Date: Thu, 06 May 1999 11:07:40 BST From: Michael Gouda Subject: On the Game ON THE GAME Easter 1 "Sodom and Gomorrah," roared Chief Inspector Newman from inside his Sanctum Sanctorum. In her own, somewhat smaller, less well-appointed office, Inspector Petra Wilkes raised her eyes despairingly to the ceiling. Newman, she thought, must have found the Lucas Dexter file - and she'd purposefully placed it as near to the bottom of the pile as she conveniently could - without making it too obvious. "Sodom and fucking Gomorrah." Again the air reverberated with lusty expletives. Obviously Newman must have been in a hurry to get onto the golf-course this afternoon and had rushed through the files without his usual nit-picking concentration on minor infringements of the English language. She counted to twenty. It was usually all it took. "Wilkes," came the expected bellow, dead on time. They had an intercom between the two offices but Newman rarely used it. Of course he would have considered it an appalling breach of protocol if Inspector Newman didn't pass on her own messages to him via the electronic office communication system. She went in. C.I. Newman was sitting in his comfortable chair, his face red with unsuppressed anger, his over-weight body encased in what always seemed to be a size-too-small uniform. He didn't allow her to shut the door behind her before he was waving a file in her direction. "What's this?" he demanded, his jowls wobbling. "The Lucas Dexter file, sir?" she hazarded. "It's been turned down by the DPP!" Accusingly as if it was her fault. Each case had to be referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions before being taken to court. Only those that stood a good chance of success were in fact allowed to proceed. "Yes, sir," said Wilkes. "I'm afraid they considered the case only had a slim chance." "But the guy's been selling his bum all over Feltenham - and he's a minor. What do they call them? Tenant boys?" "Rent boys," said Wilkes. "The current thinking is that underage prostitutes of whatever gender need help rather than punishment. If anything it's the punters and the pimps who need charging." "But we've got his pimp," shouted Newman. "This Nick Warren guy, and we caught the punter, actually taking the kid into his car. Queer as a ten dollar bill." Ignoring the fact that a ten dollar bill is quite legal tender in the US of A, Inspector Wilkes tried to look sympathetic. "Unfortunately, sir, the boy, Lucas, refuses to give evidence against Warren and as for the punter, well he denies everything of course. Says he had just stopped to give the kid a lift into town. And Lucas says that was what happened." "So what do we have to do. Catch them with their pricks up his arse before we can get them to court. We used to use a pretty copper to hang out in the Public lavatories and then, when these cock-sucking shirt-lifters got down to the job, we'd have 'em." "I'm afraid those days are long past," said Wilkes, secretly glad. "That sort of provocation isn't allowed any more." "Who said?" asked Newman belligerently, his face reddening again. One of these days he'll have a heart attack, thought Inspector Wilkes disloyally, and then the world - and Feltenham Police Force - will be a better place. Her face though showed none of this as she answered his question. "Well, sir, if you remember, the Chief Constable did only last week while answering questions on TV. You know there was that case in America where a pop star got caught with a policeman and said he had been solicited by him. The C.C. said it wouldn't have happened over here." "Oh, the Chief Constable," said Newman dismissively. "As if he knows anything about it." Then, perhaps realising the last remark had not been the wisest thing to say and that Wilkes might perhaps broadcast it around, eventually finding its way back to the Chief Constable himself, added, "Of course he has to say that. Politically correct and all that. Not blaming him of course." Petra Wilkes waited. "So they'll all get away with it?" continued Newman after a pause. "The town's turning into a breeding ground of filth and degradation! Where's morality? Where's decency, integrity, virtue? Who's left to uphold the standards of . . . " he groped around trying to find a word which he hadn't already used " . . . of er . . . chastity." It sounded vaguely old-fashioned and inept. More waiting. She knew Newman would soon run out of steam and remember his golf appointment. Then she could file away the evidence and, God willing, he would have forgotten about it by the morning. "We need someone who can get in there. With those perverts. Find out what makes them tick." It was unusual but sometimes it happened. C.I. Newman had an idea. "What's the name of that Sergeant chappie? Bum-stabber himself. Used to work here until we got rid of the man?" Inspector Wilkes knew immediately whom he was talking about. She had liked Keith, had been sorry when he had left. "Hatch, sir. With the Gay Liaison Force in London?" "That's the fellow. Get him down here. He'll know where the filth is. He'll sort it out." 4 Months Earlier A piece of newspaper, blown by the gritty November wind, wrapped itself round his legs. Lucas Dexter peeled it off, screwed it into a ball and threw it into the night. On second thoughts he wondered whether it might have been more sensible to keep it as some more insulation against the cold. First night without a roof over his head. "You're brainless. You're stupid. You're lying. You're no son of mine." His father had shouted, each accusation punctuated by a blow to his head. "I'm not stupid. I ain't lying," he had protested, arms futilely trying to protect himself and the tears had come without him wanting them - a sixteen year old doesn't cry. The darkness was his blanket and in the wind came the first spots of rain. He'd have to find some shelter somewhere. A shop doorway? "Please, George . . . " a faltering appeal from his mother, glancing from one to the other. "I've had enough. He'll not spend another night here." "But where will he go?" "I don't give a fuck! Glue-sniffing! Thieving! Christ knows what else. Get out! Get fucking out!" "He's only sixteen . . . " Nowhere