This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Thirty-five

(Thursday, October 13th)

By the time we emerge from the bunker, it has just turned 3 p.m., and my stomach is growling something fierce. I’m feeling sluggish and restless. It’s drudgery, climbing the circular stairs. Neither Raph nor I have had any kind of decent workout for over two weeks. Liam is leading the way and is in great shape. So, I ask him: “Do you have any kind of exercise facilities here, Liam?”

“Aye, above the garage." He even sounds glad that I’ve asked. “And we also have the moat.”

“First, we have to get the Lads up to their room." Richard doesn't sound the least bit winded, although the winding stairs are at a minimum three stories. Both Raph and I are puffing.

Coming out of the library, we stop at the baby grand. Raph leaves the lid over the soundboard closed but lifts up the lid to the keys and plays a few chords. Richard smiles. “Do you lot know the National Anthem?”

Raph sits down and plays what we both know as My Country, 'Tis of Thee, but I am impressed, when his sweet tenor voice sings:

“God save our gracious Queen,
long live our noble Queen,
god save the Queen…”

and we join in, sending her victorious, happy and glorious.

Then he starts again from the top:

« Grand Dieu protège la reine,
De sa main souveraine,
Vive la reine !
Qu'un règne glorieux,
Long et victorieux,
Rende son peuple heureux.
Vive la reine ! »

Now, I’m not impressed. I’m fucking speechless.

Raphaël smiles at the three gaping mouths, stands up and closes the lid. “Canadian version. May I keep the passport, anyway?”

“Absolutely,” Liam laughs. “I’ve never heard it in French before.”

“I have.” Richard admits. “But never done quite that beautifully. It’s usually a bunch of heavily inebriated lumberjacks when the pubs close, which does have a charm of its own.” Richard smiles longingly. “Uh, and of course, you may keep the passport.” He now laughs gently. “But, we do have to get you and your baggage up to your room.” My stomach growls. “And get the lion fed. Don't know what the unicorn is doing for lunch, though." Richard chuckles, and Liam moans.

We get to the baggage, still on the dolly in the kitchen, where we’d left the suitcases. They have, however, been rearranged and closed. Raph had left his case opened, after he'd given Liam the coffee and coffee maker. "Has someone been in the house, while we were in the bunker."

“Our security detail, Corporals Matthews and Baynes.” Richard says pointing to the two men in camouflaged clothing kicking a soccer ball around in the drive. “It’s their duty to check everything coming on and off the grounds.”

“I have, uh…” I pause and then whisper. “the bag of dope in my case.”

“That’s not what they’re looking for.” He giggles. “They’re checking for explosives, listening devices, microfilm cameras and straight women.”

“Straight women?” Raphaël repeats.

“I know.” Richard pulls a disgusted face. “Poor Lads. I’m sure they can't help it. But it does seem to be their preference. So," He changes the subject. “you have to make a decision. Either you can have one of the spare rooms in my apartment, or one of the guest suites on the first floor, uh second floor.”

“We’re okay with the second floor being the first floor." Raphaël explains. “We’ve heard that all our lives from Dad.” He pauses to think about the decision. “I think that I would feel safer up in your apartment. What do you think, Dan?"

“To tell the truth, I’d feel safer in Liam’s bed.” Statements like this are like farting in an elevator. You never know how embarrassing it’s going to be.

Raphaël nods. “Yeah, me too.” He seems serious, as opposed to my being flippant. He looks at Richard for help.

“I think we can arrange this.” Richard is by no means surprised. “What do you think, Colour? You could stay with the Lads in the room adjacent to my bedroom?”

“I’ll have to ask Cyril, first.” Liam’s humor is as dry as it comes.

“No, Colour Sergeant, this is a direct order.” Richard's voice goes seriously military. “You sleep with the Lads and I’ll sleep with Cyril. It’s not his choice.”

I’m stifling laughter, while Raphie has apparently forgotten who Cyril is. “If this is going to be a problem with your friend, I don’t…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Richard starts to laugh outright. “Cyril is Colour’s feckin’ Teddy Bear.”

