Chapter Four
Eight o’clock on any given Sunday morning was a foreign concept to Tommy.
Petticoat Lane nightlife in Central had resumed pre-pandemic closing times. After lockdown restrictions that lasted longer than most countries, Tommy savoured every breath of freedom. He had stayed until almost four before climbing into the back of a red taxi and heading home to bed. Alone. But at least he’d had the foresight to set two alarms across the bedroom to go off at seven-fifteen and seven-thirty.
An old school friend, Devon Lee, had roped him into helping to clean up Rocky Bay Beach. And if he was going to be perfectly honest, having something meaningful to do on Sunday morning meant not sleeping the day away. But he’d be damned if he was going to act bright and breezy.
Bleached blond Devon stood in the road outside his apartment block, grinning broadly, wearing tight white shorts and an equally fitted vest with the words Power Bottom Dweller in rainbow colours across his chiselled chest. In the bright light of morning, he looked sickeningly healthy. In his favour, he held out two huge cardboard coffee cups.
“Late one last night?”
Assuming the question to be rhetorical, Tommy focused on the cardboard cup Devon held out to him.
“You look like you might need this.”
“That bad?” asked Tommy before taking a sip and letting out an obscene moan.
“There is a cosmetic surgery post-op vibe about you this morning. You look like death served cold.”
Devon loved English idioms but often got them wrong. Tommy had given up correcting him.
“Nice.”
“Public transport or taxi?” asked Devon.
“Taxi. Definitely taxi. Full air-con taxi. And can we not get a driver in a rush to be reincarnated? Or one of those old bastards who like to tap out stop-start-stop-stop-start Morse Code on the brake pedals? Unless you want to watch me puke milky latte,” said Tommy before looking up at a couple of passing clouds. “Is it going to rain?”
“Doubtful,” said Devon, stepping onto the road and flagging down a red taxi. “But I’ve got you covered. Packed a couple of North Face lightweight waterproofs in the backpack, just in case. Do you have a hat?”
“Shit.”
“Thought not. I also brought a spare baseball cap.”
“Do I want to know what obscene slogan I’ll be sporting?”
“What do you care?” said Devon, opening the rear taxi door. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Come on, before I change my mind. And on the way you can remind me why I am doing this at such an ungodly hour of the morning.”
Tommy belted up in the back and slipped on his Ray-Bans, filtering out the offensive sunlight and letting Devon’s voice lull him.
“Darling, it’s a beach clean-up, to clear the trash away from the public area and the shoreline so people like us can at least catch rays and ogle tight Speedos on an unspoilt beach. Or swim in a relatively unpolluted sea without the fear of watching used condoms or dirty diapers float past.”
“Ugh.”
“I know, right?”
“Shouldn’t the government employ people to do that? Isn’t that why we pay taxes?”
“The government always has more pressing priorities. Like persuading the over-eighties that vaccinations are safe and a good thing.”
“More to the point, darling, since when did you become all radical eco-warrior?”
Devon seemed to have been waiting for Tommy to ask. After twisting his upper body around, he removed Tommy’s sunglasses, waiting until they faced each other.
“So…” he said, drawing the word out and giving Tommy his full, excited attention. “Tuesday night. Fruits in Suits. Talked to this gorgeous polar bear. Woke and hot. Nat-Geo gorgeous. Wrote his number down on this flyer.”
Devon went on to explain how his new hottie spent weekends either doing punishing hikes around the New Territories, dragon boating or volunteering for one charity or another. Hanging on to the man’s every word, Devon had enthused about how he had been considering joining a beach clean-up—a total lie, of course—and the guy had provided all the details, telling Devon how much he looked forward to meeting him there.
“Here you go,” said Devon, handing him back his sunglasses and reading from the glossy sheet. Even without a hangover, Tommy could never read in a moving car. Trains and planes were fine, but never in a car. “Make sure to dress appropriately for the weather. If it’s sunny, bring a hat and sunscreen—”
“I didn’t—” began Tommy.
“Once again, darling, I’ve got you covered. Sunblock factor fifty,” continued Devon. Tommy closed his eyes and let Devon’s voice wash over him. “Next. Wear appropriate footwear such as trainers and definitely not flip-flops because there may be hazardous objects on the beach such as tin cans or broken glass. The events team will provide you with a goodie bag including gloves, trash sacks, an energy bar and a water bottle—a reusable one, naturally. They’ll also furnish gay volunteers with a pack of ribbed condoms and sachets of lube—”
“They—what?” said Tommy, suddenly alert and straightening.