to go except to the big town. And now here, with just a few late-night leftovers from the pubs still wandering the streets, what to do? Where to go? A shop doorway to try to escape from that bitter wind? Lucas shivered, his pullover, jeans and thin coat offering inadequate protection. His father's accusations had been non-stop. The boy was aggressive, answered back, swore at his mother, skived off from school, stayed out all the time, no one knew where he got to. "Right, if this place isn't good enough for you, then you can fucking leave." He'd gone upstairs to the tiny room which was the only part of the house which he'd really considered his own. It wasn't much and when he really looked at it, the only things that made it personal were a few posters of pop stars on the wall. He tore them down and left the screwed up remains on the floor. He didn't want to leave anything that reminded them of him. He shoved some clothes into a rucksack. Shit, if he only hadn't spent his last few quid on cigarettes. He was hungry already. His stomach felt empty but fright seemed to have stemmed some of the worst pangs. Tomorrow he would have to think about how to get food. First he had to get through the night. A distant striking from some church clock had told him it was midnight. He passed a shop doorway but there was a dark figure curled up inside. But two shops later he found an empty one and squatted down. The step was hard under his buttocks and the wall uncomfortable against his back. He arranged the rucksack so that it filled in the gap between his body and the stonework. He knew he'd never sleep. But he was wrong. Even with the cold, the discomfort, the unfamiliar, frightening surroundings he dozed off and woke only when the morning light touched him, stiff and aching, every limb seemingly protesting at the treatment it had received, his head throbbing, his stomach empty. A new day . . . Easter 2 "I don't believe it," said Keith Hatch on the Monday evening. "Newman wants me down at Feltenham again. Not that I'm complaining all that much. It'll give me a chance to see Alan of course. But I don't want to leave you alone. Not now you've started this new course at College." "What's it this time?" asked Phil. "Another case he can't sort out on his own?" "Something about rent-boys. The message was confused. Apparently his chaps arrested one but the trial fell through. I think he wants me to get to know them." Phil pretended to look concerned. "I don't want you getting to know rent-boys," he said, sticking his arse out in a parody of sexual invitation. "Fancy a nice time, luv?" Then he changed, "I always fancied being one myself but didn't think I was pretty enough. I bet they're really tempting." "Not necessarily - if female prostitutes are anything to go by - just available. That's their attraction." "Well," said Phil decisively, "I don't want you down there on your own. I'm coming with you." "Oh come on, you can't mean that," said Keith. "College isn't like your old shelf-filling job that you can give up when you feel like it and get another when the shekels run short. I thought you'd really got into this studying thing, once you got over the initial shock." He sounded disappointed as if Phil was letting him down. Phil looked at his lover with a sort of profound sympathy. "Darling," he said, "I'm at College. It's a bit like school and we have holidays . . . called vacations. It's Easter. Three weeks off. I was going to get a temporary job but I'll take a week off, need it after all the work I've done this term." Keith's anxious look cleared. Phil continued, "So I'll come down with you, shag the living daylights out of you morning noon and night so that you're too knackered to want to touch even the most seductive hustler in the whole of Britain." Keith kissed him on the lips "Or the world," said Phil, effecting an escape for a second from the insistent lips. "Or the Universe," he managed, before he was again imprisoned by that warm demanding mouth and the tongue that probed inside and seemed intent on performing a tonsillectomy without anaesthetic. "I think we've already started the shagging." 3 Months Earlier Lucas had made it through the month. The first week of course had been the worst. Hungry most of the time, even reduced to searching through rubbish bins looking for the discarded remains of take-aways. But he'd seen the others, how they took a pitch in the High Street, some with dogs which presumably made the animal-loving passerby more susceptible to generosity, a receptacle in front, perhaps a scrawled notice broadcasting their plight. And he'd learned from them, found he could scratch a precarious living from begging, washing daily in the public lavatories - even hot water there. Sometimes he even got enough money for a MacDonalds though chips from the 'Fisheria' were cheaper, filling if not the ideal health diet. He had noticed a spattering of pustules developing on his face and bought some oranges to supplement his diet. His hair grew long and rather sticky - the liquid soap provided in the lavatories - didn't seem all that effective as a conditioner. His face, he noticed in the smudged and distorting metal mirror, seemed thinner, his eyes larger and anxious. His clothes, purchased originally more for fashion than durability were degenerating, the material at knee and buttock growing thin. What he would do when they developed holes he had no idea. He signed on at the Social Security, giving a false name and adding a year to his real age, but without adequate records - obviously there were none for this 'false' person - money was slow in coming. The small amount he did get came from his begging. He developed a certain look, what he thought to himself as a beguiling, beseeching expression which, he found, worked particularly well on the older women, but as they only dropped twenty pence pieces (at the most) into his box, he didn't make too much from them. He had scrawled a deliberately mis-spelled notice 'COODENT AFORD BREKFUST' and propped this up in front of him, but it was still a long, boring day and most of the time he spent gazing into the middle distance, often torturing himself with thoughts of a slap-up