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

Forty-six

(Thursday, October 20th)

Seph, Marty, Vince and Ron follow Raph and me up the stairs two at a time. We find Keith sitting in horror on the steps leading up to his and Doris’ floor, and a dove with its throat cut is hanging from a string above our back door. Apparently, Keith didn’t see it, and blood dripped onto his head when he was opening the door.

“Ah, for Christ’s sake.” Seph’s voice breaks the panic most of us feel. “The wee fecker is pulling his pseudo-voodoo shite again."

He pushes by everyone on the stairs and takes hold of the string and gives it a tug. “Dan, Raph check your flat to see if anything is missing.” He grips the dove in his calloused right hand. “Martin, take Keith back downstairs, get him cleaned up and make him a tea. And I’ll check upstairs.”

We avoid the puddle of blood in front of the door and walk through the back corridor of our apartment. It is, in actual fact, eerie, since daylight only comes in from the kitchen and bathroom. But the bathroom door is closed, so I switch on the lights. We move cautiously to the toilet door and check inside. Everything is as it should be. Next is the hot press. I grip the door handle and the lights go out. “Fuck!” is my loud response, and Vince comes rushing in from their apartment.

“What is it?” His concern is genuine, and it feels good to know that he’s here.

“The light meter is out of coins.” Raph chuckles. “But it did send a chill up our spines.”

I dig into my trousers' pocket and bring out a shilling. I open the hot press door and insert the coin. The lights go on, and everything in the small closet is okay, as it is in the bathroom.

Vince goes with us through the kitchen to the sitting room. I see that our passports are on the kitchen counter, where I left them. I check to see that they haven’t been defaced. They haven’t, and I put them into my blazer’s inside breast pocket. He helps us look through the clutter in the sitting room and on to the bedroom. His training in security is more than apparent. He leaves nothing unturned and replaces everything exactly as it was.

“Thanks, Vince.” Raph gives him a hug, which turns into a tongued kiss.

“My pleasure, pritty fella.” Vince grins as he quotes Ron. Raph looks taken aback. He isn’t immediately able to place the term, ‘pritty fella’, so Vince helps him out. “That’s what Ron calls you. And since you really are a ‘pritty fella’, that's what we’ve both decided to call you."

“What do you have against my name?” Raph teases.

Ron and Seph navigate through the crates and boxes in the sitting room, and Ron motions to Vince to come with him. Seph enters the bedroom. “Did they mess about in here?”

“Not that we can tell.” I report.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to take with you and how long you intend to stay?” Seph sits on the foot of the bed.

“Uh...” I look at Raph for support.

“We’re thinking about making Paris our home.” Raph says dryly. “We don’t really fit in here. Not that we’re not happy to be out of the States. But, as in Kansas City, it’d only be a matter of time before we end up in the - what did you call it? – the slammer?”

There’s a round of nervous snickers about Raph’s use of words and about the state of queer rights in Britain. Gladly, Seph doesn’t look disappointed in the slightest. “Yeah, I thought as much.” He gets up and pulls both Raph and me into a fatherly hug. “That’s why I had the portraits done in Sepia. It matches the décor of our home in Paris. But then again, maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

“You are such a romantic.” Raph hugs Seph harder. “I hope you never lose that.”

“Don’t think there’s much of a chance of it happening now.” Seph chuckles and kisses Raph’s cheek. “So, do you know what you are going to pack?”

“Other than the clothes in the cupboard, as Keith calls it, and the coffee and coffee maker, we're packed."

“Here’s a suggestion.” He gives me his Irish look, and then he smiles. “And it’s only a suggestion, Lad. How about leaving your English clothes here for when you visit? And we just happen to have several identical coffee makers at home in Paris.” Seph then laughs wholeheartedly. “Seems that France is chock-a-block full of French coffee makers.”

This is where I can no longer resist it. I grab him and plant a proper kiss full on his mouth. Then, I even dare to mock the Dublin accent he used to use. “Ya’ll never know how much I love ya. Ya feckin’ gobshite.”

Seph looks as if he’s close to tears. “No, I probably won’t. And that’s all right.” He wipes his eyes on the back of his left hand. “The hardest thing for a father to do is to let his children leave the nest. And I have such confidence in you both. I am so proud, I could burst. But we have to talk."

Whoa. Everything was grand until the ‘we-have-to-talk’ part. The pit of my stomach becomes unruly. That’s exactly what Mack said, when he had to tell me that he was going into the army. I must be white as a ghost, if there were such things, prompting Dad to ask if I’m all right.

