Beverly Linklater, although he peopled his stories and verse with surgically depicted bright young things, was an enthusiastic homosexual who used to masturbate vigorously over each new work, relishing his secret libels on the true masculine identities behind each of his glittering heroines.
A tireless seducer of aspiring novelists, he would invite them to tea at a luxurious hotel in London’s West End, listen intently to their relentless opinions and finally offer them introductions to the more influential and thus recherché publishing circles. He would then require, in a roundabout way, to effect his own personal introduction to the body of the aspiring novelist in question.
The more astute and ambitious aspiring novelist acquiesced even before a cake slice had been waved in direction of the cherry gateaux that Beverly habitually ordered. And some are robust household names today.
Beverly was finally ensnared by Gavin, a nasal sous chef from the Midlands who tore the bed linen with his toenails and removed large sums from his bank account both by wheedling and by stealth. Beverly managed to forgive Gavin the violence, the grime and the larceny but he found the herpes hard to swallow.
He was knocked down by a motor cycle courier on his way to a dental appointment and never regained consciousness. His sister had Gavin evicted from the flat in Maida Vale after protracted legal proceedings