meal, a roast beef, singed on the outside and pink inside, crisp, golden-brown roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, light as air, sweet green peas and a thick savoury gravy. Perhaps best of all, he fantasised about a comfortable bed with clean sheets and a soft, soft mattress. One evening a group of teenagers swore at him and, when he answered in similar vein, set on him, punched him in the stomach, kicked him as he lay there and went off with his day's money. That day he didn't eat - in fact didn't feel like eating - and worried when he found himself bleeding when he went for a shit. He wondered whether to go to the Casualty Department of the Hospital but didn't know whether it was allowed without seeing a doctor first - and of course he didn't have one of those. But in a few days he healed and determined never to stay on the High Street after dark even though at this time of year there were many people still out and about in the evenings. It was approaching Christmas and the streets were decorated with green and scarlet lights and illuminated representations of the Merry Old Gentleman with white beards and sacks on their backs. There was a rumour that on Christmas Day a charitable organisation would distribute a special Christmas meal to the homeless. One meal a year, thought Lucas cynically. On the third day of the second month he met Nick Warren. It had been a particularly cold December. That day there were flurries of snow-flakes in the air though it hadn't got to the stage of settling. Lucas was wearing all the clothes he possessed but still felt cold. His trainers had split down the side just above the sole and he had tied a piece of string around it - but it didn't make much difference. Soon a new pair would be essential and he had no idea how he would get them? He was worrying about this problem when he noticed a young man standing some yards away but obviously looking in his direction. At first he wondered whether he was a plain clothes policeman, come to move him on, but the expression on the man's face seemed to be one of interest rather than police interference. The man approached. Lucas noticed his dark eyebrows, his black hair, springing from his forehead, the smile - or was it a sneer - the lithe, confident almost arrogant way he walked. The suit he was wearing looked expensive, the grey tie, discreet against his white shirt. As he got closer the man felt inside his jacket for his wallet and produced a 10 Pound note. "What would you buy," he asked, holding it in front of Lucas, "if I put this in your box?" Lucas looked appreciative. It was more than he'd made all day. "Good meal, mistah," he said, putting on that look he had practised. "Not spend it on drugs?" "Don't do drugs, mistah," said Lucas automatically. "It's a mugs' game." "And I bet you don't normally talk like that," said the man. "Nor have that stupid expression on your face. For a moment Lucas was angry but then a tenner was a tenner. He nodded. "Sorry," he said in his natural voice. "It's what they expect." The man dropped the note into the box and then opened his wallet again. He took out and carefully counted five twenty pound notes. "And what," he said, "would you do for this?" A hundred quid. He could buy some shoes, another pair of jeans, even perhaps a thicker coat. But Lucas wasn't a complete fool. He looked wary. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What would I have to do?" The man tucked the money back into his wallet. "Come and have something to eat," he said. "No need to get alarmed. We'll talk about it over a Burger or something." They sat opposite each other in the BurgerBar and Lucas wolfed down a Double Ham'n'Cheese with fries and a milk shake. The man sipped at a coffee, watching him. It was mid-morning and the place was half empty. Their talk was private. "The name's Nick," said the man. "Lucas." "OK," said Nick, smiling - which made his face even more attractive. He narrowed his eyes, looked serious. "So, Lucas, how long have you been on the streets?" "Just over a month." "And how have you been getting on?" Lucas took another bite and chewed. "So-so," he said warily. "Some days I make enough." "Enough for new shoes?" asked the man. He had obviously noticed as, at the moment, they were tucked out of sight under the table. "Enough for a bed for the night? Enough for regular meals?" He looked at Lucas munching hungrily on the bun, attacking the fries, washing it down with the shake. Lucas shook his head. "You're not a bad looking kid," said Nick. "You need a wash, your hair needs cutting, some new clothes." He paused. "You could be earning five hundred quid a week - easy. Maybe more. Yes five hundred . . ." He let the words hang in the air. Lucas' mouth opened. "What would I have to do?" he asked. "I haven't got qualifications." "You got a cock?" asked Nick, smiling again. "If you've gotta cock and a mouth and an arsehole - you've got qualifications." Lucas blushed. Suddenly he realised where this was leading. Not in detail but certainly the rough direction. He felt frightened, almost panicky and started to get to his feet. "Just think of it," said Nick quickly. "Five hundred a week guaranteed. I'll get you somewhere nice to stay, clothes to wear, smart clothes." Lucas paused, thinking. "I'd look after you, make sure you didn't get hurt." Lucas hesitated - and in doing so - was lost. He sat down again. Nick smiled. He knew he had him. "I've never done anything like that," said Lucas. "Not, you know, with ..." He paused, again not sure what was being asked of him. Would it be with men? What was this about his mouth, and his arse? "I wouldn't know what to do." Nick got up. "Come on," he said. "Come back to my place. Have a shower, some of my clothes for the moment. I'll show you what to do." His smile was warm, convincing - almost seductive. "You'll enjoy it," he promised. Lucas followed Nick up the narrow flight of stairs to his flat. It was small and a little disappointing, consisting of just a living room, a small kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The furniture was not much different from that in Lucas' own parents' home - he'd expected something rather more luxurious, to