Raphaël doesn’t laugh with the rest of us, and I realize how frail he looks. I take him into my arms and hold him tight. « Tout sera bien, mon amant. Tu le verras. », reassuring him that everything will, in fact, be okay.

Richard and Liam leave us standing in the kitchen and take our things upstairs to Richard's private apartment. Raph lets go, when we hear the back door open.

"Oy,” one of the two corporals says with a friendly tone. “you lot must be Raph and Dan.”

“We are.” I admit. “And you’re Corporals Matthews and Baynes?”

“You’ve been talking to Liam, haven’t ya?” They laugh. “I’m Vince Matthews, and this one ‘ere’s Collin Baynes.” They extend their hands; we shake.

“Don’t wanna be indiscrete,” Collin says. “But you look like you’re in tatters. Could ya use a work out?” He looks at Vince for support.

Raph laughs. “That’s hardly indiscrete. And yeah, you’re right; we could. Heard you have a gym over the garage.”

“That, we do indeed. The finest.” Collin boasts. “Ol’ Blighty popped a bob or two on our post ‘ere.”

Raph looks confused and bursts out laughing, and I find what they just said disquieting. "Can you run that by me, again?" I wonder what language he's speaking. The words and intonation are English, but what he said means nothing to us.

Of a sudden, Liam barks something, and the two men in front of us, stand straight, go rigid with their shoulders thrown back and look straight through us. Richard comes in and snaps: “As you were, men.” And Collin and Vince return to normal.

"Okay," Raph sounds borderline aggressive. "What just happened?”

Collin snickers. “Our Senior Non-Commissioned Officer, Colour Sergeant McAnally, called us to attention, because our Chief of Mission arrived for the first time today. And Chief of Mission told us to continue what we were doing.”

And I go back to what we were talking about before the circus arrived. “What or who’s come down with blight? And the only Bob I know, is our bodyguard. Why would you want to pop him?”

Richard, Liam, Collin and Vince join Raph in laughing. Their laughter is contagious, so I start laughing, as well. But I have no idea what it’s all about. And truth be told, I’m sort of concerned about Bob’s safety, now that Marty isn’t around to protect him.

As soon as things settle down, Liam says: “Nobody has blight. Old Blighty is slang for Britain. And no one is going to do anything to your friend, Bob.” They reignite. “A bob means a shilling, uh, that’s money.” He snorts again.

“Okay,” I can appreciate the humor a little bit, but not really. “and how is this your post?”

Collin shakes his head, still grinning from ear to ear. “For us, this is a military post, like Fort Osage, out at Sibley.” I’m impressed that he has obviously visited some historic sites here, and didn’t refer to Fort Apache from The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, as an American soldier probably would have. “Mr. Ashton is our commander. He has the equivalent rank of Colonel. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

“Spot on, Corporal.” Richard responds and then turns to Raph and me with a foreboding look. “I see Joseph never told you about the money in Britain.”

“Not really,” I grin mischievously. “other than teaching me how to spend a penny.”

The quartet laughs again, Raphaël looks puzzled. “That means to take a piss.” Then he joins in laughing.

Richard appears as if he’s about to contravene the Official Secrets Act. “We have a special monetary system in Britain, it is not decimal. In a nutshell, we have pounds, shillings, pence and halfpence, pronounced ha’pence. There are 12 pence to a shilling and 20 shillings to a pound. Luckily for you, we no longer have farthings.

“You'll see prices listed in guineas, which is one pound, one shilling or twenty-one shillings. Furthermore, there are no numbers on the coins.

“We’ve an ha'penny, a penny, two pence, pronounced tuppence, a three-pence coin, pronounced thruppence. Although we no longer have a four-pence coin, which is pronounced fuppence, a combination of other coins making up four pence is called a groat. Then we have six pence, a shilling, called a bob, a two-shilling coin called a florin or two bob, a half-crown, which is two shillings six pence, called two and six.”

Raph looks at me; I look at Raph. We look at Richard, and Raph beats me to it: “This is fucking insane! Now, I know, where Lewis Carroll got his ideas.”