“Just checking you’re still listening, darling,” said Devon, throwing the flyer at Tommy.
* * * *
By the time they paid the cabbie and got out at the Shek O bus terminus for the short walk down to the beach, Tommy felt infinitely better. Why did nobody ever make a bigger deal about the healing powers of morning coffee? Clouds had moved off, and the hot sun sat centre stage in the clear blue skies. Humidity had crept up since the beginning of the year but had not reached Hong Kong’s usual brutal peaks. All in all, they could not have picked a more perfect day. Signs had been posted on poles and fences, giving directions to the starting point. As they stood in line at the beach, shuffling forward to sign in and pick up their basic clean-up materials, Tommy spotted him.
Mitchell bloody Baxter.
Again.
People told him that Hong Kong was like a small village, but come on. A village with a population of over seven million? Was this some kind of cosmic joke? The man in question stood behind the officials’ white plastic tables with four other officials, providing a smiling and enthusiastic greeting to volunteers. Devon stopped prattling on nonsense as they neared the bench, a sure sign he had spied his new beau. Tommy did his best to hide behind Devon and was fortunate to get another official to greet him. He scrawled his name on a clipboard before collecting his tag and hessian bag of goodies. But he couldn’t help glancing at Baxter, who happened to turn his way at precisely the same moment. Except this time, Baxter glanced away.
The thing was, Mitchell was one of those men Tommy’s attention would normally glide past. For goodness’ sake, he wore black jeans and Dr. Martens on a day when everyone else wore summer shorts and brightly coloured trainers. And the Rugby Sevens polo shirt did him no favours, looking decades old. But when he bothered to look at Mitchell closely, he saw a naturally attractive man, handsome in a down-to-earth way, not gym-toned or obsessed about his hair or appearance, just an ordinary guy. Which was inconvenient in so many ways when all Tommy wanted to do was ignore him.
Once Devon had finished signing in and flirting—he’d made a beeline for an older guy—he joined Tommy, and they lost themselves in the small crowd of volunteers standing before a makeshift stage. Both had been given red wristbands to represent their clean-up group. Ten minutes later, Devon stopped speaking and a grin lit his face. When Tommy turned, the older guy had taken the stage. Smiling broadly at everyone, the man gazed briefly at Devon, and he winked. Devon emitted a soft whimpering sound and wilted against Tommy before straightening up as the man began his speech.
“Every year, millions of tons of rubbish end up in our oceans, threatening our marine wildlife.” The man had a deep, rich voice, and Tommy finally understood the attraction. Even more impressive, he stopped after each sentence to repeat the words in very passable Cantonese. “I am sure many of you have seen pictures of turtles trapped by plastic can holders or seals tied up in nylon netting. Marine litter is not only a problem for us here in Hong Kong, but is a challenge the world over and something everyone needs to urgently address. And every little bit helps. So thank you all for coming along today. Small acts like this clean-up, when multiplied by millions of people, can transform the planet. And while we thank you for assisting us in cleaning Rocky Bay Beach, we urge you to commit to a more sustainable lifestyle by reducing consumption of plastic and reusing and recycling what you have. If enough of us push to change the way we live, to reject convenience in favour of sustainability, then corporations will have no choice but to sit up and take notice.”
A murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd.
“A note on logistics. If you find any oversized objects, things like wooden pallets or concrete blocks, don’t touch them but call over one of the marshals. The last thing we want is any of you hurting yourselves trying to lug heavy objects around. We have a team who will deal with those. At the finishing point, there are restrooms with washing facilities. Once you’ve cleaned up, come to the sign-out bench for hot and cold beverages and something light to eat, which is our way of saying thank you. Can I also ask you to be respectful of anyone enjoying the beach today? By all means, explain what we’re doing if asked and offer to take away any litter. And something I urge you all to do is to take a good look at the beach before we begin, then do the same at the other end once we’re finished. Any mothers here with a teenage son or daughter will know the feeling when they’ve cleaned up their kid’s bedroom—”
“And how long does that last?” called a female voice from the crowd, raising laughter among the group.
“Good point. And I’d imagine not long,” said the smiling man after the crowd had quietened. “And neither will this. Because more rubbish will begin to be washed up onto the shore as soon as we leave. Even more so if a typhoon hits the region. But does that mean we shouldn’t bother? Somebody has to care. Somebody has to take a stand. And today that person is you. Which is why I ask you to see beyond today, to take a careful look at your lives and rethink your waste habits.”
This time the guy got a round of applause.