match the designer suit. An old sofa stood against one wall and a tall bookcase with some paperbacks against another. A window looked out onto the street below and some posters of bullfighters suggested Nick might have been on holiday in Spain. There was a computer system on a table over by the far wall. The carpet looked old and rather worn. "Make yourself at home," said Nick and waved his hand at the sofa. "Like a drink?" He opened a cupboard and displayed an impressive array of bottles and cans. "I'll have a beer," said Lucas, who didn't really go for spirits. Nick threw him a can and he pulled the ring opener, drinking the contents without waiting for a glass. He felt nervous, not sure what was going to happen - but Nick didn't seem to be about to fling himself on him. Lucas watched him sit down at the other end of the sofa with a glass of whisky, looking at him from under those dark eyebrows, summing him up. At last Lucas grasped the nettle. "OK," he said, "what do I have to do?" Nick smiled and moved closer to him. Lucas could feel his closeness, feel the heat of him. When Nick put his hand on his thigh, Lucas tensed but it felt somehow comforting. It was almost the only human contact he had had for over a month. The hand was warm and when it stroked upwards, Lucas found his leg opening, almost automatically so that the hand found his fork, felt the softness which rapidly became hardness. He gasped as the hand clasped his prick through the thin material of his jeans. "That's the start," said Nick. "That's what you've gotta do. Do you think you can manage that?" Lucas looked at Nick's groin. There was a bulge there, under the expensive cloth. He realised he wanted to touch it, find out what was inside, what it felt like. He grabbed. "Wait!" said Nick. "Go gently. Make the other person feel important, wanted. Don't rush at him as if you wanted to tear his bollocks off." Lucas moved his hand and then replaced it in the inside of Nick's thigh, moving his fingers so that they scrabbled gently. They found the way upwards again making for the fork but this time finding his balls first, cupping them gently, then holding the strong, hard shaft. Nick sighed. "Now pull down the zip," he said. "Slowly. Go inside. Hold me through my underpants." As he spoke he was doing the same to Lucas and the feel of those fingers so close to the actual skin was like nothing he had ever felt before. Arousing tremors of delight surged in his groin, up his cock. "Do you kiss?" asked Nick. "Some do, some don't." Lucas considered. With that hand around his prick, rubbing it up and down, he would do anything. "I'd like to kiss you," he said and their lips met, a tongue probing at his closed mouth and then, entering and wrestling with his, excitingly. He couldn't help it. Suddenly he came, the semen pulsing out into his underwear and soaking through into Nick's hand. "Wow," said Nick. "You wanted that. But now you've gotta take care of the customer." Lucas stroked faster. "He'll probably want more than that," said Nick. "Take mine out. A blow-job at least." Lucas wasn't quite sure what he meant. But he pulled down the waistband of Nick's underpants and released the cock so that it stood erect and jutting from its nest of curly dark hair. He hesitated and Nick put his hand behind Lucas' head and gently pulled it forward and downward. He understood. He took the head into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. He wasn't sure exactly what he expected but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact the thought of having another man's cock, Nick's cock, inside his mouth was exciting. Even though he had come so soon before, he felt a little twitch in his own. "Not the teeth," said Nick. "Try to take as much as you can. Use your tongue. You can rub with your hand as well, and use the other hand, hold my balls, go under me. That's it . . . No further . . . Use your finger to touch me . . . there . . . Oh yes . . . ." Later Lucas stood in the shower enjoying the luxury of the hot water on his body. He didn't hear the door open and Nick enter and the first he knew was when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and he felt a naked body pressed into his from behind, a cock in the cleft between his buttocks. "Lesson 2," said Nick softly. Easter 3 The top flat of 2 Cadogan Square, Feltenham felt almost like a second home to Phil. He sat back at ease on the comfortable worn settee with the flower-pattern chintz covering whose pattern was so faded as to be almost invisible. Keith sat beside him and Alan was in the kitchen making some coffee for them. He looked at Keith and suddenly saw him as others would, tall and slim, short brown hair, a serious expression on his face, the jawline strong, straight nose, nostrils a little flared, brown eyes under arched eyebrows. He knew him so well, knew every expression from this quiet, contemplative one, through angry and happy to the abandoned openness of unrestrained passion. He loved them all. He put his hand on Keith's thigh and felt the warmth of the flesh underneath. Keith looked at him, an unspoken question. "I love you," said Phil quietly and Keith smiled, feeling again that surge of emotion which sometimes he could scarcely contain. Alan bustled in from the kitchen with three coffee mugs and a large piece of ginger cake - Keith's favourite. "So, tell me all the news," demanded Alan, distributing food and then sitting down himself in the other easy chair. "I'm being a good student," said Phil. "Sleeping with all the right tutors to get good grades." "He studies hard," said Keith. "It's all I can do to drag him off to bed at night." "Big holiday now, though," said Phil. "You won't have any trouble dragging me to bed for the next three weeks. In fact I doubt you'll be able to get me out of it!" He leered suggestively. "What about you, Keith?" asked Alan. "Oh yes, he'll be there too," said Phil. Keith poked him in the ribs. "The job?" he asked. Alan nodded. "Oh just another of Inspector Newman's little problems. Sorry, CHIEF Inspector Newman. He's been made up, and you remember that rather nice Sergeant, Petra Wilkes? She's an Inspector now." "Isn't it your turn soon?" asked