Free The Nothing Job by Nick Oldham

voice dropped into a hoarse whisper – ‘I had my cock enlarged. I still love it, really … something to play with in the bath.’
    â€˜Too much detail.’ Henry held up his right hand in the police number one stop signal.
    Pussy jiggled her boobs. ‘Wanna give them a squeeze, Henry? Just for old times’ sake.’
    â€˜I am very tempted,’ he said wistfully, ‘but let’s take a rain check on that one, shall we?’
    â€˜Suit yourself – bitch,’ she pouted, but not for real.
    Henry blinked at her and shook his head, unable to fathom her out at all. It was far too complicated for Henry’s one hundred per cent heterosexual brain. He actually thought of himself rather like a greyhound: he’d once been told that the only thing a greyhound ever thought about was chasing rabbits. All Henry could ever think of was chasing members of the opposite sex and inseminating them, although since his remarriage his eyes and mind were kept solely on Kate.
    â€˜Think he’ll come?’ Henry said.
    â€˜Been here two nights running,’ Pussy said. ‘Flashing the cash.’
    â€˜Somebody else’s cash, I’ll wager.’
    â€˜No doubt.’
    â€˜I’ll keep looking, and you too?’
    Pussy nodded, wafted her face with a Chinese fan which he flicked open with a crack, making Henry jump. ‘Show’s on in ten minutes … I’ve got you a place in the royal box, luvvie.’
    â€˜I’m honoured.’ Henry bowed graciously.
    â€˜Aren’t you just.’ She pursed Henry a kiss and flounced off towards the stage. Henry decided to risk one beer, which he took into the main theatre and found his way up to the royal box giving him an excellent slightly raised view of the venue. It was a Victorian theatre that had gone to rack and ruin in the 1950s and been saved by Pussy Beaver in the early eighties and had never seen better days. Henry was alone in the fur-lined royal box, making him glad and uncomfortable at the same time. Glad because you never could be sure who or what you might be sitting next to, uncomfortable because he stood out like a sore thumb. But whatever, he settled down to watch the show and keep an eye out for Downie.
    The entertainment was basically an old-fashioned variety act, professionally done with lots of innuendo and dancing girls who were really men in disguise. Pussy did a solo spot for about twenty minutes, rousing the already rowdy audience into a mini-frenzy with a medley of Abba and Bassey songs. The first-half finale was a musical playlet with about as much plot as a porn movie, but some funny lines and good rock music. Henry enjoyed it all, but thought he shouldn’t.
    There was no sign of Downie.
    He raised himself from his comfortable seat and drifted back to the bars to mingle. There was a thirty-minute interval, during which he found a tight spot at a bar and kept nicks from there. He still could not spot Downie.
    The second half of the show began about 11 p.m. It was due to last for an hour and was a salacious romp through the ages – backwards – starting in the present day and regressing to Roman times; it was a shirt-neck-pulling extravaganza and he wondered if he had the stamina to see it through to the bitter beginning. He decided to give it half an hour and if Downie hadn’t shown by then, he’d call it quits and head home to his heterosexual household and curl up next to a warm female bum.
    Just as the cast appeared as knights in shining leotards, Henry spotted Downie at a table in the far corner. The hair was thick and curly, obviously a wig, and he sported a thick moustache and goatee. But it was his size that gave him away as he stood up to walk across to the bar. He could not disguise his excessive height. Six-eight doesn’t give much room for manoeuvre.
    Henry watched him carefully.
    He was sitting with two other men Henry did not recognize.
    At the bar Downie