Richard remains blandly calm. “No more so than twelve to a dozen, 12 inches to a foot and 36 inches to a yard, or 16 feet 6 inches to a rod and 320 rods or 5,280 feet to a mile. It’s the system, with which you grew up, as well.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Raphaël calms himself. “We can do this, Dan. So, there are 12 inches to a foot and 12 pence to a shilling."

He thinks again. "So, we have 36 inches to a yard. And 36 pence are three shillings or a half-crown and six pence. So, a half-crown is 30 pence. Six inches are a half a foot, so six pence are half a shilling.

“So,” Raph concludes, “breaking 36 pence down into coins, other than the obvious, we could have three shilling coins, one florin and one shilling, one florin and two six pence, a half-crown and a sixpence or twelve ha’pence. Correct?"

“You’ll do just fine, Raph.” Collin laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “See you lot in an hour or so for a workout?”

I look at Richard, and he nods. “You’re on.”

“Uh, Corporal,” Liam addresses Collin. “Could you take them over now in about five, so they can have their tea at around half six?” Liam sets a large glass of milk each in front of Raph and me and a plate of cookies. “And don’t forget their initiation in the moat.”

I take my first sip of milk and have to admit that it doesn’t taste like anything the Country Club dairy delivered to our back door every Tuesday and Thursday over on Quincy. This stuff is much creamier tasting. "Where do you get this milk?" I watch Raph take his first drink and nod approvingly.

“Do you like it?” Richard smiles. Liam is grinning broadly.

“Uh, by the bye, the plate does not have cookies on it.” Liam snickers. “They’re biscuits. Digestive biscuits, to be precise. And the milk comes from Ceylon.”

Raph laughs out loud. “Isn’t that overworking the Empire just a bit?” He turns to Richard. “It’s like that line in Mumbo Jumbo from Stop the World, I Want to Get Off: ‘Washday Mondays, send your undies, Chinese laundry in Hong Kong', isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Richard purrs nostalgically; he’d played Littlechap in our production. “But we also import tea from Ceylon. And you don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

“They don’t grow tea in the United States.” Raph laughs, sounding somewhat put out. “But they do have cows.”

“Sorry, Yves-Raphaël,” Liam comes to the rescue. "This is not cow's milk. It's coconut milk. Much better for you."

“Colour also makes delicious ice cream with coconut milk.” Richard appears to be hinting, when Liam cuts him off.

“Later, Sir.” Liam is definitely in control of the kitchen. “We’ll have some after dinner. Came by a few kiwi pears from New Zeeland last week to put into it.”

“Brilliant, Colour.” Richard turns to Raph and me. “Let’s go upstairs to change into your gym things. I’d like to have a word with you.”

He opens the door in the woodwork and lets us go first. Then he shuts the door and follows us. Since there is, as far as I can tell, no connection between these stairs and the guest suites on the first floor, we have to traipse up two floors. Once at the top, Richard walks past us to lead the way to our room.

Our suitcases are on stands, the kind of which I’ve never seen. But, being elevated, the suitcases are much more easily accessed. I remove my cotton gym bag and start to change. Richard clears his throat. “Of course, you know that homosexuality is illegal in the United Kingdom.”

Both Raph and I nod.

“All right, then,” Richard seems jittery. “it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it is a court-martial offense in the British Army. And I certainly do not want Colour to have any trouble, this close to retirement.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” Raphaël stops to remember. “that you’d appreciate our keeping good ol’ Bertie Woofter under wraps, when we’re around the soldiers.”

Richard succumbs to a fit of laughter that turns his face scarlet. “Where in bloody Hell did you hear that?”

“Seph told us that that’s what people would call us in Britain.” Raphaël’s innocence touches Richard.

He takes our half-naked Raph into his arms. “Oh, Dear Yves-Raphaël, that was probably true in the 1920’s, and if you were surrounded by Cockneys.” Richard releases Raph and stops to think. “And knowing Joseph, he probably was.”

The intercom buzzes, and Liam says that the Lads are waiting. Richard depresses the ‘talk’ button. “We’re on our way.”