Alan. "You've been a Sergeant for a while now." "I've got an inbuilt disadvantage," said Keith. "I'm gay." "Now he tells me," said Phil, clutching at his head in mock despair. "But you're in the Metropolitan Gay Liaison Force," said Alan. "Which already has its own Inspector. Pleasant, understanding, efficient, intelligent - and straight!" "I'm working on him," said Phil, ambiguously. "He'll make it eventually." He paused. looking at Alan. "But what about you?" Alan seemed just a bit evasive. "Er . . . Good news," he said eventually. "I got promotion." "Great," said Keith. "How? What?" Phil looked at him thoughtfully, remembering Alan's 'adventure' with his boss which had taken place the last time Phil had been down in Feltenham. "They've enlarged the shop. Took on some extra assistants and put me in charge." "What about that other chap? Donny was it? Didn't he start before you?" "Denny! Yes. He's got the Internet cafe, next door. He looks even more fetching in a waitress pinny." "So how come they made you boss?" "Must have seen his potential," said Phil. He seemed to be trying to restrain a grin. "Made an good impression on your boss, did you? David Kingsley, isn't it?" Alan smiled uncomfortably. "That's right," he said. "Kingsley?" Keith tried it out for size. "The name sounds familiar," he said. "Do I know him?" "Don't think so," said Alan. Keith shook his head. "What about Esteban?" he asked. "That's the best part," said Alan. "He's got a good job at last. He's a translator for a South American Shipping firm down in Bristol. He's got a car so he's here very weekend. Sometimes he even comes up for the night during the week . . . " "I bet he does," said Phil, suggestively. Alan ignored him. " . . . and goes off to work in the morning. It only takes him just over an hour to commute from here." "I'm interested in your rise," said Phil teasing. "At work, I mean." "OK. OK. Kingsley was grateful for what I did for him, sorting out his computer business. You know." Phil nodded. "God's in his heaven. All's right with the world," he commented. 2 Months earlier The job wasn't always - or indeed often - all that pleasant, but fairly soon Lucas got to thinking of it as 'just' a job, just an occupation to be got through as quickly as possible. He got the 'menu', and the tariff, off pat so that it tripped off his tongue without him even having to think of it - 'Fiver for a wank, mate; Blow job's ten quid and a fuck's fifty.' The jerk-offs were easiest, mostly in the punter's own car. Money first - 'thank you, guv' - then a drive round the corner to a darker place where the street lamps were further apart, the client lay back in the recliner seat, zip down, hands into the warmth to find it. Rubbing gently, as Nick had taught him, other hand fondling the ballsack and sometimes under if the punter raised himself or indicated that was what he liked, and often it was over within a couple of minutes. Occasionally the john would change his mind mid-operation and ask him to suck it, but, after one incident where, having been satisfied in this way, the client had pushed him out and driven off without paying the extra, Lucas would always wait for the other note before obliging. He never swallowed. The fifty quid fuck of course was back at his room, the one Nick had found for him. Scarcely larger than a moderate sized cupboard it contained a single bed, a wash-basin and a small chest of drawers in which Lucas kept his clothes, condoms and some gay magazines which nervous clients sometimes needed - though Lucas always thought it a bit of an insult if anyone went limp on him. Often Lucas himself never came. Occasionally, if the punter was moderately young, not over-weight and didn't gasp and pant too much, Lucas would imagine it was Nick who was in him, probing his guts from behind with that erect piece of plastic-covered flesh, holding his own prick so that he did ejaculate sad streams of semen - but this was not usual. Sometimes the john was pathetically grateful and on those occasions Lucas felt nothing but contempt. They had paid their money. He had given good value. He didn't want their thanks. He didn't seem to realise that, on the few occasions when Nick invited him over to his flat, to his bed, Lucas felt that same overwhelming feeling of gratitude - he never allowed himself to express it in words though, merely being exceptionally compliant in the things he knew Nick enjoyed most. The best jobs were the sporadic ones that Nick himself arranged, sometimes in the Imperial Hotel itself - all-nighters in luxurious surroundings with a meal and drinks. Lucas had no idea how much the punter paid for these but Nick always gave him the full 50 quid, whereas for the street trade, he had to pay half of each transaction to his boss. All the same, to get anywhere near the five hundred a week that Nick had promised he would, Lucas had to work very hard - three fucks or fourteen sucks or twenty-eight hand-jobs - seven days a week, we never closed! Often his wrist almost seized up - repetitive strain injury, he'd heard it described as . . . And frequently his arse was sore. Like the night he was arrested. He'd been with a few clients already that evening, three wanks, a suck and a fuck - total so far 37.50 Pounds for him. He was tired and thought of calling it a day - or at least a night - but Nick liked him to fulfil his quota. In fact sometimes he got quite nasty if he didn't present him with his seventy quid a night. A squally shower of January rain met him as he arrived back on his corner. He nodded to Gavin on the opposite corner. Tall, blonde and willowy, Gavin was as camp as a Scout jamboree but he and Lucas got on well together, often discussing tricks and their particular peculiarities. He was the nearest Lucas had to a friend - apart from Nick. But Nick was special in Lucas' mind and if asked, would be hard put to categorise. Lover, protector, rescuer - he fought shy of the word 'pimp'. A car drew up and stopped somewhere between the two lads and side lights flashed on and off. Not knowing whom the punter was interested in, both boys stood still until the car moved slowly forward and stopped at the curb next to Lucas. The window