Date: Sat, 30 May 1998 15:54:24 BST
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: 'Killer'

KILLER 

Tuesday morning

"Come here, Fingal. Here, boy, here!"

     But the dog, a black border Collie, ignored him, bounding away over
the Common barking wildly before disappearing behind a thick clump of
bushes.

     Alan Forrest sighed. Fingal was generally speaking an obedient dog
though he did have one major fault - well two really, both stemming from
the same cause - he was a real male dog. Fight 'em or fuck 'em was his
motto as quite a few dogs and bitches in the area knew to their cost.

     Alan assumed that Fingal's present disappearance meant that he had
smelled out either a dog or a bitch and was now in the process of one of
his two favourite activities. Whichever it was would mean that he, Alan,
would have to make some sort of abject apology to Fingal's victim's owner.

     There were, however, no human sounds of protest and indeed Fingal's
barks had ceased so Alan was not sure what to expect when he rounded the
bush. What he certainly never expected to find that Tuesday morning - was
a body.

     It was that of a young boy perhaps fifteen years of age, the young
face looking oddly innocent and peaceful. He was lying on his back with
his hands behind his head in what, at first sight, seemed a rather
provocative pose, his torso skewed a little and his legs, the knees
raised, apart. Except for a singlet vest which was pulled up to just under
his arms, he was completely naked and Alan could not help but notice the
size of his cock which was lying upwards across the flat stomach.

     The boy's eyes were closed, mouth slightly parted and for a moment
Alan thought he was asleep except that Fingal was sniffing and nuzzling at
his face then pawing at him and making little whining noises and it was
doubtful whether anyone could sleep through that. The body was lying on a
bed of leaf litter and a few dead leaves fallen from the bushes around had
drifted across his feet and legs. Then Alan noticed some signs of violence.
There were bruises on his throat, blue marks staining the pale skin and
what could possibly be blood in the fork between his legs.

     Alan had never seen a dead body before. He was only seventeen himself
and his grandparents had died, one pair before he was himself born, and
the other in Australia. Though he knew that the dead could not harm you,
he still felt a primal shiver of superstitious dread and he backed away,
calling the dog in such a sharp tone that Fingal realised in some way he
had done something wrong and crept to his side with his tail between his
legs.

     Alan looked around. There was no one about. Indeed at this time of
the morning on a weekday there were very seldom walkers over the Common
which was the reason why Alan often chose to bring the dog up there. Now
he wished he could see one of those, often cheerfully talkative, elderly
people with dogs who would know exactly what to do and who could 'take
responsibility'.

     He could, of course, just turn around, pretend he had never found the
boy, let someone else make the discovery but he felt this would be wrong.
Some parents were probably worrying themselves sick over their son's
non-appearance and, if this was a murder, then the sooner the police got
down to the business of tracing the killer the better.

     He thought what to do. This was golf course land and a Clubhouse
which he had passed but never been inside stood on the edge of the Common.
There might be someone there. Failing that he could go a bit further to
the road and ask at a house if he could phone the police. He had always
wanted to dial 999 and now was his chance.

     He took one more glance at the boy - the police were sure to ask him
questions about it - and shivered, feeling slightly sick. In a way it
seemed wrong to leave him there, open, uncovered, vulnerable, but he knew
he shouldn't touch the body and nothing anyone did would hurt him anymore.
He noticed further bruises on the wrists, marks like slender blue
bracelets. Then he put Fingal on the lead to be on the safe side, and set
off back up the track the way he had come.

     The Golf Club doors were shut as was the restaurant and the shop but,
as Alan walked round trying to find someone, a window on the ground floor
opened and a man looked out, frowning, suspicious, dark eyebrows almost
meeting in a straight black line. "What do you want, son? It's members
only!"

     Alan felt irritated. The man was treating him as if he was a kid. How
did he know he wasn't a member anyway? "I've got to phone the police," he
said. "There's a body out on the Common."

     "You joking?" asked the man, suspiciously.

     God he was thick, thought Alan. What sort of idiot would joke about a
thing like that? "Course not," he said. "It's a boy and he's dead,
murdered I'd say."

     "How would you know?" muttered the man, but he seemed less unhelpful
and disappeared from the window to reappear a few seconds later at the
door. "Well, come on in," he said. "There's a telephone in the hall." Alan
was about to go in when the man said, "Leave the dog outside. You can tie
him up there." He pointed to a metal ring which was fastened to the wall.
What did the man think Fingal would do? Piss on the floor?

     The planes of his face still had the bloom of youth on them but his
experience this morning had left a serious expression which made him look
older. Two frown lines marked the boundary between his eyebrows. 

     The walls of the Club entrance hall were panelled in dark oak which
gave it an old-fashioned look and the carpet down the centre was a rich
red. The telephone was in a little wooden booth with glass panels and a
swing door which the man held open while Alan made the call, as if he
thought he might be trying to make a personal call rather than one to the
Police. The cubicle smelt of stale tobacco smoke and furniture polish.

     He pressed the 9 button three times and then said '"Police" loudly
when asked which emergency service he required. A woman's voice answered
and he gave the details, was asked to remain where he was and was told a
car would be there shortly.