“And when you do look back to survey the cleaned-up beach today, I hope you enjoy the same sense of achievement I always do. And, in particular, understand the difference people working together for a good cause can make in a single morning, that we can be the solution to the problem. A simple life lesson for us all.”
After a few more words about logistics, the man invited the volunteers to meet with the marshal assigned to their coloured wristbands. Once in groups, the marshals arranged everyone, volunteers forming lines across the depth of the beach, from the water’s edge to the rockier dunes, moving methodically and systematically forward over smooth sands and boulders like police officers doing a ground search for a missing person. Working unhurriedly and chatting amiably, some participants positioned along the sea’s edge ventured out into the shallows and plucked out all manner of junk.
Devon and Tommy filled six large black plastic sacks between them. Items included the usual culprits of cigarette butts, plastic shopping bags, soda cans, various sizes of plastic water bottles and some more unusual finds such as a rusted pushchair, a cracked toilet seat and the headless upper torso of a female shop mannequin. Devon hugged the plastic model to his chest and briefly entertained those around him with a song and dance performance from one of his favourite diva artists before a laughing marshal salvaged the item from him.
As they approached the clearing at the end of the beach, having finished for the day, Devon excused himself to trot ahead and find his prize. Tommy was walking alone, sipping from his water bottle, enjoying the sun and feeling more awake than ever, when a familiar voice caught his attention.
Walking directly ahead, Mitchell chatted and laughed with another volunteer. They were talking about cars, because he’d heard Mitchell mention something about a BMW. At first Tommy thought about hanging back and letting them finish, but then he decided he needed to be the bigger man.
“Mitchell,” he called out, once within range.
When Mitchell turned and clocked Tommy, the humour drained from his face. Tommy took a deep breath.
“Could I have a word, please? In private?”
After assessing him for a moment, Mitchell turned and spoke a few words Tommy couldn’t hear to the other man, who briefly turned to eye Tommy before walking on. Mitchell stood his ground, clearly waiting for Tommy to catch up.
“Look,” began Tommy as soon as he was close enough to speak without others hearing. “I wanted to apologise for the last time we spoke. After the cocktail party, I mean. What I said was harsh. And my sister rightfully scolded me. One of those guys turns out to be a not particularly nice sort. You probably did me a favour. And even though, in all likelihood, you think I’m a total asshole—”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole. And I really hope you don’t think I’m a self-righteous prick. But Adam doesn’t hold his drink well. And his wife really is almost ready to give birth.”
“Anyway, what I wanted to say is, I apologise. And thank you for saving me from the crackhead.”
“Harold might have mentioned him being a little shady, but I assumed you were friends.”
“Absolutely not. His kind of thing is definitely not mine.”
Mitchell nodded his understanding, and, finally, his smile returned. Beckoning Tommy to join him with a tilt of his head, he began walking again towards the finishing bench.
“What brings you out here?” asked Mitchell. “Beach cleaning? Is it something you do often?”
“Are you kidding? This is a first for me. But my friend roped me in after he was invited by his soon-to-be boyfriend, the one who arranged the event and gave that rousing introductory speech—”
“Oscar.”
“If that’s the name of the guy stood to your left at the welcome table. Is he your friend?”
“Not really a friend. More someone I bump into at these kinds of events.” Mitchell rubbed his chin, clearly finding the information amusing. “But your friend is the one with the blond hair? Up ahead brushing shoulders with Oscar? I was walking behind and heard them discussing various Handover Day marches. I think I overheard your blond friend arguing that protestation is the thief of time. Or maybe I misheard.”
Tommy looked ahead while laughing. Just the kind of saying Devon would misstate. In front, he saw Devon grinning at Oscar, clearly in awe at something he’d said. His friend did not waste any time.
“No, that definitely sounds like Devon.”
“How about you?” asked Mitchell. “Enjoying yourself?”
“You know what? I am. Surprisingly. Can’t believe how much crap gets washed up on the beach. And I must say I like the kind of ‘pay-it-forward’ mentality of the organisers. As in us not just helping out this one time but consciously making an effort to reduce our consumption of plastic and other waste, and spreading the word.”
Tommy noticed people stopping and turning around to stare at them. He wondered what had happened until Mitchell directed him to turn and do the same.
“Look.”
At first glance Tommy didn’t understand what he was supposed to see apart from a pristine-looking beach. Only then did the penny drop. People weren’t looking at something specific but at the absence of the discarded litter, mottled blue plastic and random ugly lumps that had almost become a part of the beachscape. Many people enjoying the beach that day had thanked him and asked for details of the subsequent clean-up. For a change, he felt as though he had done something worthwhile with his Sunday.