opened with electronic fluency, a middle-aged face, grey moustache, looked out. "You free?" he asked. Lucas was just about to reel off his charges when there was sudden confusion behind him. From the shadow of the wall, where obviously they had been hiding, two figures emerged, one grabbing hold of Lucas' arms, the other opening the car door so that the driver almost fell out. Gavin faded like a wraith into the night. Words were uttered which Lucas, in his confused state, didn't grasp even though they ended with the question 'Do you understand?' Both men were taken to the Police Station and a night of unpleasantness followed. Luckily for Lucas, Nick had prepared him for such an eventuality. He pleaded ignorance of all the suggestions that the police made. "Nah, guv," he said. "I was just trying to get into the centre of town. Thought the guy in the car could've given me a lift." He never heard what excuse the punter used. Presumably something along the lines that he had just stopped to ask the way. A stranger in Town. Got lost in the dark side roads and was asking directions when the officious constables grabbed him, implying all sorts of foul suggestions. Probably claimed he had every intention of complaining to their superiors if he wasn't released immediately. Lucas had given Nick's name as his guarantor, he being a minor. The police seemed to know Nick Warren and had even suggested that Nick might have been responsible for Lucas being out that night, soliciting, but of course both he and Nick had denied it and though Lucas had been charged, he had been released and Nick said he doubted whether Lucas would hear anything more of it. They went back to Nick's flat and spent the night together, Lucas clinging to Nick's body even after both had accomplished the sex and it was obvious from his attitude that all Nick wanted was turn over and go to sleep. Nevertheless even he realised that Lucas needed someone to cling onto and allowed the boy to hold him. Easter 4 Keith returned from his interview with C.I. Newman on the afternoon of their arrival in Feltenham in a mood centred somewhere between gloom and exasperation. He gave the boys (as he always thought of them), who were sitting on the floor looking at some gay magazines and shrieking over the sizes of some of the equipment, a wry look. Phil sobered up. "I recognise that look," he said. "Didn't go all that well eh?" "He thinks I'm a fucking magician," complained Keith. "Anything that's remotely connected to the gay scene in Feltenham, and he expects me to be able to solve it immediately." "What's the problem?" asked Alan. "Apparently there's this ring of rent boys, organised and controlled by some guy called Warren. Newman says they're turning Feltenham into the cesspit of Europe and he wants me to clean it out - probably by Friday." He looked so depressed that Phil laughed but quickly changed it into a cough. "Well, I can help you a bit," said Alan. "This Warren guy is none other than your old friend Nick." He shot a swift glance at Phil as he said this, recalling vividly that Phil had had an unpleasant confrontation with this same Nick, the previous time he had been in Feltenham. Phil looked away and casually picked up the headset of his walkman. Keith though was astonished. "Nick, the barman at the Olympia? Nick, the one who outed me to Newman? Nick who followed us up to Edinburgh? They said it was a Nicholas Warren but I never thought of him." "I don't think he actually followed us to Scotland," said Alan, not mentioning that it was the same Nick who had tried to rape Phil. It was fairly obvious that Phil hadn't told Keith about it either. "But yes that's the guy. He gets young lads who are on the streets, smartens them up - or in some cases, makes 'em look rougher than they really are - depends on the market - and hires them out to punters on an hourly, sometimes nightly basis." "Jeez!" said Keith, sounding disgusted. "It's not that bad," said Alan. "The kids though are usually a lot better off than they were before. They get somewhere to live, food and clothes." "But what's it doing to them? Treated like a slab of meat four or five times a night. Not to mention the danger, to their health - as well as from the really weird characters." "And what does living on the streets do for them?" asked Alan. "No proper food, no roof over their heads. Young boys of that age can't look after themselves. Soon they'll get turned on to drugs? Drink?" For a moment Keith looked at Alan with surprise. He sounded almost middle-aged. Keith glanced over at Phil who in comparison was plugged in to his Walkman and jigging away to the rhythm of another melody. Easter 5 The Olympia Club was almost empty when Keith went in to talk to Nick Warren on the Thursday afternoon. Nick ruled as usual behind the bar but as he recognised Keith, an expression that looked very like panic crossed his face. At the time it struck Keith as odd for, although he and Nick had never really got on, Nick had never appeared scared of him before and his behaviour - according to the records of the night when Lucas had been arrested, had been arrogant in the extreme. Could Nick, Keith wondered, have been up to something nefarious since, something he was frightened Keith was on to now? "I want a word with you," he said shortly. If Nick was scared, then there was no reason to pacify or soothe him with a softly, softly approach. "What about?" asked Nick. Gone was his usual cockiness, the brash self-confidence that marked his customary manner. He seemed to be using the bar almost as a physical protection between himself and Keith. "Lucas Dexter," said Keith. The apprehensive look on Nick's face cleared. He visibly relaxed. "My little protegee," he said. "You'd better come into the back room. You won't want all the queens of Feltenham listening." This last seemed a little unfair as the handful of people who had looked up as Keith made his entrance, had now apparently lost interest and were paying little if any attention to the conversation. They went into a room behind the bar which seemed to serve as an office as well as a stock room. Boxes of cigarettes and spirits were piled around three of the walls while on the