DRESSED TO KILL

It was his fifth day in the bear suit, or maybe his sixth. Jimmy really couldn’t remember. But it was the hottest, and the suit, with its shaggy fur and lining as thick as old curtains, clung so tightly that just standing demanded phenomenal effort.

Jimmy needed a break. He let the paws drop away from his big hands, pulled off the furry head, and stood, blinking in the sunshine. Then he slumped down on to the dirty London pavement and sighed.

   Delores, who was fanning herself with a bunch of Grizzly’s Gym flyers, looked down at him and shook her head.

   ‘This ain’t no time for sitting on the job,’ she said, waving the printed handbills in front of Jimmy’s crimson face. ‘We gotta shift all these things by lunchtime or Caldera’ll blow his top.’

   Jimmy raised an arm – part shield against the light, part warning to Delores.

   ‘Caldera can stick his damned job,’ he growled. ‘Always demeaning me, just to promote that poxy gymnasium. He ain’t paying me enough to fool around like this.’

   Delores rolled her eyes.

   ‘OK, Jimmy boy, you take a rest. Save that strength of yours, ’cause you’ll need it for job-hunting when the man fires your ass.’

   Jimmy rested his head in his hands and felt the hot sun burn the flesh of his thinning crown. He was in no mood to brood but couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop thinking of how much his life had changed, of how his slow inexorable descent into abject worthlessness had reduced him to little more than a parody of his former self. Of course, there had been better times, just a few years ago, when people had loved him, hailed him in the street, pestered him for an autograph.

   There goes Jimmy Ross the boxer, they’d shout. He’ll be champion of the world one day.

   On the surface such predictions had appeared quite sound. His career had shown great promise. He’d bulldozed his way to the British cruiserweight title in a mere five fights – a record at the time. With his amiable nature and TV-friendly looks he seemed destined for a meteoric rise to stardom. But the problems came at an equal clip: the headaches, the forgetfulness, the blackouts.

   Suspend his licence, the doctor had said. No fighting until the symptoms clear. Jimmy obeyed. He had to. But as the days of waiting turned into weeks, months, then years, an inky black cavern opened under him and slowly he sank into its deep, unfathomable depths. Now, sat on the sticky pavers, the star of his own minimum wage freak show, he felt his toes touch the rocks of the very bottom.

   He thumbed sweat from his eye, spat, then looked west to where the spire of Christ Church on Turnham Green pricked the bright sky. People were sitting there on the stretch of grass between road and church eating snacks, chatting, catching the best of the morning. Jimmy wanted to join them. He wanted to throw off the bear suit and laze on the springy turf. He wanted to feel the sun on his arms, drink a beer, and never go back to work, ever. But he knew there was little chance of that. There were bills to pay, always bills, and never a penny to save.

   He sat there for another minute, maybe two, then gathered the dismembered parts of the bear suit and raised himself up.

   ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

 

Jimmy and Delores were back at the gym by midday. They’d barely crossed the threshold when a spectacled figure wearing a Grizzly’s Gym polo shirt rushed from the manager’s office like a blast of cool, conditioned air. It was Mr Caldera.

   ‘Team, good to see you,’ he said with an insincere, mid-Atlantic lilt. ‘We’ve got a full house, so it’s all hands to the wheel asap.’ He motioned towards the cavernous exercise room, which heaved with a mix of the muscled-up and the desperate.

   ‘Well, we’ve done all the leaflets,’ said Delores. ‘So I’m gonna get straight into action with the Everyone’s-a-Spinner class.’

   ‘I could do something too, Mr Caldera.’ said Jimmy. ‘Maybe I could talk to some of those guys doing weights or something?’

   Caldera held a smile until Jimmy had finished speaking, then his face reset to its default sneer.

   ‘I’ve got a better job than that for you.’ he said. ‘There’s standing water in the men’s showers. Get a bucket and rake out each gully. Do that, and clean the place before you take lunch.’

   Then Caldera laughed.

   ‘We’re running an offer on laser hair removal,’ he said, patting the big man on his flocculent forearm. ‘You should book yourself an appointment.’

Jimmy faked a laugh too weak to fool anyone, then cursed under his breath. Caldera, who had turned towards his office, stopped and looked over his shoulder.

   ‘By the way, we have a new client coming in later. She’ll be here at a quarter to five. Mike is on leave and Delores is double-booked, so you can take that session.’

Jimmy grunted.

   ‘Does that mean I’ll get a personal trainer’s rate? I mean, I have a few bills this week …’

   Caldera raised an eyebrow.

   ‘For that session, yes. Now, get out of that crazy suit and clean those dammed showers.’

 

Jimmy had reached the cleaner’s store when Delores appeared. Eyes flashing, she hounded him into a corner by the mops.

   ‘Caldera said you’re taking the new client.’

Jimmy nodded.

  ‘Well, whoever this woman is,’ said Delores, her voice low and laced with threat,    'you’d better take good care of her, because she’s my client and I’m taking her right back the very next booking she makes. Understand?’

   ‘Whatever you say,’ said Jimmy as he collected bucket, cloth, and gloves.

 

The shower block formed a rectangle in the centre of the changing area, dividing the space into two equal parts. Each wash point had its own glass divider, towel hook, and saloon door.

   Jimmy entered the cubicle nearest the entrance and got down on all fours. The air was warm and wet. Steam and splashes came from the neighbouring stall – that, and a trickle of luminescent urine. Jimmy peered under the divider and observed his rude neighbour’s muscular calves. Their owner was lost in the ritual of cleansing, as unaware of Jimmy as a shark is of the microscopic creatures that scour the ocean floor beneath it.

   Too many supplements, Jimmy thought. He loosened his tight shoulders, waited as the excreta drained across the mildewed grout of the tiles, then mulled over the potential of his late afternoon appointment.

   It had been a long time since he’d taken a training session. In fact, this would be the first since arriving at the gym. Caldera kept him busy with the menial jobs. Said he lacked the focus of a personal trainer – a judgement Jimmy found hard to refute. After all, he wasn’t really sure what exercises to do any more. What kind of training did a lady do, anyway? What was an elliptical trainer for? What was a vibration plate?

   But he did know that having a private client could be a big opportunity. If he could seize the moment then maybe he could impress Caldera. And if he could do that, maybe he could climb out of this rough patch, garner a little respect, and turn his whole existence around.

