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“Cheers, boys. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Howard waves as the ex-members of “Terminal Margaret” wander placidly off down the road, arm-in-arm with Lester Corncrake, all of them scatting vaguely as they go.
At the very moment the Jazz Cell had collapsed in the gutter outside and expired in a puff of black smoke, overcome by the deadly cocktail of punk diseases from Vince’s safety-pin, the four punks had miraculously revived.
Except they weren’t punks any more, they were four rather pleasant and mild-mannered young jazz fans who were a bit puzzled as to why they were wearing studs, leather and bondage trousers.
In a sudden and uncharacteristic few minutes of sales genius, Howard managed to sell them an armload of Charlie Parker LPs, several boxes of assorted stationery and a couple of his own Hawaiian shirts before shepherding them and Lester out of the shop and closing the door behind them.
“Will they be all right?” he asks worriedly.
“Course they will,” Naboo says as he whips the wad of cash expertly out of Howard’s hand. “Nearly a thousand euros here. Never thought I’d say this to you, Howard, but well done on the sales… They’ll probably have a bit of memory loss but that’s no bad thing, we don’t want them coming back for a refund. Apart from that, once the jazz fumes evaporate they’ll go back to being their ballbag selves in a day or two.”
Then he looks at Vince, standing very still on the exact spot where he ate the record. “Some people might take a bit longer though.”
And he heads off upstairs, calling to Bollo to stop arsing around with the submarine and put the kettle on.
Howard feels a jolt of concern in the pit of his stomach. Vince is swaying on his feet. He's all pallid and sweaty, and he's chewing on his lip, like he does when he’s worried or upset.
“Alright, little man?”
Vince looks away. “No, actually. I feel completely shit.”
“Well, that’s understandable. You’re recovering from a serious jazz infection. Those are not to be taken lightly, sir.” Howard’s jovial tone rings false, even to his own ears.
Vince still won’t look at him. “It’s not because of that. It’s because I am completely shit.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
“I ate your record.”
“I got the money back. I can buy more records. The main thing is that you’re alright.”
“But I’m not.” Vince stares at the floor. His voice drops to a cracked whisper. “I’m not, Howard.”
Howard is really concerned now. He goes to Vince, puts a hand on his shoulder, but Vince shrugs it off. “Don’t touch me.”
“Oi, that’s my line.”
Vince chokes on a sob. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Howard thinks about it. “I should be, shouldn’t I?”
Vince nods miserably. “You should hate me for what I did.”
“I don’t – ”
“I hate myself!” Vince cries.
“Vince, it was only a record.”
Vince whips round, his blue eyes tear-filled and stormy. “It’s not about the fucking record! It’s about me! I’m so pathetic I couldn’t even stand up for my best mate against those punk gits, couldn’t say no to them even though you were standing there and I saw what I was doing to you, before I even had the disc in my hand…”
Howard tries to think of something comforting to say, but he can’t think of anything, and Vince isn’t listening anyway.
“…And last week I threw you over and got you sacked, for clothes, for fuck’s sake, not for anythin’ actually important…”
Oh dear, he really is sick.
“… An’ what about that time in the Arctic, you even said you loved me and all I could do was laugh in your face… I’m a shit friend and a shit person and…”
And I love you anyway, Howard thinks, and then remembers that there are times when Vince can read his mind, so he tries to stop thinking it because this probably isn’t the right time and it definitely isn’t what Vince needs to hear right now.
“And you’re not well, you need to get some rest,” Howard says firmly, putting an arm around Vince’s heaving shoulders and steering him towards the door. “And I need to get out of this wetsuit before I melt.”
It’s a measure of how ill Vince is, that there’s no snappy comeback about neoprene being fashion-forward or blue being a good colour on Howard. He just mumbles “Yeah,” and lets Howard lead him upstairs to their room.
He sits on his bed, sniffing miserably and staring at nothing, while Howard struggles to reach the zip at the back of the diving suit, which is becoming wetter and wetter inside as he gets hotter and hotter.
“Damn!” His sweat-slick fingers lose their grip on the stupidly tiny pull-tag. “Vince, help me out here, would you?”
Vince gets slowly to his feet and comes to stand behind Howard; the zip peels open, and there is a merciful rush of cool air on Howard’s back and shoulders.
“Cheers,” Howard says, feeling suddenly awkward. He smells. He smells of sweat and plastic and… Vince.
“ ’S’alright.” Vince peels the fabric off Howard’s shoulders; holds each cuff in turn so he can get his arms free; tugs the suit down past Howard’s waist, and pushes him gently down to sit on the bed so that Vince can kneel by his feet to help get the legs off.
Howard hurls the squeaky, sweaty tangle into the corner of the bedroom.
Now clad only in his sodden underwear, he feels suddenly self-conscious, with Vince still kneeling on the floor, looking up at him as though not sure who either of them is any more.
Vince shivers, and Howard pulls himself together. Vince needs his help. Even more than Howard needs a bath.