“I probably will be, once you tell us what you want to talk about.” I have to sit down. Seph pulls me off the bed and takes me by the hand into the dining area. Raph sits down next to me.

“We have to discuss the topic that we dare not mention by name.” He grins understandingly. “Of course, that’s only in Britain. In the States and France one is much more relaxed about the topic of money.”

I let out a huge sigh. “Okay, you’re going to tell us that we’re broke.”

“No.” He looks at me oddly. “Is this a death wish of yours?”

“As opposed to yourself,” I have to laugh. “Raph and I grew up in rather meagre circumstances on the East Side of Kansas City.”

“Do you feel neglected because of that?” He knows the question is redundant. "At least, you didn't turn out to be worthless deadbeats like much of the family did."

“Point taken.” I relent. “What did you want to talk about?”

“As you may have guessed, I have disinherited Busby and the KC bunch.” Seph grins to signal that he’s pleased with himself. "That amount and what is coming your way as members of this family, along with Mildred's life insurance..."

He looks at our questioning faces. “They paid double indemnity, since she did not die of natural causes.”

He shakes his head at our now astonished faces. "Anyway, to make a long story short, both of you have trust funds at the Banque Cantonale de Genève, and this is the amount in Swiss Francs in each of the accounts.”

He shows us a small piece of paper. I have to count the spaces to the left of the decimal on my fingers, of which two remain. “That amount may not be touched until you reach your thirtieth birthday. Then you may do with it as you please.”

He swallows the piece of paper. We watch in disbelief. "Having said that, you will receive an allowance every month in the vicinity of...,"

He again holds up a scrap of paper with a considerable amount on it. “which will be paid in full or in part into an account at any bank of your choice.” And again he swallows the paper. “Don’t look so horrified, Lads. It’s rice paper.”

“Why Switzerland?” Raph would like to know other than the obvious.

“Both Britain and France have currency restrictions, due to the fact that their fiscal policies are irresponsible. They invest far too much money in far too many armaments,” Seph sneers. “and not enough in natural resource management, human ecology, and helping less fortunate countries provide for themselves."

“Wow, our dad’s a hippie.” I laugh, poking fun but appreciative of his sentiments.

“And I’ve got the dope to prove it.” Seph retorts. “Speaking of which, I could use a joint before lunch.”

Coming up the back stairs are the familiar smells of Geneviève’s jambalaya as we descend. I imagine that she brought her own supply of spices. However, Seph may well have such condiments in stock. The sunshine in the garden is brilliant, and I take a little walk around, looking at the well-trimmed hedges and neglected rose bushes, thinking about how things have developed during the past several weeks, about how things are actually just falling into place.

My memory of Kansas City is giving way to anticipation of Paris. I feel that I know France far better than I ever did the United States. Places like Houston, Los Angeles, Anchorage or Honolulu seem much more foreign to me than Brighton, London, Paris or Bordeaux. Geneviève always subscribed to the weekly Paris Match and the monthly Le Monde diplomatique, or Le Diplo, a conservative publication with well-written editorials and articles.

However, during our frequent visits to the main library at 12th and Oak, she would give Raph and me the undercover mission of securing copies of Libération and l'Humanité from the ‘dirty bookstore’ on 12th, just west of Main, which deals in international press and literature of dubious repute, since a subscription to either Libération or l'Humanité could have disclosed her Leftist leanings, if delivered to the house. Of course, that was also the source of our illegal, thus well-read and much-circulated copies of Fannie Hill and Candy, which was responsible for adding ‘fuckashitpiss’ to our sophomore vocabulary.

Raph is waving for me to come in for lunch. As I meander through some fallen leaves on the manicured lawn, the toes of my shoes keep kicking chestnuts, which have fallen from the tree in the neighbour's garden beyond the high wall. The tree is about three storeys high; it must be ancient, in relative terms, anyway. And come to think of it, this is the first time I have ever seen a chestnut tree. Since, as far as I know, they no longer exist in North America. ‘Something new every day’, rips through my mind. Normally, my thoughts aren’t this trite.

We are ten people at the extended dining table, who make up our extended family. Geneviève has baked three large casserole dishes full of chicken and ham jambalaya. The tossed salad and wine are plentiful. The smell is familiar; some of the faces are new. The setting is familiar to Seph along with the route, upon which we’ll embark this evening.

Obviously Seph and Marty had their appetiser joint, since both are very talkative. I tune in when Marty asks about George Blake, whom Sean is allegedly going to try to free from the Scrubs.

“He was the one Soviet spy," Seph takes a sip of Riesling. "who has caused the most damage to British intelligence.”

