CHAPTER 1

Hazel O'hara

'Are the staff on paralysis training tonight?' came a sharp, sarcastic cry,and Hazel waved his serviette as if the boat was just leaving the dock.'Darling, over here we happen to be this strange race called 'clients'.'

A waiter moved across the room. 'I heard you the first time,' he spat.

'Darling, how could that be? Do you think the battery has gone inyour hearing aid?' and Hazel smiled falsely. 'Another two bottles,darling, because we don't want to interrupt your night off.'

'Arsehole!' The waiter retorted.

'I knew it,' cried Hazel. 'He must be going to win an award forliterature. You can tell by his grasp of words that he is going to bea greater writer. Eat your heart out, Barbra.' The other three at thetable fell about laughing. Hazel was at it again, never to be put down,a word or generally more than a word, to put people where theybelonged—according to Hazel.

He was almost six feet tall, thin as a rake, with green eyes, reddishblonde hair, a very pale complexion, a good nose and strong jaw-line,which sometimes made drag nights even funnier. He had no realpatience and no real staying power: when he saw a task ahead, hewent for it. The moment it was mastered he became bored and foundit repetitious and moved on. He was always the one to have at adinner party; he was the star in every sense, the entertainer, the cleverboy. Boy Hazel was now 35 years-old and had never bothered, exceptfor a teaching job, ever to stay at one job for a period of time aftermastering it. He had first trained as a teacher of youngsters from fiveto eleven and that had worked for a while but then the predictabilityof it all swept over him and he was off on another avenue. He was,to say the least, a very difficult personality, one minute quiet andconsiderate, and in a flash, if someone annoyed him, his viper tonguetook over. He could slaughter any character within a dining room'slength. Even at the hotel where Hazel drank and drank regularly,no-one really thought it worth while to enter into a fray with him,and as a result his friendships were very few—a million acquaintancesbut real friends only two or three at the most. He was so difficultand far too unpredictable for anyone to get close to him and gettingclose to him he hated. He found it extremely claustrophobic anddemanding.

Yet despite all this he was strangely methodical. His tiny rentedapartment was always immaculate. Saturday morning it was alwayscleaned from top to bottom: no great task given how small it was—akitchen, a bathroom and a bed-sitting room; nothing of importancein the decoration, in fact it was rather minimalist, a complete contrastto his personality. The only extravagant thing he possessed was anextremely large European painting he had purchased at a smartauction in a very important home, more the result of waving to anacquaintance than bidding seriously. The painting was knocked down"to the tall man with red hair". 'Charming,' said Hazel later. 'Thecretin could have said "to the elegant gentleman on my right"—whata limited piece of work!'

And so, over his two-seater settee, hung in a large ornate gilt frame, aEuropean landscape which completely over-powered the whole space.And with time Hazel had become remarkably attached to it, whichwas odd as everything else he owned when it didn't function or hewas simply tired of it he disposed of without any compunction: butthe painting always remained.

His love life was extremely difficult to know. As Hazel gossiped abouteverything but never about what he did in his private life, no-one wassure but the stories were many. His tongue, or better still, his repartee,was such that it tended to negate his ever having a fixed relationshipor in fact any relationship at all.

He was the supreme entertainer. If he did a drag show, he alwaysused something clever—no Barbara Striesand for him. He used aWorld War Two nurse's outfit and mimed Gracie Fields's "Wish meluck as you wave me goodbye", which had the queens cheering andscreaming for more. He was calculating. He knew very well that todo serious drag meant that there were always going to be bittersend-up comments, so he always got in first. He sent himself upbefore the others could do so and as such was always a great success.For example, dressing as Doris Day and singing "Younger thanspringtime", he had everyone in hysterics, especially as he was sotall and in stilettos. Hazel became a vertical image of entertainment.But with the microphone in his hands, it was death to anyone whothought to make a smart comment from the crowd and get awaywith it. His replies were super-sharp and delivered without a singleshred of charity. Hazel was, indeed, someone to be careful of. Evenin ordinary situations, for example. Meeting him at the supermarketor at the greengrocer's one could be absolutely sure that the commenthe passed was generally not going to be in your favour. Altogether, hewas generally summed up as 'a very bitchy queen'.

But he had another side to him that he kept completely secret frompeople, or perhaps it should be said from all but the two or threepeople he really liked. He was completely faithful and would doanything to help them and at any cost.

One of these persons was Keven O'Malley. Hazel had carried a torchever since he had seen him, which must be almost ten years ago. Hewas extremely handsome, of average height, and with a great body,as a result of a lot of body-building, thick black bushy hair andelectric blue eyes. He was the ideal for Hazel and woe betide anyonewho passed a comment that was not favourable about him in Hazel'searshot. He was like an Araphoe Indian on heat.

Some years before, after a party in the late hours of the morning,Hazel was obviously one of the last to leave and from inside the partyhouse he heard a scream and much yelling on the street. He dashedto see what the noise was and to his horror he saw two hoodlumsattacking Keven, who had also been at the party—and everyone juststood around watching. No-one, not a single person, moved in to helphim. Hazel raced forward but not before ripping off a loose picketfrom the front fence and just attacked. The length of timber swungin all directions and every strike hit the target. The two hoodlumsscampered quickly away, using sharp expletives to describe him. Hehelped Keven to his feet and then turned on the crowd of partygoers.'Cowards!' he screamed loudly. 'You would let a person you know bebeaten up and look at you there—there must be fucking thirty of youand there were only two shits. Don't any of you ever think that if youwere in the same situation that I would ever, ever come to your aid.You could all be beaten to a fucking pulp for all I care. Go home,little boys,' he shouted sarcastically, 'it's where you belong.'

Hazel helped Keven to his car, but because he was in pain Hazel drovehim home and put him to bed after cleaning him up. Keven neverforgot the sacrifice that Hazel had made for him, while the othersjust stood back and watched; and in any social situation he alwayswelcomed Hazel, which was more than many of his acquaintanceswould have done.

It was after that evening that Hazel began lessons in kick-boxingand, being tall, with long, strong legs, he began to master this art ofself-defence, except that, sometimes, when really angry and fighting inthe gym with an opponent, he would have to be physically restrainedas he set out to attack his foe rather than use the exercise as a...