“Come on, little man, let’s get you into bed.” He coaxes Vince to his feet and across the room to his bed; Vince flops down, fully clothed, and lets Howard pull off his boots. He looks exhausted, bluish shadows under his eyes, his makeup smudged and his forehead beaded with sweat.
Howard fluffs up his pillows and pulls the covers over him, resisting the temptation to crawl in beside him and hold him tight. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
He feels Vince’s eyes on him as he leaves the room.
Howard runs the bath, and on an impulse he adds some of Vince’s fruit-salad bubblebath, hoping it might prove a match for the plasticky smell of the diving suit, which seems to have permeated Howard’s entire skin.
The water is warm and soothing. A bit like floating in Vince’s bloodstream. Howard stretches out luxuriously, wishing this bath were a couple of inches longer, he can never quite get his legs completely straight when he’s lying down.
He rinses his sweaty hair, and sits up again; reaches for the loofah.
Odd. He could have sworn he’d put it in easy reach. Maybe it’s fallen on the floor.
He peers over the edge of the bath.
No loofah. But a pair of bare feet, with sparkly toenails…
“I couldn’t sleep,” Vince says. His voice is hoarse. “When I shut my eyes, I can see them coming after me. Can I stay in here for a bit?”
Howard is grateful for the bubbles all of a sudden.
“Yeah, if it helps.”
“It does. Thanks. Do you… do you want me to wash your back for you? You’ve dropped your scrubbing thing.”
“That would be nice, yes.”
Howard is doubly grateful for the bubbles as Vince soaps his back and gives him a satisfying going-over with the softly scratchy loofah before rinsing him down with gentle hands…
Howard tries hard to think of something harmless, like daisies or Philip the kitten. He isn’t entirely successful.
“That’s great, Vince. Thank you.”
Vince sits down beside the bath, leaning against the wall, his head tipped back and his hands clasped round his updrawn knees.
“What was it like?” he asks suddenly.
“What was what like?”
“Being inside me.”
“Well, it was just… you. They all look like you. Your blood cells, your immune system, your brain cell…”
“Just the one?”
“Yeah, but he has a secretary. They both look like you as well. Sit there watching you on telly.”
“Genius. I guess all my cells have that same stuff, NME is it? The corkscrew stuff with the instructions on.”
“DNA.”
“Yeah, that. So they all look like me, cos they all are me. Hey, Howard, d’you think all your cells have little moustaches?”
Howard declines to answer that. But it’s good to see a glimmer of a smile on Vince’s face again.
“I’m getting out now.”
“Leave the water in for us, yeah? I might as well get clean too, since I’m awake.”
Howard feels Vince’s eyes on him again as he gets out and wraps himself in a towel.
Vince strips and gets into the bath. Howard is combing his hair and he isn’t really watching him, but he can’t help seeing in the mirror.
That fragile body, so pale and delicate… Howard wants to take care of him. He wants a whole lot of other things too, but those will have to wait until Vince is feeling better.
"Hey Howard, could you gimme a hand with my hair?"
Howard summons up innocent images of daisies and kittens, and keeps his towel pulled firmly around his waist, as he washes Vince’s back and then his hair, helps him out, gets him dry…
“Stay with me,” Vince pleads, when Howard has tucked him back into bed again. “Just till I fall asleep.”
Howard sits down beside the bed. Vince reaches out and holds his hand.
“Thanks for saving me, Howard.”
“But I didn’t. I couldn’t kill that thing. It fooled me. If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking…”
“And Lester’s reflexes. Amazing.”
“…I couldn’t have done it. I’m sorry. I let you down, Vince.”
Vince squeezes Howard’s hand tight. “No, you didn’t. That’s just how it works, with us. I do somethin’ stupid, you try to save me, you screw up, I try to save you, I screw up, someone else has to save our arses, and somehow we’re both still here. That’s how it’s always been. How I always want it to be. You and me, both still here… Awww, and you’re yawning, you must be knackered after swimming right through me, why not just get in the bed, then if I bore you to sleep it won’t matter, cos you’ll be lyin’ down already.”
Howard can’t think of a good reason why not, so he lifts up Vince’s duvet and gets into bed beside him.
Lying there in the dim orange glow of the streetlight through the curtains, with Vince’s fingers linked warmly through his own, Howard thinks about what he learned today about his best friend: something nobody else knows, probably not even Vince, yet.
The brain cell might not have been “feeling it” with Howard; maybe it wasn’t even aware that other parts of Vince might have other ideas.
But Howard knows what he saw, as he cruised past in the submarine.
His own name.
Written in big wobbly letters, right across Vince’s heart.
“Vince?”
“Howard?”
“You know that time in the Arctic… what I said to you then…”
“Yeah?”
“Well… would you… Would you still laugh if I said it now?”
Vince thinks about this for a minute or two.
“No, Howard. I don’t think I would.”
Vince’s heart is beating so fast Howard can hear it. He imagines it’s probably cheering and putting the flags out as well, as Vince’s brain finally gets the message.
And he’d even spelt it right. It must be love.