desk in the middle stood the by now almost obligatory computer terminal. There were office chairs in front of and behind the desk. Nick lounged himself into one, now apparently very much at ease. Keith wondered what it was that had made him so alarmed before. "Look, Nick," said Keith, deciding that a reasonable approach was best as he had absolutely no ammunition for anything else. "He's only a kid. OK. you got off last time but he's bound to get caught sometime and it's you that'll get the punishment if we do get enough evidence for prosecution. It's you that'll go to prison." "What Lucas does is his own affair," said Nick. "I've tried to do my best for him, sort him out a bit . . . but . . ." He let his voice trail away. "Oh come on, Nick. We both know the score. You're not talking to Newman now. I know you've got Lucas on the game. Probably everybody in the club knows it - and that you are taking a share of the money." "I look after him," admitted Keith guardedly. "He's only sixteen." "That's another thing - having sex with a minor - another prison charge. Even if the new law goes through, he'll still be underage." Nick looked at Keith. "And who were you sleeping with when he was a minor?" he asked pointedly. Keith felt slightly embarrassed. It was true that he had had sex with Alan while he was only seventeen though the affair had only really started after Alan's eighteenth birthday. "Personally," he said, "I'm not interested in that aspect. It's him on the game that I don't like. You know Newman won't give up. It's become a sort of private crusade and, whatever his faults, Chief Inspector Newman doesn't give up easily." "I care for the boy," said Nick. "Oh no you don't," said Keith, angry now. "Sex - that's all it ever is with you," he shouted. "If you fuck him, it's just sex. If you send him on the streets that's just fucking sex. Do you really care about him? Do you know where he is now? Do you know who he's with now? Were you with him the night he was picked up?" Nick shrugged. Easter 6 Keith didn't want to to have anything more to do with the case. He had told Inspector Wilkes that on the Friday and on Saturday, he had taken a long walk by himself up on the hills around Feltenham so he didn't even receive the phone calls that Inspector Wilkes made to the flat in the afternoon. Urgent phone calls, but which neither Alan nor Phil could do anything about. When Keith did return, and was walking back through town, tired, hungry, dispirited it was the headlines on the placards that immediately caught his attention. 'BOY FOUND DEAD', 'BODY OF YOUNG BOY DISCOVERED IN ALLEY' they shrieked. He bought a paper and read the worst. The body of Lucas Dexter had been found in an alley off the lower end of the High Street just after 12.30 pm. It had been hidden to some extent by some piles of rubbish and only when a dog - out with its owner - had been rooting amongst them, had the discovery been made. So far there was no definite cause of death though the man who found the body said the boy had been badly beaten up. Keith went straight to the police station. The Chief Inspector had left, of course - an Easter break in Marbella, Inspector Wilkes thought, though he had made his own feelings abundantly clear before going. "Lucas Dexter's death had 'cleaned up one stain from the once fair Feltenham facade', were his exact words I think," she told Keith. "If we can pin his murder either on his pimp, this Nick Warren, or some other 'brown-hatter', it would make him even happier." She looked apologetic as she reported the interview she had had with her superior before his departure. "So Newman was pleased?" "You could say that - one less on the streets. Find the punter who did it - or perhaps the pimp and there'll be even fewer perverts befouling the town. Arrest Nick, he suggests. Get in the john whom we hauled in before." "Not likely to be either," Keith objected. "Nick needed Lucas alive, if only for financial reasons. Punter sounds hardly likely to come back after his recent scare." She showed him the photographs. In the close-ups, bruised and battered as Lucas was, Keith could see how young he looked. He was irresistibly reminded of those other photographs he had seen, years before, of the boy Alan had discovered up on the Common, of the face of the dying boy, Stefan Boscovic, beaten up in a London alley. Young lives destroyed for no other reason than their sexual orientation. Sad and angry, he swore under his breath. He peered at another photo showing the boy full length. "His clothes weren't diisturbed," he said. "No obvious sexual interference." Suddenly he appeared to notice something. "Is that how they found him?" Inspector Wilkes looked over his shoulder. "Yes I think so." "With his arms spread out?" Wilkes nodded. "And killed last night? Friday?" Wilkes realised what he was getting at. "That's sick," she said. "Good Friday. And look his ankles are crossed. He's been layed out as if he was crucified." There was a knock at the door and a constable came in with a folder for Inspector Wilkes. She looked at it. "The autopsy report," she said. "That's quick." "Expect the pathologist wanted to get off as soon as possible for the holiday." She skimmed through the contents, muttering salient comments as she did so. "Ribs broken, jaw as well. Skull fractured - that's what killed him. Injuries consistent with kicks. More than one person apparently." "So it wasn't a punter," said Keith. Wilkes turned over to the second page. "Evidence of earlier anal penetration, perhaps more than once. Assume condom used as no traces of semen found." Keith was brought up short by the expression. 