     The man, now convinced, changed his attitude. "We've had some lads
trying to break in, doing all sorts of damage," he said. "A body, eh?
Must've given you quite a shake up. Are you all right? Could you do with a
drink?"

     Alan wondered whether he was going to give him some brandy but the
man came back with a can of Cola, not the sort Alan usually drank, but
cold from the fridge and welcoming for his throat was dry - excitement and
shock probably. He sat down on a bench which ran down one side of the hall
and drank his cola, thinking about the dead boy. So young, so cute, and
now so nothing. He felt depressed. Life was for living. He had better do
something about his if the maintaining of it was so precarious.

     The police car arrived before he had even finished his drink. Serious
crime obviously merited a quick response. There were two uniformed
officers, both young, probably early twenties, both blonde, who showed
their warrant cards and said they were Constables Carey (with a moustache)
and Dunne (without). "Get into the car," said one. "We'll give you a
ride."

     Alan smiled and suddenly looked very young. "I can't leave Fingal
tied up," he said. "He won't be a problem."

     Alan told them his name as they drove down the track which was just
about navigable by motor transport though for the final part they would
have to walk.

     "How old are you, Alan?" asked P.C. Carey in a friendly tone.

     "Seventeen," said Alan and then added, "and a half."

     "Got a job, son?" asked P.C. Dunne.

     "I do part time at CutPrice Records," said Alan "in Feltenham.
Afternoons when they're busy - and Saturdays all day."

     "Live at home?"

     It was turning into a regular Inquisition but Alan knew they had a
job to do - and most of that was asking questions.

     "Yes," he said.

     "From around here?"

     "Elmcombe," said Alan pointing down the hill to where the houses of
the small town huddled in the valley, their limestone walls and roofs
abruptly lit by autumn sunshine. They made a note of his address.

     The track ran out then and the outcrops of sharp limestone which
pierced the ground imperilled  the safety of the tyres so they stopped and
got out. Fingal, who wasn't all that keen on car travel, jumped around
excitedly wanting to run but Alan kept him on the lead.

     "It's not far," said Alan. "Just over the top of the next ridge,
behind some bushes." He suddenly realised he didn't want to look at the
boy again.

     The two policemen went first trampling through the harebells and
purple dwarf thistle, the last flowers of summer, and Alan dropped back a
little. For a moment he wondered whether he had imagined the whole thing
and there would be no naked body lying in the shallow depression filled
with leaves but the policemen's reaction told him the opposite.

     "Good Christ," said one.

     There was a pause and Alan heard the other one say, "Strangled I
should think." Another pause. "Probably anally raped."

     There was a burst of crackling static as one used their intercom.
"Sarge, it's a young boy. We need a medical team asap and CID."

     Carey came back from behind the bushes. He looked a little pale. "Did
you have a good look at him? At his face?" he asked.

     Alan realised that he hadn't in fact looked really hard at the face.
He was rather ashamed to realise that he had noticed the boy's exposed
genitals rather more.

     "Would you mind having a look?" asked Carey. "You see he's more or
less your age and, if he's from round here, you might even know him."

     That in fact made the death more horrible. Surely if he had known him
he would have recognised him even after the most casual glance.
Nevertheless he went back with Carey and looked at the boy. Was there
something familiar about him?

     "No," he said turning away. "I don't know him."

     "Do you come up here often?" asked Dunne. It sounded like the tritest
of pick-up lines and, in the circumstances quite shocking.

     "Well, sometimes, perhaps a couple of times a week. To take Fingal
for his walk." He wondered why he felt it necessary to give an
explanation.

     "OK. You'd best be off home now. We may have to get in touch again
when the CID take over. Someone'll call if they need you."

     Alan walked back across the Common and down Common Road which has
barely a road at all, more of a track.

     Alan's parents were out of course when he got home, both being at
work. Fingal, tail wagging, asked for, and got some dog biscuits. He
subsided on the floor with a satisfied  sigh.

     A mug of instant coffee would do for Alan. He poured in water, milk
and put it in the microwave. When it pinged he stirred in a teaspoon of
granules and two of sugar and took it upstairs, Fingal plodding loyally
after him. He wanted to tell someone about the morning's discovery,
someone who would understand, or at least try to.

     He switched on his computer and typed in a bald synopsis of the
events, the discovery, the appearance of the body, the police and what
they had said. What he also included was what he had not told the police,
that he was gay - but then the people he was writing to knew this - for
they were gay too. Alan had built up quite a collection of email
correspondents, gathered over the year that he had been on the Net from
various gay News Groups. He communicated regularly with them and he felt
safe because, although he had never hidden his real name, he still felt he
was anonymous, and most of them lived far away, one was in New Zealand,
another in Canada, most of the others in America. Admittedly there was one
who called himself Harry who had an email address which ended in the
letters uk so Alan knew he must live somewhere in the British Isles but he
didn't know where and had never asked. As he typed in their user names the
thought came to him that he knew more gay people electronically than he
did in the flesh. Something at the back of his brain murmured 'Get a
Life!' but he suppressed it.