Keith is curious but reluctant, “Why was he so damaging?” not sure that he should join in the conversation.

“As the story goes,” Seph lowers his voice, making it hard to hear over the others. “he supposedly took a microfilm camera to work with him every day and photographed all the documents that crossed his desk.”

Clive is not as reticent as Keith. “Who did Blake work for?”

“I can’t tell you.” Seph grins.

“Because you don’t know?” Clive tries to toy with Seph. “Or is it because you would get into trouble.”

“Can’t tell you that either.” Seph is still grinning but has raised one eyebrow.

“What can you tell us?”

Since Clive doesn’t know Dad well enough to recognise the warning signs, I interrupt. “Why don’t you just leave it at that, Clive? This conversation could otherwise get dangerous."

That puts a defiant smirk onto Clive’s and Doris’ faces. “All right then,” I pull my trump. “let’s put it this way, you are talking to the longest serving British spy in history.” This stops all other conversation at the table.

“Bollocks!” is Clive’s retort with nodding agreement by Doris.

“Bollocks?” Marty looks at Seph.

“British for bullshit.” Seph laughs.

Marty takes offense immediately, although he tries to control his anger. “And what the Fuck do you know about it?”

Clive laughs. “Probably as much as you do. I can't imagine that an American would know much about British spies. Particularly not a bunch of theatre fairies, like you lot.”

Marty’s teeth are gritted, but he tries to smile. “For starters, Prick, I’m as British as you are. Besides, I’m the one who escorted him into Canada from the United States under fire from the US border patrol.” Seph is apparently enjoying this to judge by the look he’s giving Marty.

Clive becomes even snootier “And where did you get your training, on or off Broadway?” and laughs lightly along with Doris.

Vince enters the discussion. "He was trained by Special Forces, Clive. He’s highly decorated, a hero, in fact. And, as a civilian, who has never served this country, you are way out of line.”

“And I suppose you have?” Clive is starting to feel cornered.

“Until yesterday,” Vince states matter-of-factly but with just a wee bit of pride. “I served in the Military Provost Guard Service, guarding our diplomatic facilities at Kansas City. Sergeant Sinclair, here,” He nods at Ron. “and I were part of the escort to evacuate Raph and Dan out of the United States.”

“Sergeant Sinclair?” Clive’s voice takes on an air of incredulity. “Why would an errant hillbilly from presumably the American military help a British escort?”

“Now, ya see where prejudgement can get ya?” Ron appears to be on the verge of laughing at Clive. “I’m in the Canadian Army Reserves, presently on active status. And my speciality is sharpshooter.”

“Sharpshooter?” Clive shakes his head.

“Yip, I can blow y’all’s fuckin’ head off at 200 meters with a semi-automatic without a scope, and they’ll find only one entry hole in yer skull.” Ron’s down-home accent is exactly what is needed to take Clive down a notch or two. “In other words, I’m an assassin on Her Majesty’s service. Wanna try me?” Seph, Marty and Vince erupt in heartfelt laughter.

What a show-stopper. We watch as Clive and Doris leave in a huff, and as Keith finds more new heroes. “Are you upset that Clive called you ‘theatre fairies’?”

“Not really.” I explain. “Besides, he should be talking.”

“What do you mean?” Keith grins devilishly, knowing that iniquity is about to surface.

Now, I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I think that Clive deserves to be exposed, if not least of all for the ‘theatre fairies’ dig. Besides, Raph is giving me an I-dare-you look to tell anything in front of his mother.

“This morning, somewhere between midnight and dawn, I woke up with his lips wrapped around my cock.” Raph loses the dare.

Oddly, following several anonymous gasps, everyone, including myself, turns some shade of red. That is except for Geneviève. There she sits, smoking a reefer without even an arched eyebrow and explains as cool as you like: « Parfois, des choses arrivent. » And, of course, she’s right: sometimes, things do happen.

We are in the process of mellowing as the bag of Bob's dope makes the rounds, when the phone rings. I wonder if the phones in France have a double-ring. Guess I’ll find out.

Anyway, Seph calls Marty to the phone after he has a couple of words with Bob. It appears to be important. Seph covers the Bakelite mouthpiece. “Remember, this line is tapped.” Guess I should have wondered if the phones in France are tapped, rather than what their ring is like.