   He lifted the drain cover, fingered out a clump of rotting hair, and let it splosh into the bucket. Then he crossed his fingers and prayed.

 

Showered, and wearing his old tracksuit bottoms but a clean vest, Jimmy marched into reception just before five. Caldera was waiting by the desk. There was a moment of silence as both men looked up at the clock, then Caldera tapped a finger against the booking sheet and let a long breath skirl through his teeth.

   ‘Jimmy, there’s been a mix-up,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna stand you down.’

   ‘Uh?’ Jimmy recoiled like a slapped child. ‘I mean, I’m only a few minutes late, aren’t I?’

   ‘It’s not the time. It’s the client. The lady who booked the session, who’s in the changing room right now, is none other than Candi Thompson – wife of Terry Thompson, i.e. the owner and chairman of the Grizzly’s Gym chain. I know this may be a disappointment for you, but we have to get this right. We need our best trainer. We need Delores.’

   Jimmy shook his head.

   ‘Delores is out.’ He motioned towards the entrance. ‘She took a group to the park for Special Forces Fitness – said she’d be back around five thirty.’

Caldera threw his arms in the air.

   ‘This can’t be happening,’ he said, and slumped into his chair. ‘Thompson’ll be on me like a ton of bricks if his other half goes home unhappy.’

Jimmy bristled.

   ‘I’m still available, Mr Caldera,’ he said, puffing out his barrel chest. ‘I can still do it. I mean, I can do the session.’

Caldera spun his chair, drew a fist, and tapped it against his chin.

   ‘You’ll have to,’ he said after a pause. ‘It’s against all conventional wisdom, but you’re all I’ve got.’ Then he swung around and hooked Jimmy with a steely gaze. ‘If you mess up, make one mistake, I swear it’ll be the last one you make here. Understand?’

   ‘Sure, Mr Caldera, I understand.’

 

Jimmy eyed the changing room door like an expectant dog waiting for its absent master. Marking time, he attempted to assemble a mental picture of the imminent session. He thought of how best to utilize his own experience of fitness training, but ended up worrying about his ability to clearly articulate this in words. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, folded then unfolded his arms and checked the clock again.

   Almost a full ten minutes later a woman, about thirty years old, floated out on a perfumed breeze and fixed him with a stare. It was a look that demanded attention. Her eyes, azurite-blue framed by an ellipse of fine black mascara, were a bewitching feature in an otherwise angular, fine-jawed face, striking for its authority as much as its beauty. Clad in a tight-fitting Armani sports top and shorts, she looked every bit the ambitious girl made good. She made Jimmy feel uneasy.

   ‘Mrs Thompson?’ he said, a tremor resonating through his deep baritone.

   ‘It’s Candi,’ said the woman, her eyes now sweeping the rest of the room. ‘I’m here for one hour, so let’s skip the small talk and get down to business.’

Jimmy drew a breath.

   ‘Sure thing, Mrs Thom— I mean Mrs Candi. Do you wanna do some running or something? Kinda get warmed up?’

   ‘You’re the expert, right?’

   ‘Sure I am. I mean … well, yes.’

   ‘Then lead the way.’

Jimmy gestured with his arm and together they trooped off, past a group of Day-glo-clad spinners furiously pedalling to nowhere, and on to the main exercise room, where bronzed bodies writhed on rows of whirling machines. Jimmy showed Candi to a treadmill. She stepped on.

   ‘OK, let’s start with five minutes at … err, six kilometres an hour,’ he said, adjusting the speed setting. ‘That’s like a slow jog. OK?’

   ‘Fine.’

He pressed the green start button. The roller came to life and Candi began to walk, then jog.

   Jimmy scrutinised the glowing display panel, attempting to convey credibility, willing himself into the mindset of a personal trainer.

   ‘I need to, err … watch a couple of things, you know, to help me assess your level,’ he said.

   ‘OK. Go ahead.’

   ‘Well, one is your breathing.’

   ‘I’m breathing.’

   ‘That’s good,’ he said, nodding studiously, ‘The other is the way you move – your body mechanics.’

   Jimmy surprised himself with the skilful delivery of the words – bod-y mech-an-ics – as if he used the phrase every day and not just something he’d pilfered from Delores.

He took up position behind the treadmill, observing the strike of Candi’s trainers as the rubber belt came up to speed. He watched for a few moments then his eyes strayed upwards to her calves. The flesh looked youthful – the kind honed in beauty therapy rooms and expensive spas, with no hair, no blemish, no excess. He felt a swell in the hollow of his gut. And, although he tried to contain himself, the words just popped out of his mouth.

   ‘You’re perfect.’

   ‘Excuse me?’

   ‘Err, I mean your style, Mrs Candi. It’s perfect – the way your foot hits the belt. A lot of people I see here don’t do that properly.’

   Candi glanced over her shoulder.

   ‘You can cut the crap,’ she said, with a wry twist to her mouth. ‘I might be the owner’s wife but to you I’m just a routine client, OK?’

Jimmy hesitated, then shook his head.

   ‘Well, actually you’re not.’

   He moved to the side of the machine so he could address Candi face to face.

   ‘You’re not a routine client. You’re my only client. In fact, I’m gonna level with you, missus. You’re the only client I’ve had, ever.’

   Candi pressed the stop button and the treadmill came to a halt.

   ‘Your face looks a little lived-in to be a newbie.’

‘That’s true.’ Jimmy’s chin dropped. ‘I mean, I’ve been around a long time, but I only do the minimum wage stuff. Mr Caldera doesn’t trust me with clients. I’m not so good with the concentration bit. I get these headaches, you see. Migraines …’

   Jimmy trailed off, but Candi kept staring.

   ‘I know you,’ she said, stepping away from the treadmill and looking up into the big man’s face. ‘You were on the TV when I was a kid. You’re a wrestler or something, right?’

   ‘A boxer. At least I used to be, but that was a long time ago.’

   ‘What’s your name?’

   ‘Jimmy. Jimmy Ross. The Bear, they used to call me.’

   ‘Wow,’ she said, and her face lit up. ‘Wait till I tell Terry, who’s an absolute boxing nut, that my trainer is Jimmy ‘The Bear’ Ross.’