     When he had finished writing, he logged on. Normally he would have
waited until the evening when the cheap telephone rate operated but today
was special and it would not take long for the emails to go to their
various addresses. Of course he wouldn't get any replies until the evening
but it would be something to look forward to - and their responses,
hopefully sympathetic, would give him support, perhaps even practical
advice.

     He was grateful that his parents had never been interested enough to
become in any way computer literate. There was too much self-incriminating
evidence locked up on his hard disc which he would have preferred his
parents not to see. One day, he assumed, he would have to come out to
them, but it did not have to be now. He thought he knew what their
reactions would be - the opposite of enthusiastic.

     It was time to set off for work. Alan caught the 11.30 bus into
Feltenham and spent the afternoon selling CDs. 

Tuesday evening

At six-thirty he was released and thought about going home. The Club in
Sunderland Street though was open and the lure was irresistible. The
Olympia Club! Feltenham's only concession to the gay scene - if you
discounted the public toilets in Clarence Park. Alan had heard about it
from someone he had met in the Park about six months before. He had joined
even though the official minimum age was supposed to be 18. No one had
apparently been concerned enough to check. 

     Although Alan had had some trepidations about joining a gay Club,
when he eventually plucked up enough courage to go in he found it
surprisingly ordinary. It had a bar with some stools and a small square
place where couples jumped around, sometimes in time to the music, and
finished the evening grinding groins. The decor was a strange mixture of
the original Regency mouldings interspersed with some highly coloured
murals showing scenes of Ancient Greek athletes with unlikely looking
private parts (very publicly displayed).

     But for a picking up place it had proved unsatisfactory. Perhaps he
wasn't pushy enough. He didn't think he was that unattractive. In the
event he had only met one person in whom he had been mildly interested but
even that had faded as the evening wore on and they had parted at closing
time deciding they were mutually incompatible - as far as sex was
concerned. 

     Nevertheless Hope sprang eternal.

     But it looked as if it would prove another abortive failure. Two
middle-aged men sat in the comfy chairs round one of the tables and stared
at Alan as he came in. He had seen them before and even stopped to chat to
them. He did so now. They were easy to talk to, had never made a move on
him and he felt comfortable with them. Physically they were very similar
but one had thick grey hair while the other was practically bald.

     He joined them in a spare chair and Baldy went to the bar to buy him
a beer.

     "How's your sex life?" asked Grey-hair. It sounded a light-hearted
enquiry, nothing behind it.

     Alan laughed. "Non-existent," he said. "I'm horny all the time but
can't seem to find anyone I really like."

     The man nodded sympathetically. "You shouldn't find it too
difficult," he said. "Nice-looking lad like you."

     "Perhaps I'm too particular," said Alan.

     Baldy joined them with Alan's beer. He nodded his thanks and took a
drink.

     "Do you live at home?" asked Grey-hair.

     "With my parents. But Dad's always out and Mum, well you know, she
fusses a lot. Thinks I'm still a kid."

     "Mothers are always like that," said Baldy. "Even mine still checks
up on whether I'm eating enough." He patted his stomach which was just the
wrong side of tubby. "As if I needed that."

     "Alan says he's horny," said Grey-hair.

     Alan felt a bit embarrassed but he needn't have bothered. Baldy
laughed. "So was I when I was his age, always," he said. "Still feel the
odd urge even now."

     "Like this morning," said Alan, wanting to get off his chest
something which he hadn't even admitted in the email messages he had sent.
"I found a body of a young kid up on the Common, naked he was, and all I
could think of was his cock, and how big it was."

     Baldy looked astonished. "A body?" he repeated.

     Alan told them about his discovery and the Police. The two men were
interested and asked questions. At last these petered out and a silence
fell. The Club was beginning to fill up.

     "You get off to the bar," said Baldy. "Don't want to miss out on
anything tasty."

     Alan smiled, thanked him for the drink and went to the bar.

     "Hello, Donald," said the barman, youngish, dark-haired, nice smile.

     Alan didn't want to put him down by telling him he had got his name
wrong. "Hi," he said. "Lager, please." He hitched himself onto one of the
stools, adjusted his cock in his jeans.

     "Had a good day?" asked the barman.

     "Horrible," said Alan. "I found the body of a boy up on the Common
this morning." He told him about the discovery and what he thought might
have happened to him. The barman shuddered. "Poor kid," he said.

     Someone else came in through the swing doors at the end of the room.
The two middle-aged men's eyes swivelled to look at whoever it was.

     "He was only young," said Alan. "Couldn't have been much more than
fifteen. Who would do a thing like that to him?"

     "Perhaps the kid led him on," suggested the barman, "then got
frightened, threatened to tell. The man panicked. Strangled him to stop
him talking. Long term in prison for fucking a juvenile." He paused for a
moment then added, "Longer for murder though."