Collin and Vince are kicking their soccer ball around on the drive, as we emerge from the kitchen. Vince gives us his glowing smile. His face and arms in the afternoon sunlight appear slightly darker than they did under the kitchen's fluorescent lamps. He comes up to me and throws his right arm around my neck, while holding the soccer ball under his left. “Play a bit a footie?”

“Don’t know how.” I admit. “We’re more the wrestling types. Raph’s quite the swimmer, though.”

“Ya don’t say.” He lets me go. As we walk towards the side of the garage, he turns to Raph. “Then, you’ll appreciate the moat."

We arrive at the narrow space between the corner of their house, that also houses the rest of the ten-man guard unit and the garage, both two-storey brick buildings, and see the moat for the first time. It’s a three-lane 25 meter racing pool with starting blocks. It is made for serious swimming and borders on the approximately 12-foot high, razor-wire topped brick perimeter wall. I imagine that it does function as a moat.

“Race ya.” Vince challenges Raph. “We go without, if that’s okay with you.”

“You’re on.” Raph takes off his gym clothes and lays them on a deck chair with his towel on top. I watch Vince and Collin watch Raph. They seem a little too interested in shaved pubic hair for straight guys. But, I’ll keep my distance and my promise to Richard. Raph ignores them totally.

Vince, once out of his battle dress, does not have the bulky-muscled body of a soldier, which I’d anticipated. He doesn’t quite have the swimmer’s physique that Raph does, but he’s close. They get onto the starting blocks and Collin takes command with: “Ready, set, go!”

Vince is far from the push-over, I’d expected. And according to the look on Collin’s face, Raph is far from the push-over, he’d expected. They turn at the same time, and it looks like Raph is leading by a hair on the second lap but they manage to arrive in a perfect tie.

“Push me in a truck, Mate.” Collin is enthused. “Ya just tied our brigade champion.” This is where Richard and Liam appear on the scene, probably having heard our cheering.

“What happened?” Richard wants to know.

“Young Master Mongrain-Bourke just tied Corporal Matthews, Sir.” Collin can hardly stand the excitement.

“Feel like a rematch, Lad?” Vince prods Raph.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Raphaël has a wry look on his face, that I can’t interpret, but I think he was holding back.

“All right, up on the blocks.” Collin commands. “Ready, set, go!”

Raph does his torpedo start, which consists of a high-speed, shallow drop into the water propelled by his legs. He’s halfway down the 25 meters before his pullout. He has a good meter lead. His turn, however, isn’t as sleek as it normally is, but he's still in the lead. Vince is gaining, when Raph appears to virtually skim the top of the water on his side. He didn’t win by much, but the onlookers are, nonetheless, amazed.

And, Raph and I experience what our new compatriots call fair play and what we know as good sportsmanship, something we’re not used to at meets involving East High, when Vince says: “Good show, Raphaël. You are a formidable opponent.” and gives him a hug.

“Thank you, Vince. Tomorrow morning, before breakfast?” Raphaël returns the good will.

“That, my friend,” Vince’s skin is covered with goose bumps and glowing bronze from the nippy air, as he comes out of the pool. “goes without saying.”

I throw my Raphaël his towel. He nods thanks and says: “We really have to get back into shape, Dan. No two ways about it.”

“Yeah.” I watch Richard and Liam drift back around the guards’ house. Collin and Vince approach, carrying Vince’s uniform and boots as Raph gets dressed. “Do we still have time for a jog and some weightlifting?” I wonder.

“If you like." Collin points to the door. “We have several excellent treadmills, since we are not allowed to leave the compound to jog.”

I stop in my tracks in front of the door. “You are confined to these grounds?” I hope that I’ve misunderstood.

“We’re not allowed to, for example, jog across the way in Loose Park.” Vince explains. “We’re not permitted to swim outside the compound. Pubs in town are out of bounds. And we don’t leave the grounds by more than thirty meters on foot in uniform, just by car."

“But why?” Raph fails to see the reason behind this ruling. I agree.