   Jimmy reddened.

   ‘I appreciate all that, but I’m still not really qualified to take the session.’

   ‘What? You’re the most qualified guy in this place. Who else here was a professional athlete? Come on, show me the way you’d train a fighter and we’ll get along fine.’

   So Jimmy did just that. He abandoned the machines and his half-baked notion of how to shape a lady’s fitness regime and got down to some old-fashioned gym work. He started with exercises ingrained in him from years of sport conditioning, the kind that Jimmy knew well: two minutes skipping then a set of sit-ups, push-ups, lunges, and squats – a tight mitt punch-out on the heavy bag too.

   Candi proved to be a willing client. She listened and agreed with Jimmy’s advice, putting in the effort exactly when needed. Moreover, on several occasions over the following hour, she complimented Jimmy on his physical prowess – something no one had done for a very long time.

   As they eased down into the stretching phase, almost at the end of the session, Candi closed her eyes and sighed, almost purred.

   ‘That’s the best workout I’ve ever had,’ she said. ‘It beat all the usual gym stuff hands down.’

   Jimmy looked at the floor.

   ‘I appreciate that, Candi.’

   ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome.’

 

Jimmy waited by the changing room for Candi to shower, then walked her to reception. A tall man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood by the main desk. He tipped his peaked cap as Candi approached. Caldera smarmed beside him.

   ‘I’m sorry for the confusion, Mrs Thompson. I’ll make sure Delores, our top personal trainer, is available for your next session, and—’

   ‘Jimmy is just fine,’ Candi said, and handed her sports bag to the driver.

   Caldera shot Jimmy a restive glance.

   ‘Delores is the best we have,’ he said, risking a fingertip touch of Candi’s shoulder, but she breezed past without stopping.

   ‘Make sure you have Jimmy ready for me next time,’ she said.

   With that the chauffeur held open the door and Candi Thompson strode out into the street.

   Caldera held for a moment, face locked in a half-smile, half-grimace, then turned to Jimmy.

   ‘OK, big guy, let’s see how she feels tomorrow. In the meantime, get yourself straight. No boozing, no sleeping in, and for heaven’s sake, wash that bloody tracksuit. Clear?’

   Jimmy nodded.

   ‘Clear as crystal,’ he said, but he couldn’t shift the smile from his face.

   ‘Oh, Mr Caldera?’

   ‘Yes?’

   ‘I’m thinking about staying on after my shift and having a workout. You know … do some weights?’

   ‘That’s OK, Jimmy. You’re OK to do that.’

 

Jimmy’s shift finished at six. The gym stayed open until nine. Stripped down to vest and shorts, he prowled the free weights zone, making mental preparations. This was the first workout he’d attempted since joining Grizzly’s Gym, and he was determined to make it count.

   A fifty-kilo bar straddled the top of the barbell rack, its metallic sleeve still glistening with the sweat of a previous user. Jimmy sized it up like a fighter preparing to throw his best shot. He pulled the bar free of the rack, felt its weight stretch his arms. Then, with a grunt, he pressed it upward. Everything felt right. All the muscles worked. He completed a second rep, then another and another until he’d sweated through a set of ten. After a minute to catch his breath, he performed a set of ten squats, then ten pull-ups, twenty sit-ups and twenty concentration curls with the twenty-kilo bar. He felt good. Afterwards, under the gentle caress of a warm shower, his brain awash with endorphins, a mislaid fragment of Jimmy’s life clicked back into place.

 

Comforting sounds drifted over grassy Chiswick Common as Jimmy strolled home: the pop and floop of a tennis match in progress, the civilised bark of a spaniel, the unhurried thrum of a District Line train trundling along the embankment. Overhead, a single rose-winged parakeet squawked and fluttered, its long tail golden against the late sun. Jimmy watched it loop over the clay court and then land among the branches of a bushy London plane.

   Must have escaped from an aviary, he thought, and marvelled that such a delicate-looking thing could survive with the host of other, duller birds.

The pavement narrowed as it left the park and passed under the railway bridge. Jimmy pressed himself into the safety barrier as a brace of blonde mums pushing Bugaboos trundled by. He couldn’t resist beaming down at their podgy infant passengers, and when one of the babes smiled back Jimmy actually laughed out loud. The good feeling stayed with him as he strolled up Beaconsfield Road and into Acton proper.

   At the big Morrisons on the corner of Steyne Road he scoured the aisles for value packs of dried pasta and frozen chicken. Cooking had never been his forte, but he needed a good source of protein to revive his weary muscles. He stood looking at the plump chicken breasts neatly arranged in the chiller cabinet and wondered whether they were natural or the result of some synthetic hormonal inducement. Probably the latter, he surmised. Of course, he couldn’t blame a farmer for wanting a jump-start on things – just like no one in the old days batted an eyelid at the use of performance enhancers when preparing for a fight. He let the thought percolate for a moment, then walked over to the checkout.

   By the main entrance Jimmy swiped a pen from the National Lottery scratch card dispenser and strolled over to the customer seating area. He sat beside two grocery-laden grannies and, on the back of a folded receipt, jotted down his outgoings for the month ahead. Things looked tight, but skipping the rent would leave him with a few pounds to spare – enough to procure the product he needed.

   While watching him the old women exchanged jokes about the spiralling cost of living. They made Jimmy laugh. When their cab arrived he volunteered himself to carry their bulging shoppers out to the pick-up point and saw them off with a good-natured exchange of jolly comments. He then skipped over to the Internet cafe on the corner of Gunnersbury Lane.

   The cafe was quiet. A lone elderly punter sat at one of the six near obsolete PCs, scrutinising a price comparison site. The other machines were free. Jimmy bought fifteen minutes of access time and a double macchiato, sat at the terminal farthest from the door, and started searching for a reputable seller of anabolic steroids. He skimmed through a dozen bodybuilding sites, checked a number of user forums, weeded out the scammers from the quality providers. After some soul-searching he settled on a low-priced supplier who promised a twenty-four-hour delivery to any London address. He paid with his debit card, erased the search history, and struck out for home.