     Someone stood next to Alan at the bar, eyes on him. Alan turned.
Young man, perhaps a couple of years older than he was. Dark hair cut
short, sticking up but not gelled, soft and silky, the sort you want to
stroke or run your fingers through. Straight-looking, pleasant. Wearing
casual clothes, light coloured loose trousers which showed little and a
brown leather jacket over a plain green shirt. He smiled at Alan, a couple
of crooked front teeth which didn't detract, and ordered a low alcohol
beer. The barman looked under the bar then nodded. "I'll have to get you
one," he said. "Won't be a moment." He went round the back.

     "Couldn't help overhearing," said the man, conversational,
matter-of-fact. "Someone strangled?"

     "Young kid," said Alan, "up on the Common." He wouldn't go into
details, he thought - not to a stranger.

     "Haven't seen it on the news," said the man. "Or the local paper," he
added.

     Alan wondered whether the man didn't believe him. "I found him," he
said, immediately breaking his intention.

     The man looked at him. "Shit," he said. "That must've been rough on
you."

     Alan warmed to him. The man's first reactions were about his
feelings, not just the sensational news. He described the scene. He was
getting better at it. The man listened, on his stool, which was positioned
just far enough away so that, if you swung your knees round, you could
touch your neighbour's - intentional design feature.

     "The police wondered if I knew him," said Alan. The man's knees
brushed Alan's thigh and, not expecting it, he instinctively flinched away
but then knew he didn't want to and returned so that the fleshy part of
his thigh was pressed against the knee.

     "Keith," said the man.

     "I didn't know him," said Alan. "I thought he looked a little
familiar but - well he was dead, you know, expressionless."

     "No," said the man, "that's my name, Keith."

     "Oh," said Alan, feeling a little foolish. "Sorry. Alan. I'm Alan."
Keith's knee massaged his thigh gently, side to side. Alan wondered
whether he was expected to put his hand on it. Keith settled the problem
by putting his hand on him. It rested lightly, not moving. Alan felt a
twitch of excitement stir his cock. He allowed his legs to open a little,
an invitation.

     The barman came back with a handful of bottles held by the neck.
"Sorry I was so long," he said. He opened one and then asked, "Do you want
it in a glass?"

     Keith shook his head. He hadn't removed his hand from Alan's leg, in
fact it was gradually travelling upwards towards the bulge at the top.

     With his free hand, he picked up the bottle from the bar and took a
gulp. His other hand was gently massaging Alan's groin, finding and
straightening the length of his prick rigidly outlined so that he could
rub it.

     Alan swallowed, divided between embarrassment and bliss. Did the
barman know what was going on? And if he did, did he care? He wanted this
more than anything but not here. Not with the barman just two feet away
and the middle-aged men staring gimlet-eyed.

     "Have you anywhere to go?" he whispered so that only Keith could
hear.

     "Sure," said Keith. "Finish your drink."

     "You off?" asked the barman, acting surprised and then winked to show
he wasn't really. "Bye, Donald," he called. "Take care."

     "Donald?" asked Keith as they went out.

     "He always gets it wrong," said Alan.

The two middled-aged men looked after them as they went out.

"The young one's tasty, eh Harry?" said Baldy.

"Fucking queers," said Grey-Hair, and laughed.

     It was only just after seven and still light. They walked through the
emptying streets, down the High Street, turning left into Cadogan Square.
Regency houses built with restrained simplicity and imitation classical
Greek pediments, mouldings and pillars. Keith's flat was at the top of one
such, now divided so that the once-elegant rooms were chopped up into odd
shapes. His was better than most. It had been the attics and though the
ceilings sloped making headroom perilous, the dormer windows let in good
light. They overlooked, at the front, the Square and, at the back, three
floors down, a jungle of untended weeds that someone might optimistically
call a garden.

     The room immediately inside the door had a sofa and an easy chair, a
pine table under the window, a CD player and a TV set with video. Book
shelves held paperbacks and some cassettes. A cabinet with drawers against
the wall had some bottles and glasses standing on top. A door in one
corner led off to a tiny kitchen, another one was shut, presumably to the
bedroom. There were rugs on the floor and some pictures, framed views of
sea coasts, on the walls.

     Keith took off his jacket. Alan,  unexpectedly uneasy, stood
uncertain what to do next.

     "Do you want a coffee?"

     He didn't but the time taken in preparation would give him the
opportunity to settle.

     "Yes, please."

     Keith switched on the telly and went into the kitchen. "Sit down," he
said through the doorway. "Make yourself comfortable."

     Alan considered the easy chair, then chose the sofa. The TV set
picture showed the news. It wasn't particularly interesting and Alan
picked up a paperback which was lying open, face down on the table behind.
It was an American crime story by someone Alan had never heard of. There
was a picture of a man in a broad-brimmed hat on the cover.

     Suddenly Alan's attention was caught by the news reader. "A boy's
body has been found on Feltenham Common this morning. Police are looking
for a man aged between . . . " The TV set suddenly darkened, the picture
fading. Keith was standing there, the remote control on one hand, two mugs
of coffee in the other.

     "What did you do that for?" asked Alan. "That's the murder I was
telling you about."

     "Let the cops worry about it. It's their job."

