s why this delicious lunch was already prepared? It’s why your fabulous bedroom is so neat and tidy! You expected to be bringing someone home for sex!’ Mort hoped his expression was deeply shocked; he wanted to seem innocent and keep Hale on his toes. It wouldn’t do to seem like an easy catch.

His host, however, remained quite unabashed and grinned proudly. ‘It’s why I was driving slowly along that particular road—it’s a known beat for rent boys, and it’s the reason I returned to have a second look; but as soon as you opened your mouth I knew you weren’t on the game.’

‘So why’d you offer me a ride?’

‘You’re cute, sexy, intelligent, healthy, bright… and I hoped that you just might be…’

‘You know what they say about optimists.’

‘No, what do they say?’

‘I’ve no idea. More to the point, what did you expect to pay me?’

‘If we went to bed now for an hour, I’d give you a hundred and fifty dollars and send you home in a taxi.’

‘Hell! That’s more than I spend in a week! I’m in the wrong game.’

‘It’s not too late…’

‘I’ve tried to visualise what it must be like, but I’m too ignorant. Can’t begin to imagine what I’d have to do—what you’d do. I might not like it.’

‘Surely there are loads of things you’d do for a hundred and fifty bucks that you might not enjoy. Or does selling your body seem perverted?’

‘That’s the silliest thing you’ve said today.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Every worker sells his or her body and brain whether it’s making ice cream, washing windows, acting, dancing, playing an instrument or looking through a microscope.’

‘You’re not from a religious background, then.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You haven’t been brainwashed to think sex is the filthy temptation of the devil.’

‘The Devil, eh? No, the idea of sex being something different from all the other activities essential to life doesn’t make sense. Without fucking, eating, drinking, shitting, sleeping... humans would die out. And like all those things it’s pleasurable—or should be, and it acts as social glue as well as being useful. It’s no more special than any other essential activity, so it should be governed by the same rule that ought to regulate all human pursuits—don’t over indulge. More than enough is too much. If people obeyed that injunction we’d still be living in places with clean air and water, loads of fresh fruit and flesh for the taking, not overcrowded in stinking, poisonous cities. We’d be slim, healthy, fit, and have no time to be bored or complain about having nothing to do, therefore we’d be happier—or at least contented.’

‘And you reckon I need a soapbox! I’m outclassed and impressed. I confess I’ve never thought of it in those terms. You’re brilliant.’

‘Flattery will get you just about everywhere, except turning me into a prostitute. Not because I’m frightened of sex, but because I’m nervous about other humans. I imagine many people’s genitals are pretty filthy, STDs are rampant, and how do I know whoever’s paying me wont hurt me or do something I don’t want? Which brings me to the question, what exactly would you do to me?’

‘There’s no point in telling you as you don’t find me attractive—even garnished with a hundred and fifty bucks.’

Mort pretended to consider. ‘I guess you scrape over the attractiveness bar.’

‘Huh! Damned by faint praise.’

‘Better than none at all. But keep to the topic. If we ever make it to the bed, how do you intend to ravish this innocent young virgin?’

‘Who mentioned a bed?’

‘Me, just now. I’m certainly not going to risk ant bites and scratches on the lawn!’

‘Sounds reasonable. OK... First, I’ll lick you all over.’

‘As long as you don’t dribble.’

‘Noted. Then I’ll caress your sensitive spots until you’re writhing in ecstasy.’

‘Or desperate to stop giggling—I’m ticklish. What if I said I didn’t like something you were doing?’

‘I’d cut your wages.’

‘That’s reasonable. Kissing?’

‘If you ask nicely.’

‘But you’ll leave the other end alone?’

It took a few seconds to register. ‘I never force entry into people’s back doors.’

‘Well... I suspect I’ll regret this, but I’ll surrender to your protestations of lust. However, I don’t want the money.’

‘I can afford it.’

‘I’d be constantly worrying you weren’t getting your money’s worth.’

Hale nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes... that’s looking distinctly possible.’

‘Prick.’

‘Indeed.’

 

An hour and a half later two sweaty bodies sprawled over the bed, faces adorned with soft smiles of lingering pleasure.

‘I reckon I owe you a hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘For?’

‘Such a thorough and diverting introduction to the pleasure of the flesh. I can see, however, that I’m going to need lots more practice if I’m to attain your level of mastery.’

Mmm. It’s a shame you have to go.’

‘You want me to stay?’

‘If you want to.’

‘For how long?’

‘Till we get sick of each other. But unfortunately…’ Exaggerated sigh.

Mort’s heart skipped a beat.

‘As you told me on the way here, you’re expected at home and they’ll be worried if you’re late.’

‘Yeah. Well, that was then.’

‘And now?’

‘I’ve bought a phone, so I can let them know I’m safe in the arms of an acrobat.’

‘You’ll have to earn your keep.’

