hurrying figure that forced itself out of the mass, as a card is forced by a sharper. It was Basil Hallward. He was ten years older, it was true, and he looked thin and wan – not at all well generally – but it was also evident that he was straight: scrubbed in appearance – with his grey, single-breasted suit, white shirt and leather shoes – and clean from drugs as well. His eyes were clear and direct behind rimless spectacles, and he strode along with lively purpose, as if health and vigour could be achieved by bad acting alone.
Baz made his entrance to the 1990s marching between an honour guard of gays – if that doesn’t sound too absurd. Here, in Fitzrovia, close to both the hospital complex and the burgeoning gay village, there was a preponderance of homosexual men. They sported greased head hair, pencil-line facial hair, earrings and white vests, the better to show off their easy-to-wipe skin tones. Some were gaunt-jawed and slope-shouldered, others were pumped up and overly active.
Turning the corner into Goodge Street, Baz came face to face with a policeman and a security goon. The latter had come in kit form, complete with snap-on dark glasses and a plastic pigtail connecting his red ear to his blue collar. They were staunching a small flow of pedestrians, while in the roadway another cop arrested some traffic.
—Would you mind waiting for a moment please, sir?
—Is there anything the matter, officer? Baz was amused by the cop’s courteous manner; it wasn’t what he was used to.
—Nothing to worry about, sir, just be a few more seconds ’til they’re clear. The goon’s ear squawked and he barked at his two colleagues in an American accent, OK, let’s roll it up now gentlemen!
The cop in the street directed the traffic to pull over to the kerb. There was a short siren yelp and two motorcycle outriders came from the direction of the Middlesex Hospital travelling surprisingly fast. They were followed first by a Lincoln Towncar bearing the Stars and Stripes, and then by a customised Daimler with the royal crest poised on its roof as if it were a petrified floral tribute.
The other bystanders craned to look through the tinted glass of the cars. In the first sat Barbara Bush, who, in common with every First Lady since Jackie Kennedy, closely resembled a male-to-female transsexual. In her case, rubicund features and a white smoke cloud of hair suggested she would be more comfortable on the front step of some Appalachian log cabin, corncob pipe in puckered mouth, whiskey jar to hand. In the Daimler, the pale profile of the Princess of Bulimia sluiced through the street. There was a chorus of ‘Ooh’s and ‘Ah’s in their wake, but Baz wasn’t paying any attention. He powered on through the loosening cordon in the direction of the hospital. There he strode across the forecourt, which was empty save for a knot of medical staff enjoying a post-royal-visit cigarette.
Inside, Baz paused to enquire where Broderip Ward was, then followed these directions along corridors, through hallways, up staircases, past all the usual traffic of a workaday hospital: patients on trolleys, patients in wheelchairs, posters advertising diseases, auxiliary staff, uneasy civilians. Everywhere he went was spick and span and therapeutically colour-coded. The interior designers had been summoned when the Royal Fag Hag began to take an interest in the gay plague and came to open the Broderip. Yet just inches away from where Baz strode were ventilation ducts choking on infective fluff and stagnant puddles of mop wipe, each with its own malarial vector. But he wasn’t to know, old Basil, zooming forward with his missionary zeal.
On the fifth floor he skated across the polished floor to a blond-wood desk beside a plate-glass window, where a blond nurse with wooden features sat smouldering with anger. Like so many of the nursing staff on Broderip he would soon be burnt out altogether. He fixed Baz with an appraising eye; if
Baz made his entrance to the 1990s marching between an honour guard of gays – if that doesn’t sound too absurd. Here, in Fitzrovia, close to both the hospital complex and the burgeoning gay village, there was a preponderance of homosexual men. They sported greased head hair, pencil-line facial hair, earrings and white vests, the better to show off their easy-to-wipe skin tones. Some were gaunt-jawed and slope-shouldered, others were pumped up and overly active.
Turning the corner into Goodge Street, Baz came face to face with a policeman and a security goon. The latter had come in kit form, complete with snap-on dark glasses and a plastic pigtail connecting his red ear to his blue collar. They were staunching a small flow of pedestrians, while in the roadway another cop arrested some traffic.
—Would you mind waiting for a moment please, sir?
—Is there anything the matter, officer? Baz was amused by the cop’s courteous manner; it wasn’t what he was used to.
—Nothing to worry about, sir, just be a few more seconds ’til they’re clear. The goon’s ear squawked and he barked at his two colleagues in an American accent, OK, let’s roll it up now gentlemen!
The cop in the street directed the traffic to pull over to the kerb. There was a short siren yelp and two motorcycle outriders came from the direction of the Middlesex Hospital travelling surprisingly fast. They were followed first by a Lincoln Towncar bearing the Stars and Stripes, and then by a customised Daimler with the royal crest poised on its roof as if it were a petrified floral tribute.
The other bystanders craned to look through the tinted glass of the cars. In the first sat Barbara Bush, who, in common with every First Lady since Jackie Kennedy, closely resembled a male-to-female transsexual. In her case, rubicund features and a white smoke cloud of hair suggested she would be more comfortable on the front step of some Appalachian log cabin, corncob pipe in puckered mouth, whiskey jar to hand. In the Daimler, the pale profile of the Princess of Bulimia sluiced through the street. There was a chorus of ‘Ooh’s and ‘Ah’s in their wake, but Baz wasn’t paying any attention. He powered on through the loosening cordon in the direction of the hospital. There he strode across the forecourt, which was empty save for a knot of medical staff enjoying a post-royal-visit cigarette.
Inside, Baz paused to enquire where Broderip Ward was, then followed these directions along corridors, through hallways, up staircases, past all the usual traffic of a workaday hospital: patients on trolleys, patients in wheelchairs, posters advertising diseases, auxiliary staff, uneasy civilians. Everywhere he went was spick and span and therapeutically colour-coded. The interior designers had been summoned when the Royal Fag Hag began to take an interest in the gay plague and came to open the Broderip. Yet just inches away from where Baz strode were ventilation ducts choking on infective fluff and stagnant puddles of mop wipe, each with its own malarial vector. But he wasn’t to know, old Basil, zooming forward with his missionary zeal.
On the fifth floor he skated across the polished floor to a blond-wood desk beside a plate-glass window, where a blond nurse with wooden features sat smouldering with anger. Like so many of the nursing staff on Broderip he would soon be burnt out altogether. He fixed Baz with an appraising eye; if
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