     "But there's a killer out there . . . "

     "But you're here, with me now, you're perfectly safe..." Keith joined
Alan on the sofa, just a handspan between them, putting the coffee on the
table behind.

     "Hungry?" Keith asked.

     "No thanks," said Alan thinking, almost saying, Come on. Let's get
this thing started.

     Keith moved closer so that their thighs were touching and then leaned
over and kissed him on the mouth, lips closed, for a moment the sort of
kiss an aunt might give. Then, when Alan responded, he let the lips open
and Keith's tongue pressed against his own lips so that he opened up to
the peaceful invasion.

     Gently Keith pulled up his T-shirt and ran his hands over his chest
and then down to his stomach. Alan lay back, happy to be caressed. The
hands felt under the waist band of his jeans and then the elastic of his
underpants, delving into the pubic hair. Alan wanted him to go further, to
touch him, hold him. He opened the stud and the zipper slid down revealing
his white underpants swelling with the ridge of his erection. Keith
lowered his face to the bulge taking it sideways and nibbling it with his
teeth, then licking it through the material. He could smell his maleness
through the soft cotton.

     Alan spread his legs wide, throwing his head back. Keith pulled down
the waistband so that the cock was revealed, the skin soft and sensitive
covering the rigid core. He cupped the ballsack in his palm and took the
shaft into his mouth sliding down over the head, the foreskin peeling
back. His mouth was moist, warm, wildly irresistible.

     Alan's eyes were closed but his hands were fumbling at Keith's shirt,
then lower at his belt and zipper. The clothes were getting in the way.
"Let's take them off," he said, trying to get up but Keith pushed him
back.

     "Let me do it," he said.

     He  took off Alan's T-shirt pulling it over his head, Alan lifting
his arms, revealing the fair hair in his armpits. Then, kneeling at his
feet, Keith undid his trainers, taking them off and then his socks, his
tongue cat-licking the soles and between the toes so that Alan twisted and
turned with the sensation which was both almost unbearable and yet at the
same time too exciting to deny.  At long last he stripped off his jeans
and underpants.

     Then he stood up and took off his own clothes. Alan, lying on the
sofa, suddenly saw himself as the boy on the Common. He was in the same
position, hands behind his head, legs bent, knees up and open, cock
standing up over his stomach. For a moment he felt a qualm of unease but
then Keith's naked body was on top of him and the feel of skin against
skin, cocks together, hard flesh against hard flesh was like an electric
charge, driving out every other feeling. He pushed his body upwards
holding Keith and pulling him down on top of him. They held each other,
their tongues and hands exploring each others' bodies.

     Keith, on top, slowly inched down Alan's body, kissing and licking.
He paused and sucked at the nipples, then went down and put his tongue in
Alan's navel. Alan giggled and wriggled so Keith went even lower so that
he could feel the fuzz of pubic hair around that sprouting cock.

     "Turn round," said Alan's voice, high with arousal, "so I can do the
same to you.  Soon both their faces were buried in each other's groins.
Keith ran his tongue up and down the erect shaft and then licked the firm
young balls, taking each one into his mouth and gently mouthing them one
at a time.  Then he moved back and enclosed the prick as far as he could
into his mouth.  He could feel his own erection being taken into Alan's
warm mouth.

     He put one arm over Alan's legs and gently explored his arse.  He
found the puckered hole and inserted his finger.  He heard Alan gasp and
then felt him doing the same. He pushed harder, at the same time sucking
and wanking with his free hand.

     Alan gasped, "I'm coming," and then clamped his mouth down again.

     At the same time there was a warm, salty spurt into Alan's mouth but
all he felt was his whole being centred in his own groin as a source of
pleasure, exploding and pulsing again and again. He knew ecstasy.

     Afterwards they had to heat up the coffee in the microwave. Then
Keith offered him some cheese on toast. Alan tried to help but the kitchen
was too small and they got in each other's way. They laughed, enjoying the
touch of each other and Keith told him to go back to find some knives and
forks from the cabinet drawer.

     Alan opened the top one but could not see any cutlery. There was a
piece of folded check material; it could have been a tablecloth and some
mats. He felt underneath and found something metallic, but made of various
separate bits. Curious he pulled it out. It was a pair of handcuffs. They
looked professional. Once in, you would be held, he thought. He wondered
whether Keith was into bondage. He hoped not. The thought of being bound
and helpless while someone else did things to you made him feel rather
strange. Quickly he pushed the cuffs back under the cloth.

     "Where are the knives and forks?" he asked.

     "Second drawer down," said Keith from the kitchen.

     "Can I ring my parents?" he asked. "They'll be expecting me home."

     "Sure," said Keith. "Tell them you're staying overnight with a friend
- that is, if you want to."

     They had a bottle of wine with the food. The toast was crisp and warm
and the cheese topping savoury and rich, with a spicy sauce.

     "That was my first time," said Alan after he had drunk a couple of
glasses. "First time doing that at any rate."

     Keith looked at him as if he doubted whether he was telling the
truth.

     "I've been wanked off in the Park," he said, "but never . . . " he
made a gesture which included the sofa, the flat, Keith, everything they
had done.