 

The following day at Grizzly’s saw Jimmy shift back to his roster of dull chores. He made the best of it by turning each menial task into a mini workout: lockers were checked with a series of squats and raises and bin bags were hauled to the dumpster with a double-quick jog. He even ran around the common at lunchtime. Each activity pushed the day along faster, and when Caldera’s voice whined over the public address system – Jimmy Ross to the manager’s office – it was almost time for home.

   Jimmy walked in holding a brace of soiled towels. Caldera, huddled with Delores by the water cooler, acknowledged the big man with a tooth grind.

   ‘Jimmy, we need to talk about Mrs Thompson.’

   ‘You mean Candi?’

   ‘Mrs Thompson.’

   Caldera removed his glasses and looked Jimmy in the eye.

   ‘Her people called me. She wants you to be, as they put it, her coach.’

   Jimmy’s big chin sagged with the weight of the statement.

   ‘Uh, coach? Like, her personal trainer?’

   ‘Well, yes. But it comes with some conditions. Her old man owns us all. If something happens to upset her … well, it could mean big problems for this place, big problems for you. Understand?’

   ‘You don’t have to worry, Mr Caldera. Candi was very happy with the session, and—’

   Caldera tapped his glasses on the tabletop.

   ‘OK. I guess this is a chance to use a bit of your old know-how. But it’s a one-time chance, Jimmy, and I’ll be watching you real close.’

   With that, Caldera waved a hand and ended the conversation. But as Jimmy started to go, Delores grabbed his sleeve.

   ‘You’re gonna slip up, Bear Man, and when you do Mrs Thompson is mine. Understand?’

   As usual, Jimmy nodded, but inside the warning hadn’t stuck.

 

Jimmy was shaving when the courier delivered the package. He signed for it with a face still smeared in white foam. The illicit nature of the consignment gave him butterflies. In fact, he was so charged he sliced his chin three times while completing the shave.

   When he’d cleaned up he drew the curtains, deadlocked the door, and settled on the edge of the bed. He tore open the package and breathed in the sterile smell of its sundry contents. Its medical nature triggered memories of treatment rooms, X-ray machines, and scanners – the old days.

   His big hands shook as he separated the steroid solution from the syringes and swabs. He held a bottle up to the light and examined the amber liquid (10 cc of testosterone: twice what the average body could produce in a month). He flipped up the lid, then removed the plastic sleeve from one of the hypodermics. The needle was huge, like the type vets use to inject farm animals. The whole kit, he supposed, was probably meant to make beef cattle bigger.

   He paused for a moment to consider the framed photo on the bedside locker. It showed him in his pumped-up prime, posing by the ring ropes in gold lamé trunks and sixteen-ounce mitts – a snapshot of a vibrant past when he was the star of his own hard-won show.

   OK, big man, he thought as he plunged the needle through the latex top of the bottle and carefully loaded the first syringe, those days are coming back.

With that he dropped his shorts and pinched a roll of flesh on his inner thigh. The needle went in easily – no pain, though he must have pricked a nerve as his leg gave a violent twitch. He emptied the contents, let the used needle fall to the floor, then watched as red liquid oozed from the hole in his skin and settled on the bed sheet.

   Seeing the stain spread made his heart thump. In a kind of automatic mode he slid off the bed and began doing press-ups. When he reached fifty, he stopped and raced to the mirror. His pectorals and deltoids bulged under a network of extrusive veins. The steroids? Far and away too early to tell, but he certainly felt different.

 

Candi turned up early for her next session at the gym and immediately sought Jimmy out. She was carrying a small box wrapped in gold paper with an oversized name tag and bow.

   ‘This is for you,’ she said, handing Jimmy the gift as he met her.

   ‘Uh, thanks,’ he said, casting an eye to reception, where Delores and Caldera stood stretching their necks. ‘I’ll put it safe in my locker.’

   ‘Open it now. Of course, if you want to save it for home …’

   ‘No. I’ll open it.’

   Jimmy’s big fingers shredded the fancy paper to reveal a linen-covered box beneath. Nestling in its flocked interior lay a miniature boxing glove attached to a chunky gold chain. Jimmy lifted it out and held it up for inspection. It was the kind of mawkish offering that would normally make him raise his guard, but not this time. Instead, he puffed himself up and whistled.

   ‘This is top-notch gear,’ he said, and blushed. ‘I’ll put it on right now.’ And, as Caldera and Delores looked on, he slipped the chain over his ample head like an Olympic champion receiving gold. The little glove came to rest in the valley between his chest muscles.

   Candi smiled like a benevolent mother.

   ‘Be proud of who you are, Jimmy.’

   The big man nodded.

   ‘We’re gonna work out my way today,’ he said with new-found authority. ‘Let’s get the gloves on.’

   On a raised platform at the far side of the main exercise room he helped Candi into a pair of bag mitts, pulled on hand pads for himself, and squared up.

   ‘OK,’ he said, holding the pads high. ‘Aim to punch the white spot in middle.’

   Candi threw a punch – tentative, but it struck the pad. The second hit harder.

   ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Jimmy. ‘Breathe steady. Find your rhythm – left, left, right, then left again.’

   Candi reset, botched a right cross, then threw two sweet jabs.

   ‘You got it, baby!’ Jimmy exclaimed.

   More punches landed and Candi’s confidence grew. She moved with style and Jimmy moved with her. Together they bobbed and weaved, slipping left and right – Jimmy talking and guiding, Candi ducking and throwing. Faster and faster they worked, a whirl of leather and sweat, until Candi collapsed into Jimmy’s resolute arms. He held her there for a moment.

   ‘That was awesome,’ he said, gently lifting her back to a standing position. ‘You punched like a pro, and all those uppercuts are great for toning the chest – not that yours needs much toning.’

   ‘Skip it,’ Candi spat through gasps, but she gifted Jimmy a smile.

She unhooked herself from the embrace and scraped a sticky curl from her forehead.

   ‘You own a suit?’

   ‘A suit?’ Jimmy’s brow crinkled like the cross-lacing of the gloves. ‘I have an old two-piece somewhere.’

   ‘Well, I thought about what you said, you know, about money – taking home the minimum wage and all that – so I’ve found you a bit of after-hours employment.’

   Jimmy stopped and dropped the pads.

   ‘I didn’t mean to sound like a beggar.’

   Candi pulled off the mitts and placed a sweaty but perfectly manicured hand on Jimmy’s arm.