‘By selling my pristine carcass to strangers?’

‘I need an assistant.’

‘For Hale Lightfoot’s Amazing Acrobatics?’

‘The same.’

‘That’ll require some powerful teaching on your part.’

‘You’ve got powerful legs, a strong grip and are much tougher than you look. How’d you get so fit?’

‘Running, lugging heavy plant pots around, carting millions of cubic metres of soil and manure in wheelbarrows. Digging gardens… you name it.’

‘In a market garden?’

‘A nursery.’

‘When did you quit?

‘This morning while I was out jogging.’

‘Hence the lack of clothing. Do they know yet?’

‘Probably guessed by now.’

‘Will there be an Interpol alert with the Federal Police knocking on my door?’

‘Don’t imagine so.’

‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘In bed tonight?’

‘That was very, very clever. Ok, follow me.’

After disentangling arms and legs, Hale led Mort out to the metal frames on the lawn and stood casually beneath a bar two and a half metres above. With no apparent preparation, in a single seamless move he swung easily up into a one handed handstand, which he held for several seconds while doing the splits as if it was the simplest trick in the book. Then, with no sense of hurry and still one handed, he swung down, executed a complicated twisting flip and landed on his feet facing Mort.

‘That’s amazing. Its more than amazing, it’s magic! You defy gravity! I knew you were fit, but didn’t realise in the bedroom what an amazingly lithe body you have! You’re perfect! All those muscles yet you still look lean, not like the sacks of potatoes in muscle mags. Sleek, sexy and powerful. I can’t understand why you’d want to dally with me. Seriously. You could have anyone you wanted.’

‘You are what I want. A young man with an active brain and a smooth, slim, fit, and sexy body. Skin like creamy butterscotch, waist so slender it looks ready to snap, cute firm butt, excellent legs, chest wider than your hips, face… Have you started shaving yet?’

‘No. And I hate being hairless. It’s not manly. I loved the feel of your chest in bed, even though you’ve buzzed it short, really turns me on. As for my face, that you were polite enough to stop describing, not everyone can have features that look as if they’ve been chiselled from stone. Fuck, I’ll have to stop. I’m talking myself into a depression.’

‘I was going to say that your face doesn’t fit your body. Especially your eyes... grey and as I mentioned earlier, far too knowing for a sixteen year-old. There’s no innocence there, and neither was there in bed. This wasn’t really your first time, was it?’

‘It was the first time I enjoyed it so much.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘Lucky you’ve got high fences or the neighbours would be getting a thrill.’

‘Not lucky; I put them up before I remodelled the house. I’m a privacy freak. What the eye doesn’t see and the ear doesn’t hear, the brain doesn’t get curious about. As far as I can tell from occasional encounters, the neighbours think I’m a boring bachelor who seldom has visitors, sometimes goes out at nights, wears dull conventional clothes and doesn’t play his music too loud. In other words, I’m a treasure to be cherished and not annoyed by neighbourly nosiness. If I left, they’d probably get an unemployed family of smokers with half a dozen screaming kids playing the drums, getting drunk.’

‘Very smart. So we keep the noise down and attract no attention so no one knows I’m here.’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘And when you’re sick of me you can cut off my head, stuff me in a bag and bury me in the garden with no one being the wiser.’

‘Exactly! And now you’ve understood your role in this gothic romance, I can commence your instruction in the ancient art of acrobatics. My act is no more than a series of exercises requiring flexibility, strength and balance. I usually work solo, but I could do more impressive stuff with a partner. How much do you weigh?’

‘Sixty-six kilos.’

Hale nodded, grasped the bar above his head with both hands, then pulled himself up and over until he was resting on his belly. ‘Can you do this?’

‘Piece of cake.’

‘Hang on.’ Hale dropped to the ground and ran back into the bedroom, returning with a tiny cache-sex. ‘Better put this on for the first training sessions, it take a bit of practice not to squash your bits when they’re hanging loose. After a week or so you’ll be able to do without it.’

‘Right. But why do you train bare arsed?’

‘It builds up more strength and precision if you have to hold yourself a bit further from the bar, and that looks impressive in a show... as if you’re flying instead of glued to the bar. And at least half my customers choose me precisely because I perform naked.’

‘Understandable. Do they pay more?’

‘No. I love being naked. It feels so free, and after reaching a certain skill level, performing can get boring unless there’s a bit of danger. In many of my more complicated routines there’s always a chance of squashing the sticking out bits and that makes it exciting. Like all performers I do it for the fun, the buzz of appreciation and applause. And being naked in front of a crowd of dressed strangers who are clapping and laughing and enjoying seeing my cods swinging in the breeze is cocking a snook at convention.’

‘Cocking a what?’

‘A snook.’ Hale demonstrated. ‘An ancient and venerable tradition that’s been replaced by this.’ He offered Mort an elegant finger of contempt.