Vince and Collin appear to be a bit ashamed. “Please, don’t take offence. But, since it’s outside the Commonwealth, our government does not consider the United States to be an altogether friendly country.”

“Neither do we.” I blurt out.

It takes a second for the remark to sink in, but slowly Collin and Vince look extremely relieved. Collin shakes his head. “Then, you’re not offended.”

“Pull me in a truck, no.” I copy Collin’s phrase from earlier, without having the slightest idea of what it means. "We're Brits just like you lot."

“Cor blimey,” Vince laughs. “‘e’s fluent in Cockney.”

“Of course, I haven’t the vaguest idea, what ‘Pull me in a truck’ means,” I admit. “But I was born British because of my old man.”

Vince and Collin look at each other in utter amazement, when Collin starts to snicker. They play off each other until they’re almost in hysterics. “You don’t know what 'pull me in a truck’ means?” They carry on something fierce until Vince gets enough breath to whisper: “It means: ‘Fuck me!’”

I feel my face starting to sting, and Raph snickers. “Maybe you shouldn’t repeat everything you ‘ear, Mate.”

I snap the door open and climb the stairs two at a time ahead of the rest. At the top, my burning face cools. I’m in wonder. Why would anyone want to train outside this compound? The gym has everything. And the finest of everything. This is the class of equipment, which boys from the East Side of Kansas City have never been allowed to touch.

“Ah, sweet Jesus,” I mimic Dad’s Dublin accent and turn to Vince. “Now, I do know what that means. Wow, I’m impressed.” He grins and pats me on the shoulder.

I get on a treadmill, and it’s soft on the joints and runs at any pace I set. Raph goes for the rack of shiny chromium dumbbells and a workout bench, since his warm up was in the pool. All of us are working with serious intensity. The burn feels good. The sweat feels comfortable.

I look at the large clock on the wall, which doesn’t have any digits, just black slashes. It says, 5:45. The intercom squeaks: “Corporals Matthews and Baynes, get showered and report in clean battle dress for pouch escort in ten.” They leave at a trot to the stairs without a word.

“I think I’ve had enough, too.” Raph comes over to me on the butterfly machine and lets his right hand drift over my cheek. He leans over and kisses my lips lightly. “When do you think that we’ll hear something from Dad and Marty?”

“No idea.” I pull him in close sniffing his sweaty scent, just plain enjoying the touch of my guy. “They’ve been on the road some 18 hours. Did Dad say when their rendezvous was?

“I don’t remember, Dan.” He’s starting to shake, so I try rubbing to warm him up. “All I know right now is that there are 12 pence to the shilling and 20 shillings to the pound.”

“Let’s go get a shower.” I take him by the hand to the stairs.

While crossing by the moat and coming out onto the drive next to the guards’ house, we see two uniformed soldiers, each with a rifle on a shoulder sling, whom we don’t know, standing on the right side of the kitchen door, smoking. “Which oneayas is Raffle?”

I point to Raph and have to admit to myself, even when his name is mispronounced, it’s gorgeous. Both soldiers approach, with their right hands extended. He blushes at the unplanned attention, and the taller of the two shakes his hand first. “Heard ya beat our Vince somet’in' bad in the moat.” Can’t tell what part of Ulster this man is from, but he’s definitely from Ulster.

“Yeah, he won’t live that down for a long time.” And this man is from North America, possibly Canada. “Uh, sorry, my name’s Taylor and he’s Paddy.”

Now, it’s my turn to blush. “Were abouts in Ulster are you from, Paddy?"

Raph looks impressed; Paddy looks surprised, “County Down.” He is very shy.

“And do they call you Paddy because of where you’re from, or is your name Patrick.” I smile at him, aware of how cruel people can be.

“The name’s Aengus Maccan.” He looks timidly at his brilliantly shined boots.

“May Raph and I call you Aengus?”

He nods and before I can ask Taylor anything, Liam comes out to where we’re standing dressed in a cutaway. “Yves-Raphaël, Daniel, You’d better be off up the apples and have a wash. Cocktails in fifteen.”

“Up the apples?” I repeat.