   ‘It’s not begging if you work for it. We’re having a party tomorrow night, at the house near Windsor. We need someone to keep the door. Emmanuel, Terry’s bodyguard, has a burst ulcer. He’ll be bedridden for weeks.’

   ‘Well, I haven’t got much experience working front of house.’

   ‘It’s a straight night, no sass. Just a bunch of toffs and bankers – my husband’s tedious friends – and you’ll be getting two hundred pounds cash in hand, plus expenses.’

   Jimmy rubbed his arm.

   ‘I could do it, I suppose – I mean, the money is very generous.’

   ‘Good,’ said Candi. ‘It’s less than an hour’s drive from here. I’ll text you the address. Get a route from the Internet. The party starts at seven thirty. You get there just before.’ She gave Jimmy’s bicep a squeeze. ‘If this works out then who knows what other opportunities may come along?’

 

Jimmy pumped iron again after his shift – a hard hour of bench presses, flies, and curls, rounded off with a testing jog home. He skipped the shower and went straight for food – another plateful of pasta, another protein shake. He eased this cocktail of man fuel down with an impromptu set of fifty press-ups and a double dose of testosterone.

   The rest of the evening dragged. He tried watching a movie. The plot revolved around a misfit character and his efforts to convince a group of hostile peers to love him, but Jimmy’s mind wandered and the narrative was lost. In fact, his concentration had waned beyond even its normal low level. Aching from the workout, yet stoked on the steroid, he’d become irritable. It was too late to take a walk, but he needed something. He needed Candi.

   He turned off the TV, sat back, and let images of her fill his disordered mind, consume him. He imagined them working out, just the two of them … oiled up and glistening, unencumbered by the interference of clothes. She performed sit-ups on a Swiss ball as he knelt between her knees, watching. The fantasy drove him to a state of near frenzy. Heedless of his neighbours, he groaned and thrashed until, after vanquishing his carnal urge, he slumped into a fitful sleep.

   In the morning, as he showered, he noticed several coils of detached hair in the water swirling around his feet. He fingered his scalp. More hair came away. The towel, after a vigorous rub, looked as though it had been dragged along the floor of a barbershop.

   It’s the steroids, thought Jimmy: too much DHT. There was only one thing to do about that.

 

Delores smirked as Jimmy marched though reception sporting a freshly shaven head.

   ‘You trying out a new look for that lady of yours?’ she said.

Jimmy didn’t answer. He didn’t know whether it was the testosterone he’d injected that morning, or the fact he now worked for the Thompson family directly, but he was in no mood to exchange banter with his feisty nemesis. He had other issues to deal with.

   ‘What? Leave early?’ Caldera’s cheek went into spasm as Jimmy made his request. ‘We’re running a business here. I can’t let people take time off just like that.’

   Jimmy shrugged.

   ‘It’s important, Mr Caldera. You know … family issues.’

   Caldera eyed Jimmy as if the big man was about to deliver some more – vital – information, then rolled his head away.

   ‘You can leave at five thirty, but that means you swap lunch for an hour handing out flyers in the bear suit. After that I want all the machines checked, the handwash topped up, and the empty lockers cleaned – spotless – before you go. OK?’

   ‘OK. Thank you.’

   Jimmy sucked up the humiliation of wearing the suit with ease. He whizzed through the rest of his duties and finished dead on five thirty. He made it home before six. There, he microwaved the previous night’s leftovers and, as the oven hummed away, he stripped, showered, sprayed himself with watered-down cologne, and shot a full syringe of testosterone.

   After gobbling up his food he dressed. He put on a white shirt, a black tie, and black pleated trousers, all last worn at an ex-boxers’ charity event several years before. He found a can of Mr Sheen under the sink and, between gulps of coffee, spray polished his black shoes to a bright shine. Then, after giving his new gold pendant a kiss for luck, he skipped through the front door.

   The old biddy who lived below was cleaning the doorstep as Jimmy passed. She paused, propped against her broom, and admired her imposing neighbour, even offering a wave. As he climbed into his dusty Nissan Micra, Jimmy waved back. He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was bang on six thirty. Tight, but, if he drove hard he felt everything would be ok.

 

All optimism waned as he circled the Chiswick Roundabout and joined the M4. Roadworks had closed the left-hand lane, leaving a languid coil of traffic that stretched beyond the Big Yellow Self Storage building and out as far as the road’s great southern sweep. Jimmy wound down the window, signalling by hand as the Micra nudged its way onto the clogged carriageway. The car moved forward in little spurts, a few metres at a time, for what seemed like an age. After half a mile the roadworks ended. Even so, the pace didn’t pick up until he’d cleared Heston Services. Jimmy checked the clock a second time and sighed. Six fifty. No chance now of reaching the Thompson place much before seven thirty.

   He did his best to make up time: shooting over the Thames at Windsor, pushing the little car hard by Legoland and down into Cranbourne Wood. About a mile in, where the green woods thickened, Jimmy reached a junction with a white-painted sign that read: Mean Water. Private Road.

   As per Candi’s instruction, he turned into the narrow lane running from the main road and, keeping the speed low, looked for signs of the house. The track looked, by his estimate, at least as long as the street he lived on. Somewhere up ahead lights twinkled through the gaps between the tall elms and a babble of music and voices blew through the open window on an elderflower breeze. It was seven thirty-five. The party had started.

   The approach road gave way to a formal geometric garden with lines of carefully trimmed trees that marched down to a glassy lake. Rising from its perfectly shaped bank was the Thompson residence. The house – a faux Queen Anne mansion with rows of sash windows and a sweep of steps that led to a pompous classical portico – was the biggest private dwelling Jimmy had ever seen. Its spacious drive bristled with gleaming cars, each carefully angled to maximise its aesthetic appeal, as if in a Park Lane showroom. Jimmy parked the Micra beside a black 911 convertible. He straightened his tie, tucked his shirt in, and made his way towards the house.

   A dry-looking man somewhere in the middle of middle age, with dyed black hair and a mahogany tan, stood by the doorway sucking on an oversized Cohiba. He wore a sports jacket and slacks with ruby loafers and, as he looked down from the top step, a broad, judicious scowl.

   ‘And you are?’

   ‘Jimmy Ross, sir. Candi … err, Mrs Thompson … hired me to look after the door.’