‘Looks stupid. The finger’s better. Would you call yourself an exhibitionist?’

‘No more than a concert pianist is one. An exhibitionist wants to shock unwary strangers. I don’t want to shock anyone. I want to excite them, make them laugh and admire my skill. My audiences are all willing participants. It’s a mutual pleasure.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ve sometimes wondered if there’s something wrong with me.’

‘Why? Have you…’

‘Will I be expected to perform au naturel too?’ Mort interrupted.

‘Got a problem with that?’

‘Only with the unflattering comparisons that will be made with your body.’

‘Crap. If you weren’t comfortable with yourself you’d not have gone jogging like that. People often ask if I’m embarrassed, I tell them I’d be embarrassed to have a fat gut, rotten teeth, stinking armpits, bad breath, dirty feet, a shitty arse, but not of my average but perfectly formed genitals. Then I ask if they’re embarrassed standing there with their bare face hanging out?’

Mort laughed. ‘That’s good. We’re pretty similar. I once went nude cross-country running with a teacher. It felt great.’

‘A teacher? I never had such luck. Was he good in bed?’

‘He wasn’t into fourteen year-olds, became my guardian's lover though.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. You are certainly not the innocent you pretended when we met. You must have had loads of guys and girls come on to you.’

‘If they did, I didn’t realise because I wasn’t interested. Except for a cop who’s very nice. But that’s history.’

‘Would you want to be a video porno star?’

‘You can’t be serious! I’ve done a few live shows and the fun is knowing you’re being applauded by living people who are laughing, clapping, encouraging, becoming aroused. People I can see, touch, smell. There can’t be anything less sexy than performing for a camera and a handful of bored assistants who’ve seen it so often they’d be more interested if you had a blood nose.’

‘My turn to admire your wisdom. So, I imagine you don’t wank over porno flicks?’

‘I always see some flaw in the actors’ bodies or voices or behaviour. My imagination is a better stimulant for wanking.’

‘Too much of that can turn you into a hermit. We have to accept that reality can never compete with figments of our imagination.’

‘At the risk of giving you a swelled head, you’re as good as anything my imagination can envisage.’

‘Flatterer. Get your cods protected and follow me.‘ Hale jumped up and grasped the bar, then pulled himself up and draped himself over it on his belly.

When Mort was beside him, Hale slid forward, flipped his body over and dropped while maintaining his hold until his feet nearly touched the ground, arms twisted and stretched up behind. Then he drew his legs back between his arms and lifted the backs of them over the bar, hauling his buttocks up until they swung over and he was seated on top.

‘Your turn.’

It took two attempts and a bit of assistance from Hale before he could manage on his own.

‘Hell, I thought I’d be strong enough.’

‘You are; it’s only technique. Adjusting your centre of gravity and thus affecting balance. Once more.’

This time it was so easy Mort wondered why he’d had trouble before.’

They were perched side by side on top of the bar when Hale suddenly let himself fall backwards, leaving his knees hooked over the bar. At the end of the swing he straightened his legs and landed on his feet.

‘Your turn.’

Mort followed but released his legs too soon and ended up on his hands and knees.

‘Again.’

It took two repetitions before Hale was satisfied. ‘You’re better than I hoped.’ Without appearing to jump, he suddenly seemed to fly up half a metre to stand on a solid looking box, where he stood, legs spread for stability, right hand on his hip, and his left arm held straight out over the edge. ‘Now do it again using my arm instead of the bar.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Shhh! Too loud. No noise that might arouse interest is ever to escape our lips. Not only because of the neighbours. You see, during a performance everything you do must seem effortless. Any grunts, exclamations of pain, irritation, surprise or pleasure spoil the effect. Be careful to let your hands slide otherwise you’ll tear my skin off. Better take some powder from that tin on the bench and rub a little on your hands, it helps them slide even if they’re sweaty.’

To Mort’s astonishment Hale’s arm remained steady. His strength was prodigious.

After two hours of repetition and learning to balance on one leg while standing on top of the high bar, Mort was tired but energised and excited. They each drank two litres of water; it had been sweaty work in the heat, and washed off the dust in a shared warm shower.

There’s a breeze coming up, and you’re dangerously overheated, so put this on.’ Hale handed Mort a large, dark blue woollen bushman’s singlet that hung loosely half way down his thighs. ‘This keeps vital organs, hips and thighs warm, while allowing you to cool down slowly. I don’t want you getting a chill.’

Mort put it on and laughed. ‘It’s like a dress.’

‘Yeah, but very comfortable.’

‘Sure is, thanks. What about you?’

‘My muscles are used to this sort of exercise so not overheated.’ He checked the elegant French clock on the mantlepiece. ‘It’s five o’clock, time for a meal. What would you like?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Boiled eggs, yoghurt, fruit, homemade chocolate and a handful of nuts.’