“We helped do that,” said Mitchell, and even though the remark was spoken plainly enough, Tommy felt a sense of pride inflate his chest.
As they made their way towards the finishing post and the parking lot beyond, Mitchell stopped when his phone pinged with a message.
“That’s my sister,” he said. “We speak every Sunday, but she’s tied up this afternoon.”
Mitchell continued walking, but he appeared distracted.
“I don’t suppose you know anybody who’s involved in the English-speaking theatre scene?”
“Me. Our Head of English and Dramatic Arts directs shows for the local community theatre and I help to stage-manage the productions. Building sets, acquiring props and coordinating lighting and scene changes—that kind of thing. Why? Are you going to tell me you’re an aspiring thespian?”
“Heavens, no. My sister’s son, my nephew, is coming to stay with me for a month in a couple of weeks and I haven’t a clue what to do with him. But my niece texted me to say he’d worked backstage on a number of school plays. I don’t suppose you could use an extra set of hands?”
“Are you kidding? We’re rehearsing the musical Cabaret with performances in June and we need all the help we can get. Actually, the way the rehearsals are going, Shelly thinks we could use some divine intervention right about now. Recruiting stagehands is the last thing on anyone’s mind. Always is. Then it’s a frantic rush to get everyone up to speed.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. This nephew will understand it’s not paid work, won’t he?”
“Of course. I’d even offer to pay you, if it means keeping him busy.”
“Hang on. How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Okay, that’s fine. We may need to ask him to sign a few forms for insurance, if that’s okay.”
“Brilliant. Thank you. Can I give you my number?”
Tommy blinked for a second but then caught himself. Mitchell simply wanted a favour, nothing more. They stopped walking while Tommy unlocked his phone and asked Mitchell to type in his number. Once finished, Tommy fired off a quick message and heard Mitchell’s pocket ping.
“We’re probably heading to Soho for Sunday afternoon cocktails,” said Tommy. “Or a coffee, if you’d prefer. You’re more than welcome to join.”
Mitchell turned to frown at the horizon. Maybe Tommy wasn’t entirely forgiven yet. They continued strolling towards Devon and Oscar, who stood together by a motorcycle bay in the car park. Devon appeared amused about something, probably assuming Tommy was trying to pull Mitchell.
“Honestly, Tommy, I’d love nothing more than a glass of red right now,” said Mitchell eventually, stopping by one of the motorcycles. “But I have this work dilemma that I need to sink my teeth into before tomorrow morning. And I’m driving, too. Some other time, perhaps?”
“Sure, no problem. Hey, I wasn’t snooping but I thought I heard you telling that guy, Oscar, that you own a BMW,” said Tommy.
“I do,” said Mitchell, putting his hand on the black leather seat. “This here’s mine. Two-fifty-four cc engine, top speed of two hundred kilometres—”
Tommy’s mouth dropped open as he did a double take between the shiny scarlet, black and chrome bike and mild-mannered Mitchell.
“And here’s me thinking you were gay,” said Tommy, watching as Mitchell unlocked a bag and placed a black crash helmet onto the seat. Mitchell laughed good-naturedly before adopting an admonishing expression.
“You should know better than to reinforce wildly inaccurate stereotypes that gay men can’t possibly be into fast cars and motorbikes. I’ve had this baby for three years, and let me tell you, it has turned out to be a godsend navigating Hong Kong’s traffic jams.”
“Are you giving Tommy a lift back on that?” asked Devon, who had sidled up to them.
Tommy let out an involuntary gasp and turned to see Mitchell equally stricken.
“I could. I mean, I do have a spare helmet—” began Mitchell, stopping while throwing a black leather jacket around his shoulders.
“There is no way on God’s green earth you’re getting me on the back of that thing,” said Tommy simultaneously. “No offence, Mitchell.”
“Wuss,” said Devon. “Faint heart never favoured the bold.”
Tommy turned to see Mitchell trying to suppress a smirk while pulling on black gloves.
“See you guys around.”
Mitchell pulled his jacket zipper up and secured his helmet on before swinging his black-jeaned leg over the bike. After flipping down his dark visor, he leant forward and started the machine. With a twist of the throttle and a roar of the engine, he rode the powerful beast out of the parking lot.
Tommy stared after him, after mild-mannered Mitchell, his throat going dry and his imagination ramping up with the distant up-change of Mitchell’s bike’s gears.