   ‘Jimmy, eh?’ The man looked at his watch. ‘OK, we’d better get you started. I’m Mr Thompson.’

   Jimmy offered his hand.

   Thompson didn’t see it.

   ‘This is what you do,’ he said, manhandling Jimmy into position beside one of the Doric columns that flanked the entrance. ‘You stand there and smile at the people as they come and go. Look tough but be polite, yeah?’

   ‘Err, yeah, Mr Thompson.’

   Thompson drew an imaginary line across the threshold with his finger.

   ‘Invitations only beyond this point, yeah?’

   ‘Yeah, Mr Thompson.’

   ‘Now listen, ’cause this bit’s very important. If a geezer shows up without an invitation, press this button.’ He fingered a white ceramic knob set into the pilaster beside the door. ‘Hold whoever it is here until I arrive. Is that clear?’

   ‘Yeah, clear, Mr Thompson.’

   ‘Right, get to work.’

   Thompson turned and disappeared into the house just as a big shiny Range Rover crunched over the gravelled drive. The people who stepped out – ladies wrapped in shimmering dresses and manicured men in pink and lemon shirts – carried themselves with a style Jimmy had only ever seen from afar. Unable to question any of their credentials, he simply stood aside and waved them in.

   More luxury cars arrived and more well-dressed people sallied up the steps. Jimmy let them all in. Occasionally, as his confidence grew, he’d punctuate the bowing and smiling with a ‘Good evening, sir; good evening, madam,’ or some other disposable inanity. Most of the guests smiled back. Some stopped to chat to him. One even recognised him and, smiling like a boy on his birthday, requested a commemorative selfie. Fists raised, Jimmy duly obliged.

   Things hadn’t been this good for years. In the cool of the early evening, as the party hummed away, Jimmy had become more than just the guy who deals with the trash.

   As he revelled in his new-found worth, behind him the front door opened. A familiar voice was a mellow sound in his ear.

   ‘Howdy, my old shaven-headed pardner.’

   Jimmy turned to see Candi straddling the threshold, a black felt Stetson perched on her head and a half-empty bottle of champagne in her hand. She teetered on her heels. Jimmy checked the urge to laugh. He thought Candi, clearly drunk, looked funny – at odds with the bevy of courtly guests he’d ushered through the door.

   ‘That’s a lot of bubbles for one girl,’ he said.

   ‘I’d let you have a drink,’ she said, waving the bottle under Jimmy’s nose. ‘But you’re on … n … dooty.’

   ‘A drink sure would help to keep the night off me,’ he said, rubbing his arms.

Candi leaned back, closed one eye, and took a moment to sharpen her focus.

   ‘Shit, babe, you must be freezing in just a shirt. I’ll get you something warm to put on.’

   As she turned to go back inside, the bottle slipped. With impressive speed of hand, Jimmy caught the thing an inch above the floor. As he rose, Candi’s arms wrapped around him.

   ‘Take a drink,’ she said, her voice breathy, close to Jimmy’s face.

   He looked at the bottle, smiled, and took a long, deep suck.

   Candi laughed.

   ‘Take another, tough guy. You’ve catching up to do.’

Jimmy did, and gulped until the bubbles spurted from the bottle’s neck and over his craggy chin. He wiped the froth from his face and let out a guffaw. Candi snorted and fell back against the pilaster. She didn’t notice her thigh press against the little ceramic knob that sat proud of its surface, nor the distant tinkle of a bell. In fact, she was so lost in the moment that nothing else mattered at all.

  Jimmy dried the bottle off on his trousers and helped her to stand upright again. She shook her head.

   ‘I’m sorry for being a little tipsy,’ she said, then hesitated as a moth buzzed the porch light. ‘Sometimes booze is the only way to cope with living in this place.’

Jimmy considered the statement with knitted brow.

   ‘Looks like a nice place. Looks like you have everything here.’

   ‘Everything? Everything counts for nothing if you’re not happy, if the people around you make you that way.’

   ‘Uh, they all look like nice people to me.’

   ‘They’re all phonies and the worst among them is my fucking husband. Sometimes I just wish someone would pick him up and throw him in that lake over there.’ Then she shook her head, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. ‘Ah, ignore me. I’m just a little emotional right now. Long story.’

   Jimmy paused, not sure whether he should comfort Candi or change the subject, until a shadow fell by his side.

   Terry Thompson glowered from the lee of the doorway.

   ‘What the hell are you doing out here fraternising with the hired help when you should be inside working the crowd?’

   ‘I’m getting some fresh air.’

   ‘Like hell you are. He’s holding a bottle of my best bubbly.’

   Jimmy looked from Candi to Terry Thompson.

   ‘Uh, it’s not what you think, Mr Thompson.’

   ‘Keep outta this, you. You’re paid to look tough, not give advice.’

   ‘Leave him alone, you miserable old sod. I’m talking to him because it’s better than playing the good wife for you and your lousy friends.’

   ‘Well, playing up to those friends is what keeps you in good clothes and a good home – not standing here, jabbering to this lump of lard.’

Jimmy inflated his chest and stared down at the agitated man.

   ‘You shouldn’t talk like that, Mr Thompson.’

   Thompson swung round and glared at Jimmy through narrowed eyes.

   ‘Didn’t I tell you to shut up?’

   Candi lurched forward, stood on Thompson’s foot, then fell back against the wall.

   ‘I hired Jimmy,’ she spat. ‘He doesn’t have to do anything for you, you tosser.’

   ‘Yeah, I’m a tosser and you’re a stinking drunk.’

   Thompson grabbed Candi’s arm and dragged her towards the door.

   Candi squealed.

   Jimmy switched the bottle to his left hand, balled his right into a fist and stepped between them.

   ‘You shouldn’t treat her like that, Mr Thompson.’

   ‘What? You’re telling me how to treat my own wife?’

   Thompson pushed Candi to the floor and waved a finger under Jimmy’s nose.

   ‘You sleeping with this lousy tart, uh?’

   It took Jimmy a moment to process the words – another to notice the tears well in Candi’s eyes. He felt gravity suck the champagne bottle from his fingers, his shoulder drop, and his hands come up as instinct overtook reason. He heard Candi shriek and Thompson yelp as he drove a massive fist into the little man’s face.