     "How old are you, Alan?"

     "Seventeen."

     "Christ," said Keith. For a moment he looked put out. "Jail bait. You
were at the Olympia. I assumed you were over eighteen."

     "No one checked," said Alan. "I'm sorry," though why he was
apologising for being the age he was, he didn't know. "I'll be eighteen in
February." He paused. "I'd hoped you'd enjoyed it." He looked for a moment
as if he was about to cry, like a young trusting animal who had been
offered food and then kicked away.

     Keith put his arms round him and kissed him gently, stroking his
hair.

     They went to bed early.

Wednesday morning

In the morning, feeling slightly light-headed from lack of sleep and too
much sex, they had breakfast. Keith was off to work. When Alan had asked
what he did, he just said, Civil Servant, and did not go into details.
They arranged to meet later that day after Alan's stint in the record shop
was over. Keith kissed him tenderly on the lips before they went out of
the door. They parted at the end of the road and Alan caught a bus.
Sitting by himself and looking out as the bus climbed the steep hill on
its way to Elmcombe, he felt an exhilarated urge to sing aloud.

     When he got home there was a note from his father saying that the
police had phoned. They wanted to see him and would call round at 11.00 am
and what the hell was it all about?

     As he got in, the phone rang. His mother's voice, worried, snatching
a brief period from work at the check-out of the Supermarket.

     Alan reassured her. No, he had done nothing wrong. All he had done
was discover a body on the Common. Yes, it had been a shock but he was now
OK. No, he didn't need her to come home while the police interviewed him.
Really. No, really.

     He had a quick shower though he would have liked the smell of Keith
and their love-making to have remained on him as long as possible. He was
just putting on some clean clothes when a car drew up outside the house
and Alan, catching sight of them through his bedroom window, saw it was
the family car and contained both his father and his mother. "Shit, shit,
shit," he said. He reminded himself that it was only a few questions about
the boy he had found to see if he could remember anything that he hadn't
told the police yesterday, so why did he feel so worried? Almost
immediately another car drew in behind and a man and a woman got out. They
said a few words to his parents and then the four of them came up the path
to the front door. 

     "Detective Inspector Newman," said the man introducing himself, "and
this is Detective Sergeant Petra Wilks."

     "We didn't know about any of this," said his mother, the words coming
fast. "We were out at work when Alan came home yesterday, and then he was
at the shop in Feltenham in the afternoon and then, of course he stayed
out overnight." She always chattered when she was nervous or bothered. "Of
course he phoned to tell us so that we didn't worry."

     "Stayed overnight, did you, Alan?" said Inspector Newman. Was there
some significance in the question?

     "He's very good like that," said his mother. "Letting us know."

     "With a friend," said Alan, though it didn't seem to be any of their
business.

     Newman seemed to dismiss the subject. "Now the boy you found
yesterday. Distressing, wasn't it? You didn't touch him?"

     "No," said Alan.

     "But you noticed the bruises?"

     "Around the neck," said Alan.

     "And . . . ?"

     "I think there were some on his wrists."

     "Very observant." Alan wondered if he was being sarcastic. "The boy
had obviously been restrained - perhaps with handcuffs."

     "That's horrible," said Alan's mother.

     "And you told Constable Carey that you didn't know him?"

     "That's right."

     "Now we have been able to identify the boy. His parents reported him
missing when he didn't come home the night before last. They identified
him yesterday afternoon. Name of Bobby Farmer." He peered closely at Alan
when he said the name as if looking for a sign of recognition.

     Alan looked blank.

     "You don't recognise the name?" asked Newman.

     "Should I?"

     "You both went to the same school. He would have been in the Year
below yours."

     "We didn't have much to do with the younger kids."

     "He also was in the School production of the musical, 'Guys and
Dolls'. I understand you were in it too."

     "It was very good," said his mother. "Alan played Lieutenant
Brannigan. I think he really wanted to be a 'doll'." She laughed and then
looked a little embarrassed as if she were not sure whether she had said
something ridiculous.

     His father put his hand on his wife's arm as if to stop her from
chattering in such a foolish way.

     "And Bobby was one of the gamblers, the crap-shooters," said Newman.
He again looked at Alan.

     "Don't remember him," said Alan. "But there were over eighty people
in the cast."

     "Then he was a member of a Club in Feltenham. We checked the
membership. Shouldn't have been, of course. The minimum age is eighteen but
they are a bit lax, it seems. We are looking into that. The Olympia. A Club
which you also joined." He paused. "I understand it is a gay club."  He
paused again and added, as if the adjective might not have been entirely
understood. "A club for homosexuals." It was a cruel announcement - and
made cruelly. Of course Newman was not aware of how much Mr and Mrs Forrest
knew about their son's sexual orientation but the sudden draining of blood
from Alan's face leaving him white and gaunt, the cheek bones standing out,
left no doubt that his announcement had struck home.

     Even Sergeant Wilks looked a little embarrassed.

     All this time Alan's father had remained quiet. Into the silence
which succeeded the Inspector's remarks, he now started and took a big
intake of air, audibly.

     The Inspector waited.