Raph grins and assumes his East-Ender accent, which, to my astonishment, is improving. “Bleedin’ Yank. Up the apples and down the pears.” The soldiers crack up. “C’mon, I’ll show ya.” And off we go, through the kitchen and up the stairs.

The bathroom is adjacent to our room, or en suite, as Liam and Richard call it. Raphaël is standing naked in front of me, while I’m bending over to remove my jockstrap. He’s so close that I can smell the faint combination of his sweat and chlorine on the shaved skin surrounding his cock, which is rising to demand attention. The slit in his glans is already glistening as the first drop appears through it.

Raph stoops to help me remove the jock. He sniffs the elastic material, and uses his teeth the tease my balls through the pouch. “Wonder if this is what Liam meant by ‘pouch escort’.” I tease verbally.

Raph purrs around my balls, then articulates more clearly without a testicle in his mouth. "I doubt it."

“Why?”

“They wouldn’t have needed clean uniforms.” He gurgles, as he takes my dick into his mouth.

I pull away, kick off my jockstrap and position him on the bathmat to take my cock again, while I go for his. We suck and slurp. Since my mouth is facing down, I let my saliva slather around on his hairless crotch and run around his balls. I use my middle finger to work it into his hole. The more I slicken his hole, the more he purrs.

His purring makes me shoot. My shooting into his mouth makes him cum into mine.

Our shower is hurried as is our dressing. Thanks to our permanent-pressed wardrobe, we just have to shake things out before putting them on. We have both just tied each other's necktie when Liam's voice comes over the intercom. "Cocktails in the entry reception."

We hurry down the stairs, carefully closing the concealed door. Then we race through the formal dining area, where the table has been set for four, and arrive just in time to take up position next to Liam at the opened front door.

We watch Richard in his tailored black business suit talking to Special Agent Milligan in his baggy black suit from Robert Hall’s with shiny spots at his elbows and knees. Richard is calm with Ron standing behind him.

Randolph Milligan, on the other hand, seems to be just short of blowing an artery. Richard turns and gestures for Ron to go first. They walk silently up the possibly 20 yards of red-brick walkway leading up to the mansion. They enter and Liam closes the door.

Ron is visibly upset and perspiring, giving off the fragrance of English Leather mixed with a hint of Right Guard. He lightens up somewhat, when he sees Raphaël. We greet him, and while he talks, he can’t take his eyes off Raph.

I overhear Richard talking in a subdued voice. “Are the sniper’s nests still occupied?”

“As you requested, Sir. Sergeants Maccan and Taylor are up there awaiting further orders. Shall I leave them in situ?” Liam flips a switch next to the front door.

“For the time being, Colour.” Richard then rests his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Jist a lil shaken.” Ron is still trembling. “Are them guys really FBI?”

“So they claim.” Richard states with more than a hint of sarcasm. “But even if they are, they are not allowed in here.”

Ron looks around, somewhat intimidated. “What’s this place, anyway?”

“The residence of the British Consul General.” Richard replies, steering Ron to the bar, which has been set up directly under the giant chandelier.

“An’ he lets y’all stay here?” Everyone smiles, no one laughs.

“So to speak.” He smiles kindheartedly at Ron, and for the first time his guest starts to relax. “What would you like to drink, Ron?”

“Beer’d be fine.” Although his nerves are starting to settle down, he still seems out of place in his East-High letter jacket, although he graduated three years ago. The letter jacket and buzz cut scream 'straight'.

Only after Liam takes the jacket and his beautifully taught figure is standing in front of us in his freshly laundered beige polo shirt and dark beige cotton trousers combined with his Hush Puppies, which are tastefully tone in tone with his slacks and shirt, does the possibility of ‘maybe not so straight, after all’ arise.

“Lads, beer as well?” This is one of Richard’s traits, which I really admire. Of course, he knows that Raph and I are tactful enough not to insist on a 1958 Domaine de Chevalier blanc de blanc, uncorked an hour ago and served at just under room temperature, while the guest of honor is drinking beer. But, to leave no room for a blunder, he poses the question not as a question but as an ever-so subtle command. And he avoids putting Ron on the spot by asking, whether he wants American, Czech, Belgian or German beer. He just produces and opens four nicely chilled bottles of Goetz Country Club Pilsner, no glasses, and offers Ron a tour of the house and grounds. Raph looks at me questioningly, and I have to shrug.