   As Thompson crumpled to the floor a group of guests appeared. There were shouts. A lady screamed. Someone grabbed Jimmy’s collar, pulled him backwards. Jimmy swung his big arms, broke free, and reeled away down the steps. Not knowing what else to do, he ran, threats hounding him over the driveway, past the fancy cars and all the way to the Micra.

   He pulled open the door and fumbled the key into the ignition as fists hammered against the windscreen. The engine roared into life. The car’s little wheels spun on the loose gravel, sending a spray of chippings smashing into the paintwork of the other vehicles. Then the rubber found solid earth, propelling man and machine forward at speed and away from the chaotic spectacle. Jimmy looked only forward, racing the car along the narrow avenue, back to the road and out of the forest. He kept his foot down through Windsor, jumping traffic lights and ignoring junctions.

As the car careened along the eastbound M4, Jimmy could barely believe what had just happened. He replayed the whole rotten incident over and over. He flipped it and turned it, looked at all the angles, but couldn’t work out why things had gone from great to catastrophic so quickly, how his big break had turned into his biggest nightmare.

   There would be consequences. Jimmy knew that. Men like Terry Thompson didn’t get to the top by turning the other cheek. He’d probably already made some phone calls, set the merciless wheels of retribution in motion. And what about Candi? What would she do now? Was she already paying the price for that wild, mindless punch? Jimmy drove the final miles on autopilot, unaware of where he was or where he was going. He arrived in Acton exhausted, under a heavy black sky.

 

The lunchtime session was in full swing when Jimmy showed up at the gym, a full four hours after his contractual starting time of eight a.m. He shuffled in behind a pair of pumped-up patrons, hoping not to be seen, but Caldera was ready and waiting.

   ‘In here,’ he said, nodding towards the open office door.

   Jimmy looked for a friendly face but found only the sardonic sneer of Delores. His head fell to his chest as he followed Caldera into the room.

   ‘Take a seat.’

   Caldera’s voice was cool and controlled. He stood, arms folded as Jimmy sat.

   ‘I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, Jimmy. I’m gonna tell you straight. Your employment at Grizzly’s Gym is terminated, as of right now.’

   Jimmy shrank.

   ‘I know I’ve made a mistake, Mr Caldera, but—’

   ‘Mistake? What the fuck. You didn’t just make a mistake, friend, you almost cost everyone here their jobs. Thompson’s heavies have been all over me this morning – threatened to close the place down if I didn’t kick you out the minute you walked in.’

   ‘Look, Mr Caldera, I’m truly sorry about what happened. But you have to give me a chance here.’

   ‘A chance? You assaulted the goddamned owner! You broke the guy’s nose. You’ve had your chance. You don’t get another after that.’

   Caldera snatched a sheet of printed A4 paper from his desk and slapped it down in front of Jimmy.

   ‘This is a record of all the times you’ve been late, missed work, upset clients, upset staff, or failed to follow simple instructions. Read it, Jimmy. I could have – should have – sacked you months ago, dammit.’

   Jimmy looked at the paper without seeing anything.

   ‘I need money, Mr Caldera. I have bills to pay.’

   ‘Look. I understand how things are. That’s why I’ll give you a full week’s pay with no deductions. But the decision is final. This is a business, not a rest home for washed-up meatheads.’ Caldera pointed in the direction of the staff welfare room.       ‘Get your things and get off the premises. NOW’

 

Jimmy took a long time to walk home. The streets that yesterday hummed with the melody of life now teemed with an indifferent and distant rabble. The cardboard box he carried, with its paltry cargo of roll-on deodorant and dirty socks – the remnants of six months of his life – became too much to bear. He dumped it on a pile of crumpled bin bags by the side of Santis Food and Wine, went in and bought the largest bottle of blended whisky they stocked. He looked away as the cashier rang up his purchase.

 

It was after three a.m. when Jimmy checked the clock. He’d spent the last hour on his back, staring at the ceiling, pawing the spongy lump in his quad muscle where the last shot of testosterone had gone in. The steroid and the scotch had tempered his cranial pain but tricked his system of thinking into a series of dangerous delusions. He’d strived hard to win respect, proved himself an excellent personal trainer, and taken the heart of a beautiful lady, yet he’d lost his job, been made to look a fool, and left his angel alone in that loveless hole.

   Raising the bottle he gulped in some whisky, felt it sear his throat, then spat the bitter fluid back out. He jerked upright, wiped his face and sat there, desperately trying to order his thoughts. He paused to fondle the golden pendant around his neck and remembered what Candi had said about Thompson, about throwing him in the lake. A loathing welled up from his subconscious – bad blood that demanded settlement – and with it a bad idea.

   He flipped the bedside light switch, rolled off the mattress, and pulled on yesterday’s sweat-stained clothes. With the recapped whisky bottle stuffed into a kitbag, he collected his keys and left the flat without locking the door.

   He found the Micra by the front of his block and drove along the twists of Acton Lane, barely reaching the speed limit. The street was desolate save for a desultory drunk urinating under the brick bridge by Turnham Green station. Jimmy parked the car and stumped off towards the narrow lane that backed onto Grizzly’s Gym.

An elderly man and his dog skirted the far end of the alley. Jimmy hid in the shadows as the hound squatted down and began to defecate. He waited, stock-still, until the old duffer had bagged the excrement and dragged his dog out into Chiswick High Road. Then he climbed over the yard wall and entered the gym through the back door.

   He sought the alarm panel, tapped in the four-digit deactivation code, then crept through the exercise room to the store. The bear suit dangled from a peg behind the door, its realistic teeth gleaming in a shard of moonlight. The fangs looked so real that they made Jimmy shiver. He stood back and considered this piece of ursine artifice with a boozy recognition of its power to trick. If the creature fooled him, then it would fool anyone. With an insidious smirk, he unhooked the flaccid outfit and stuffed it into his bag.

   As he slunk towards the back door, he noticed the team profile sheets pinned to the noticeboard. His nametag and picture had gone – erased, as though he’d never existed. An oversized photograph of Caldera filled the gap.

Jimmy’s body contracted. When this was over, with Thompson gone and Candi safely shacked up in Acton, he’d come back and fix the lot of them. He snorted up a snot ball, spat it at Caldera’s grinning face, and walked out.