“Okay, thanks for telling me.” Marty smiles insecurely. “Hey, Brown Bear, what’s up?” He pauses. “No. We’re leaving for Ireland tonight, anyway." He pauses again and motions for Seph to listen in. Now, that's cool. Seph reaches to the side of the phone and retrieves a separate earpiece. "No, we don't have a phone connection at the cottage. Thanks again, though. All right. Talk to you soon." He hangs up and addresses Seph. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think that was Bob.” Dad lights his joint. “Bob never called me Joseph. Hell, he just barely managed Seph. Most of the time he still called me Joey. At least, he'd stop after Joe and then stumble into Seph. Did he ever call you Martin?"

“Not that I can remember.” Marty coughs, but does not wheeze. “When he calls me on the phone, he generally calls me by my code name, Snow White.”

“Code name?” Keith's face expresses something between fear and adoration. "You lot really do..."

“Shush!” Geneviève raises her index finger to her mouth. “No need to express everything aloud. You never know who’s listening.”

“But the voice was very close to Bob’s.” Marty goes to put on the kettle. “Didn’t you think?”

“Across the trans-Atlantic cable, it’s hard to tell.” Seph collects his leather satchel, the one George bought him. “We’re going to have some tea, then we’ll leave. Lads, go get your luggage and leave the lights on in your flat. They’ll go off, when the meter runs out. Keith, when we’re gone get the things out of the Lads’ fridge and use them.”

“Where are you going?” Keith obviously feels somewhat left out.

“Over to our cottage in County Mayo, Westport to be exact.” Seph tells him, without as much as flinching. “We’ll be back in a week or so. But Vince and Ron will be here to keep you company.” Seph ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead on his way to the phone. He dials a chain of numbers. “Aslonnaithe éigeandála. Fiche nóiméad.”

Raph and I run up the stairs to our flat. The lights are still on from earlier, no wonder the meter ran out so fast.

Raph grabs the coffee from the kitchen, to be on the safe side. Then he stops after he tucks the coffee container into his bag. "Do you really think that there is a Westport in Ireland?"

I’m busy returning the portraits to their crate. Luckily, Clive forgot his screwdriver. “Is there a Warwick Road in London?” I pat Raph on the shoulder as I finish. “Come on, we have to move. Dad said something about twenty minutes.”

“Okay, just how much Irish do you understand?” Raph latches his luggage.

“Only snippets.” I laugh “But it’s enough to keep him guessing.” and fasten my suitcase.

“Ah, good on ya.” Raph mimics Yobbo Joey. "Let’s go."

I run to the back to make sure the door is locked, since Keith has a key. I lock the front door, and we carry our respective bags and share the burden of carrying the crated portraits. We make it to the top of the stairs going down to the basement, when Keith jumps up to help us. “Whoever crated these pictures, surely knew what he was doing.” Keith approves. “These metal handles are excellent.”

“The man, who built the crate, is sitting right there.” I point to Ron.

“I do say, you make crates, you evacuate people from behind enemy lines. What else can you do?"

And the very moment this comes out of Keith's mouth, he turns beet red. Fortunately, he has a good sense of humour and joins in laughing.

“Before I forget it, Keith.” I clear my throat. “There are two backpacks up in the flat with rather ripe uniforms in them. Would you give them to Vince?”

“And what am I supposed to do with them?” Vince looks stupefied, that I may have forgotten that he is now a civilian.

“They have to be washed and returned, I’d think.” I give him a look as if he were as thick as pig shit. “And we can’t be going off to the Republic of Ireland with British Army uniforms, now can we?”

“I thought you were off to...” Vince recoils slightly from my elbow nudging the back of his head.

“There's been a change of plans." I laugh and turn to Seph. “We’ve got the portraits crated.”

“No problem,” He chuckles. “as long as you can carry them.”

“And where are your bags?” Raph notices that neither Seph nor Marty have any, save the BOAC flight bag with the urn in it.

“I have a complete wardrobe in Ireland, and Marty and I are about the same size.” Seph and Marty laugh. “We’re going shopping for Marty tomorrow.”

“Buy him a kilt.” Keith is, I believe, serious.

From beyond the wall at the bottom of the garden, a car horn toots ‘Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh’. “That’s us. Be sure to lock up.” Seph grabs his leather satchel, gives Ron a kiss on the mouth and trots to the end of the garden.

“That’s for us, when a car horn signals ‘Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh’?” I look at Marty and laugh as we approach the bottom of the garden.

He shakes his head. “For all you hippie, anti-war demonstrators, that is Morse code for the number seven.”

“How appropriate, Mr. Bond.” Raph purrs and takes Geneviève’s overnight case, handing it to Seph, which she could have accomplished herself. This is a sign that my man is a bundle of nerves. The garden door locks behind us, and once again Raph and I are seated on the jump seats of a taxi, travelling backwards.