'Anal penetration'. It made it sound clinical - and nasty. Perhaps it was - had been - for Lucas but when Keith and Phil did it, it was an act of love which both enjoyed. "So," he said, "he'd been out on the game. Had a couple of tricks. Gone out again and been set on by a gang of gay-bashers." "Looks like it," agreed Wilkes. "So how's Newman going to like it when it's probably straights that have done it?" "Disappointed," said Wilkes. "What does Nick Warren have to say about it?" "We tried to pick him up but he seems to have disappeared. Do you think that's sinister?" "Sounds just like Nick," said Keith. "To vanish when things get hot. But all the same, as much as I dislike the bastard, I don't think he did it." He suddenly realised how tired and hungry he was. He hadn't eaten all day. "I must get home," he said. He went out of the Station into the late afternoon Spring sunshine. Leaves were starting to appear on the plane trees and the Council had planted bright garlands of primulas around their bases. He felt depressed. He wanted to get home to Phil. As he crossed the road he noticed a tall youth with unnaturally blond hair staring at him. He was standing in a rather posed attitude, right hand on his hip, right leg bent. Oh no, Keith thought, surely he wasn't going to be accosted. But it seemed that was exactly what was going to happen for as Keith passed him, the young man peered into his face and then spoke. "I saw you in the Olympia the other day" - his voice was high-pitched and fluting - "talking to Nick Warren." Keith nodded. "I'm looking for him," "Outside a police station?" asked Keith. The young man looked bewildered. "I wanted to know whether I should tell . . . I wanted to ask Nick . . . I couldn't find him." It sounded confused but Keith thought he understood. "You have something to tell the police but you're not sure whether you should." The boy looked close to tears. "Look," said Keith."I'll be honest with you. I am a police officer but I am gay. If you're in trouble, something I can help you with, I'll let the second part outweigh the first, though if you've done something criminal, I'll have to take it further." "No," said the boy. "Nothing criminal. I'm just such a fucking coward." The tears brimmed out of his eyes. "OK. OK," said Keith, touching him on the shoulder, as if that would make any difference. "Just tell me about it. By the way, I'm Keith. What's your name?" "Gavin." They walked together down the road, stopped outside the BurgerBar, went in - Keith felt almost faint from lack of food - and, over burgers and coffee, haltingly Gavin told his story. Gavin was one of Nick's 'boys'. He was a friend of Lucas. He had been there that night when Lucas had been arrested but had slipped off into the night when he saw the two policeman grab hold of Lucas and the punter. "And last night," he said - and paused. "Last night," said Keith encouragingly. "He chatted to me about the couple of punters he'd had. Took 'em back to his place. You know . . ." He seemed to wonder whether he should go into more detail but Keith nodded. "Then I got one and when I got back to the street, Lucas was standing there. I gave him a wave but as I did so there was this gang of guys, five or six of them, pissed, they were, singing and shouting." Again he stopped. When he started again his voice was little more than a whisper, his head bent as if he couldn't look Keith in the face. Keith had to strain to hear. "I ran away," he said. "I left him alone. I was shit-scared. You see I'd been beaten up before. Lucas had too. I thought he'd run off as well but I didn't go out again that night. And then today I saw the papers. I wanted to find Nick, ask him what to do, but he wasn't at home, nor at the Club." He looked up, his confession complete, looking for comfort, advice. Keith noticed he was wearing mascara and it was running down, clown-make-up badly put on. "We'll get them," he said, sounding more optimistic than he felt. "Tell me what you can about them." Easter 7 The track that led to the Common was still wet from a recent shower of rain - but the sun was out - warm and bright - and the surface would soon dry. Amid the grassy sides, white star-flowers of greater stitchwort struggled with white archangel and blue ground ivy. All Spring was in competition to grow the highest, flower the first, produce the next generation. Keith and Phil walked side by side, occasionally their arms brushing companionably. They reached the top of the hill where the wind breathed, blowing aside for a moment the burden of everyday pressure and responsibility. Fluffy white cumulus clouds drifted across the rain-washed blue sky. It was like being on top of the world. Keith sat with his back against a standing stone which had odd chiselled markings on it. He wondered how many thousands of years it had stood there and who had originally put it up. He picked a blade of grass and chewed the end. The valley dipped and stretched out in front of them to where the Welsh hills marked the end of the world. Phil lay on his back next to him and gazed at the sky. They didn't speak and each kept his own thoughts to himself but as the sun warmed him through his jeans, Keith felt the warmth lapping his body, sensuously penetrating his clothes, playing intimately with his skin. He spat out the grass stalk and cupped his hands behind his head, spreading his legs so that he lay, open and vulnerable, a sacrifice to the sun. Feeling himself constricted he moved his legs and covered his loins, bulging now, with his hands, one on top of each other, protecting, hiding, the under hand gently squeezing, easing himself so that his prick extended unimpeded along his leg. He stole a look at his friend lying quietly beside him but Phil's eyes were closed, perhaps he was even asleep. His shirt was rucked up showing his flat stomach and his legs were spread. He looked sprawled and defenceless and Keith knew a moment of complete happiness. He gave a quiet sigh, apparently not quiet enough because Phil opened his eyes, looked at him. And from there he could see the outline of Keith's erection. He smiled. "Quiero sentirte dentro de mi," he said. Keith looked at him, his eyebrows raised questioning. "Esteban teaches Alan Spanish," he said, "and I learn the interesting bits. It means 'I want to feel you inside me'." "That's easy enough," said Keith. "Here?" "I'll wait until we get home." They got up together and began to walk back, holding hands. 5th April 1999 1:17:30 pm 8,903 words -- _ _ _ _ _ / | / (_) __| |__ __ __ | | / |/ | |/ _| \/ _\/ _\| | /_/|__/_|_|\__|_/\_|\_,_\__ |_| Please note that from 14th May I shall not be using this email address. All post should be sent to MGouda3464@aol.com - I'll be pleased to hear from you!