When he reached the car he slung the kitbag on the back seat and dropped the gym keys into a storm drain. He climbed into the driver’s seat and, after a generous slug of whisky, powered up the engine and set off.

 

The old car shook as it climbed the ramp and joined the elevated section of motorway above the Great Western Road. Traffic was light. A few lorries trundled towards central London. Only the odd taxi headed west. By the time the vitreous slab blocks of Brentford had given way to the sweep of Osterley Park, Jimmy had the motorway to himself. He pushed the car hard, out past Heathrow then Dorney, with the CD player pumping out a stream of metal anthems from the nineties. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other around the bottle, taking sips between bursts of half-remembered lyrics … Lost my way, this bleedin’ day.

   He left the motorway still singing, and headed south along the A332 until once again he reached the knobbly weald of Cranbourne Wood. It was dark in the forest, really dark, and the black trees seemed to bend in the beam of the headlights like a channel of topiary conducting the hate of his irrational notions.

   His mind dished up visions of the bloody endgame in full-frontal glory: him smashing down the door of that castle of iniquity … him finding the sordid, moribund marital bed … and him tearing Terry Thompson limb from scrawny limb. Wrapped in the bear suit, there could be no CCTV identification, no fingerprints, no DNA … only Candi would know him, and she’d be cheering and screaming in rapturous delight.

   Half a mile or so down the road Jimmy passed the turn-off for the Thompson estate. He slipped the car out of gear, let it freewheel a few yards, then pulled over by a row of tall firs. A wooden fence ran on in both directions. White signs fixed every fifty yards or so read: Private Property. Keep Out.

   Jimmy stepped away from the car, sucked the last dregs of the whisky, and let the bottle smash on the rock-bound verge. He waited a few moments, checked all was clear, then pulled the bag from the back seat and struggled into the bear suit. It proved a hard task in the almost total dark of the woods, but the mist of whisky gave him strength.

   He left the head on top of the car and scouted along the boundary fence for a good place to enter the estate. A few yards along, a fallen tree branch had smashed a hole in the railings. Jimmy collected the head, pulled it over his own, and crawled between the damaged palings.

   It was hard going in the dense tangle of undergrowth beyond. A lattice of loose twigs trapped his furry shoes and hidden foxholes sent him crashing and cursing. He stumbled into a clearing, straining to see through the mask, desperate to get his bearings. Beyond the black boughs of the trees he saw the twinkle of electric light. The glow seemed far away but definitely domestic. It could only be the Thompson home.

   Jimmy groped forward with renewed purpose, but the going got tougher. So tough that when his foot snagged a loose briar, the thorny creeper ripped both furry boot and trainer clean away, leaving his naked foot exposed to a mass of razor-like spurs. The big man screamed, pitched backwards, and struck his head on a giant cuspated stump. He lay there for some minutes, eyes shut, desperately trying to dowse the fire raging in his head. But he couldn’t. The pain grew to an insufferable level until, at last, his brain abandoned its battle with consciousness and surrendered itself to the warm dark night.

 

Jimmy came to in blazing sunshine – a gap in the leafy canopy exposing him to the heat of the morning rays. Slumped in his mossy berth, drenched in sweat and head pounding like a wanton steam hammer, fragments of the nocturnal quest assembled in his mind like a recondite Fauvist painting. In the brilliance of the morning, his murderous plan seemed utterly ridiculous. He’d been prepared to risk everything to come out here and rescue Candi, but rescue her from what? From her luxury mansion, so she could live with him in his one-bed flat in Acton? No, tolerate him in his mildewed bedsit with its filthy carpet and overdue rent. The only option left was to get up, get to the car and go home.

   He rolled over and raised himself on hand and knee. The effort needed for this simple manoeuvre was staggering. It was the suit. No longer just a costume, the furry membrane had undergone a chimerical transformation. The sodden hide had shrunk back, tightened over Jimmy’s swollen body until man and fur had fused into one.

He tugged at the paws, but neither gave an inch. He wrestled with the colossal head, but there was no shifting it either. He was trapped. Perspiration dripped from his nose, trickled over his lips, and pooled in the tufted cloth of the hairy chin. With a Herculean effort, he pulled himself erect and looked for a way out.

   Lofty sycamores girdled both sides of the minuscule glade. Their sticky trunks sweated a scented resin that bubbled in the heat. Jimmy found some shade, caught his breath, and tried hard to visualise a way back to the car. Ahead the woodland thinned, and through the spindly trees he saw the sun shimmer on the restless surface of a lake. On leaden legs he lumbered out of the tree cover and into the quaggy mud by the water’s edge. He stood for a moment, peering through the fuzzy slit of the bear head, eyes adjusting to the glare.

   Away to the left, a flock of mallards flapped up from the water and circled away into the cloudless sky. Something had spooked them. Jimmy saw a flash somewhere on the edge of his peripheral vision, then the air above his head fizzed and a tree branch snapped. A moment later there came a noise like the crack of a distant bullwhip.

   He scanned the edge of the forest. Fifty metres away, by the tallest of the sycamores, the sun glinted off something metallic. Just visible against the variegated green of the leaves were two tweed-clad figures. One brandished something long and thin – a shotgun.

   Jimmy limped towards them, his laboured gait almost unrecognisable as human. He bawled as loud as he could, but the great weight of fur around his mouth distorted the words, made them sound more like the roar of an angry beast. There came another flash, another crack. This time Jimmy buckled as if walloped by a massive right hook to the gut. He flopped backwards into the scrub, his great bulk wedged between an anthill and the snarling branches of a fallen tree. Desperate paws grasped at the dead sprigs as hot blood poured from a cluster of holes in his midriff. He heard the crackle of trampled twigs as the hunters approached, then a voice, a female voice.

   ‘It’s still twitching,’ she said.

   ‘Then put the thing out of its misery,’ said her companion.

   Framed through the darkening eyehole, Jimmy saw his last moments unfold in an oddly detached way. He saw Terry Thompson lift his sunglasses and peer through a coil of broken branches. Beside him, holding the gun, he saw Candi. – her enchanting mascara-lined eye level with the shotgun barrel as she sighted on him.

He almost laughed at the irony, but his body was wracked by a terrible pain, and as the gun banged again, Jimmy’s light went out.