We walk through the large reception room into the library, where everything looks just like a library should, with three opened books on the desk and a few papers lying about with a pen. There is guaranteed nothing sensitive on the papers, and knowing Richard’s love of theatre, they are more than likely just props to give everything more of a homey feel. “This is where we work.”

I glance at the row of bookshelves where the door to the bunker is located and harvest a miniscule frown from Richard. I smile and wink, signalling that I have no intention of revealing anything. He nods and grins, steering Ron and the group toward the door to the sun room. “And this is where we gather to pretend that we’re somewhere else.”

The sun room is furnished in what Dad would call British Raj style: two high-back Rattan chairs and a settee with flowery-print cushions, potted palms, ceiling fan, no curtains at the eight sash windows but a folding screen, terracotta floor. Ron eyes an ashtray on one of the two coffee tables, next to last Sunday’s issue of the Sunday Times. “Mind if I smoke.”

“Not at all.” Richard motions toward the ashtray, and I offer him one of the Rothman’s from the bunker packet. Richard arches an eyebrow, but he says nothing. He lowers the eyebrow, when I pull out my Zippo, rather than using the box of matches, that came with the cigarettes.

Richard puts his hand on Ron’s knee. “Are you all right now?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Ron’s winning smile is back. “Then you’re a diplomat.”

“Yes, and for your own protection, that’s all you need to know about my work.” Richard’s face is pleasant but reflects a business demeanour, and then his expression relaxes. “But you are more than welcome to ask me anything you like about my private life.”

“Wow, normally it’s the other way around.” Ron states truthfully, reflecting the fact that he grew up in the McCarthy era. “Okay, are you married?”

“No.” Richard reflects a bit. “I’m divorced.” Now, that’s something that I didn’t know.

“D’ya mind if I ask why?” Ron starts jiggling his leg.

“Why I got married or why I got divorced?”

“Both.”

Richard leans back in his rattan chair and looks at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. “I got married, because that was what one did at twenty-three."

He sits up and looks at Ron. "I got divorced, because I realized that I absolutely detest heterosexual women. Their incessant talking trivia, their bitchiness, their mood swings, their gossiping.

“I wasn’t able to tell my wife anything, without her blabbing, which in my profession is untenable. And I have yet to meet a straight woman, who doesn’t believe that she is the bloody centre of the universe, around which everything else revolves."

“I hear ya.” Ron becomes more animated. “That’s exactly how I feel. It’s not that I'm really sold on men..." He blushes and takes two rapid swigs of beer before he can continue. "This morning was my first time for anything worth mentioning. But it's just that I cain't be around any woman for more than twenty minutes at a time, before I tune out or have to leave.”

“Have you decided to leave Cherie, then?” I ask him point blank.

He looks trapped, glancing between Richard and me. “How d’ya know about her?”

“Raph and I went to East High until a couple of weeks ago. We’ve known Vicky Wilcox just about all our lives.”

“You are shitting me!” He takes several more quick swigs of beer and lights another cigarette. This time one of his own. “Y’all’re Dan Bourke? The guy who was fucking Mack Bottemly?” He laughs nervously.

“Un Huh, Vicky, Raph and I are also the ones they wouldn’t let into Mack’s funeral.” Raphaël and I are grinning as Ron slowly pieces things together in his mind. Richard is taking this all in without expression.

“So, you’re the one who caused all the commotion when you knocked Mack Senior out cold.”

“And Dan is also the one who caused just a little commotion,” Raph states dryly. “when he shot and killed Mack Senior a few days later.”

“Were ya thair, too?" Ron turns closer to Raph on the settee.

“Yeah.” He nods and waves smoke out of his face. “The whole thing was pretty messy.”

“Gentlemen,” Liam announces. “tea is served.”