     Alan put his head in his hands.

     His mother abruptly started chattering again. "They shouldn't let
young boys break the rules. It's like underage drinking and shopkeepers
selling cigarettes to kids. I blame the parents." She seemed to ignore
that fact that her own son had also broken the rule by joining the Club.
"If only they took more care . . . "

     His father got up from the chair, wearily, aged ten years in as many
seconds. "Are you accusing my son of anything, Inspector?" he asked
cutting across his wife's babble.

     "No," said Newman after the briefest of pauses.

     "Then if you have no further questions . . . " He left the sentence
unfinished though the inference was obvious.

     After the police had left, no one quite knew what to say but in any
case all three had to get to work - Alan had missed his usual 11.30 bus -
so they climbed into the car and Mr Forrest gave him a lift into Feltenham.
They all, even Mrs Forrest, felt that they needed time to come to terms
with the discovery that had so unexpectedly been forced upon them.

     "We'll talk this evening," whispered his mother as they dropped Alan
outside the shop. "Don't worry. It'll be all right."

     His father looked grim as he drove off.

     A day which had started so wonderfully, had degenerated steadily but
there was worse to come. Towards five o'clock, when Alan was thinking it
wouldn't be long before he would be seeing Keith again, there was a
private phone call from him. He sounded remote and inaccessible - very
different from the affectionate person who had kissed him goodbye that
morning.

     "I'm sorry, Alan," he said. "Something's come up. I can't see you
tonight. Look. I must rush. I'll be in touch."

     To Alan his cold, unemotional tone made it sound as if he'd been
dumped. He had never felt more miserable in his life.

Wednesday evening

The chat with his parents was perhaps not quite as dreadful as he had
expected. It ran a close second though. The three of them sat
uncomfortably in the living room, not looking at each other.

     "So you think you're homosexual," his Dad said.

     "I know I'm gay, Dad."

     "Just because you haven't found a steady girl-friend yet?"

     "Just because guys attract me," said Alan. "Look, Dad, if I was
straight, I could have been having sex perfectly legally for nearly two
years. I could have got married. Next February, under five months I'll be
eighteen and then the law says it'll be OK for me to have sex with another
man."

     He could see this was hurting his father but it could not be helped.

     "I did not ask to be gay," he went on. "No more than you asked to be
straight. It just happened and we'll have to make the best of it. I hoped,
when you found out about me, you'd help me, be supportive."

     His father looked grey and drawn and his mother seemed to be about to
burst into tears. She reached out to Alan and took his hand.

     "We don't understand," she said, "but we'll do anything to try and
help." She paused and then continued as if the subject had been forgotten.
"I've got a lovely bit of steak for you and your dad's dinner. Be ready in
an hour. I got to put my feet up for five minutes. What are you wearing?
Looks like black fishnet, that T-shirt, you got mascara in your eyes. Kids
today, well I really don't know!"

     She started to make a pot of tea, filling the kettle, rattling the
lid.

     "You know you can see your nipples through that thing. What will
people think? And those jeans! Well, you can see everything!"

     "Its the fashion, mum. All the boys wear it."

     His Dad sniffed disapprovingly and turned on the TV.

     "Kiss, kiss?" she said. Reluctantly, he kissed her a peck on the
cheek. "How you got your bottom in those jeans, I'll never know."

     Before he went to bed, Alan tried Keith's number but there was no
answer, the tone just ringing on and on into a presumably empty flat.

     Feeling sad and lonely, Alan logged onto the Net. There were various
replies to his email of the morning most of the 'Wow! What did you feel
then?' kind but by this time he had had more human reactions to his news
and was much more able to come to terms with the experience. It was Keith
that he wanted, Keith that he wanted to talk about, Keith, Keith, Keith.
He didn't know what to do next. Should he keep on ringing, play hard to
get, commit suicide?

     The words 'Instant Message from Harry' suddenly flashed up on the
screen.

     Alan clicked on the response button and typed:

     __You there, Harry? 

     There was a brief pause and then more words came onto the screen.

     --What's up, Alan? Bit early for you to be on line :)

     __Found a body :(

     --Lucky for some:) Wish I had your body here with me now:)

     __No, its a murder, a naked youth, strangled, on the Common.

     --Got your email. You told me.

     __But he was naked, and bloody, it was horrible:<

     --Naked, eh,? How old?

     __My age . . .  Bit younger.         

     --Oh I see. 

     __Who could have done it?

     -- Send for Sherlock Holmes:) No seriously, what did he look like?

     __Bit like me, wore a T-shirt or what was left of it, nothing else.

     -- So not tied up, then?

     __Well there was the marks of handcuffs, and . . bruises . . and .   

     --and?

     __I don't want to talk about it.

     -- It's turned you on hasn't it? come on, you can tell me, you've
told me bigger secrets before. His penis was hard, from rigor mortis? It
turned you on didn't it? You want to wank off don't you, you wish you were
that boy, handcuffed, and beaten, it turns you on doesn't it? Don't be
afraid to tell me, Alan, I'm your friend, after all . . .

     __I gotta go. I heard me mum come in

     --ok, keep you pecker up. kiss kiss?

     __kiss, kiss. seeya

     --goodbye, sweetie...

     Alan logged off, idly wondering how Harry knew about the erect prick,
then dismissing it as unimportant. He took his clothes off and climbed
into bed and lay there thinking of Keith.

     He rolled over in his bed, ran a finger down the cleft between his
buttocks, put the finger in himself, weeks of practice, still felt a
little sore, but somehow tingly. That's what it would be like to have a
man inside. Can a cock get as hard as finger? How would it get in if it
was soft? Keith was so hard as he remembered, when he sucked his cheeks
around it earlier last night, almost being strangled as the big prick
nearly made him gag. And all the Time, Keith was looking at him. There'
was no shyness, no embarrassment, and he felt he'd done a good job, in
making Keith come. 

     He couldn't sleep.

     He went back to the computer.

     Harry-you awake? There was no answer; he must have logged off, might
have gone out, though he usually stayed up sometimes till after 3am. Alan
wanted so much to tell Harry, what had happened with Keith, and what it
was really like.

     Alan slipped back into bed, the sheet cast aside, holding his hand in
a shape, that he pretended was Keith's mouth, his other hand rubbing. He
came, and his hand was filled. He rolled over got the Kleenex, and wiped
himself down, and got rid of the potential, well some of the potential
damning stain. Mum still insisted on making the bed every day. 

     He fell asleep, Keith on top of him, but weightlessly, kissing Alan
everywhere, then suddenly there were handcuffs, and Alan couldn't
understand, not even in a dream. He woke up to the dawn's early bleakness.
Does a dream count? Was that our second date, he wondered as he remembered
more of the dream.

 Thursday morning

Alan was awake at five thirty and heard the six o'clock early news summary
on his bedside radio. The body of another boy had been discovered on the
race course at Feltenham. There were few details but what there were made
the similarity with Alan's discovery frighteningly obvious. The boy was a
young teenager. He had been strangled. His body was naked. It had been
found on open ground.

     Alan couldn't sleep after this. He got up slipping on his Y fronts,
jeans and a thick pullover. Even though it was scarcely light, he took
Fingal out into the cold, grey dawn with the dew thick on the grass. The
dog, happy to be out at this unaccustomed hour, raced in demented circles
round the field and Alan walked slowly after him, his thoughts on Keith.

     He couldn't understand what had gone wrong between them. Their
leave-taking yesterday morning had been so warm, so tender, so loving. And
then the brush off. Could it have been the age thing? Alan knew he was
breaking the law by having sex with Keith, knew also that it would be
Keith who would bear the brunt of the punishment if their relationship
were ever discovered. Could it be that he was afraid of this, afraid even
that his sexual orientation be found out. Perhaps it was to do with his
job. Civil Servant, he had said. What did that mean? Anyone from dustman
to teacher. Certainly a teacher might lose his job if it was found out
that he was gay, at least if it were shown that he was carrying on a
relationship with an under-age boy. It was so unfair, thought Alan.
Straight guys could have sex with their chosen partners from sixteen.

     Keith had been very reticent about what he did for a living which was
perhaps not surprising. After all he hadn't known Alan for any length of
time. But there was something mysterious about Keith. Alan suddenly
remembered the pair of handcuffs he had found in the drawer. If he ever
got back again with Keith, he hoped that he wasn't into the bondage scene.
SM was something that certainly did not turn Alan on - not in the
slightest. It might be fine for some but the thought of being shackled
with handcuffs - Handcuffs! The thought suddenly triggered off something
in the back of his mind.

     Where had he heard that mentioned recently?

     Suddenly he remembered. Fragments of conversation flashed into his
mind.

     "But you noticed the bruises?"

     "Around the neck."

     "And . . . ?"

     "I think there were some on his wrists."

     "Very observant. He had obviously been restrained - perhaps with
handcuffs."

     Christ! What was he thinking? That Keith was . . . His mind refused
to even acknowledge the awful possibility.

Thursday evening

After work that evening, a long afternoon during which Keith had not
phoned, Alan had no wish to go straight home. Nor did he really want to go
to the Olympia. Keith might be there and if he did not want to get in
touch with him, Alan did not want him to think he was chasing.

     It was a warm evening, had been a sunny day - St. Luke's little
summer, they called it, when a pleasant period occurred at the end of
autumn. The leaves on the trees were russet brown and some had already
started falling creating little accumulations in the gutters for small
boys to kick around on their way home from school. In a way Alan wished he
was still at school when life was relatively uncomplicated.

     He wandered round the streets for a while, thought about going into a
Pub, but didn't want the embarrassment of possibly being refused service
for being underage. He passed The Crown where his father often went for a
half after work. Perhaps he could get him to buy a drink and then give him
a lift home.

     It was one of those few pubs in town which hadn't - yet - been tarted
up with chrome or 'themed' so that men coming straight from work could
have a drink without feeling they were in some poncy boudoir. Car
mechanics, still in their oily overalls, labourers, grimed with brick
dust, even a few farmers with honest clay on their boots, sat around in
the public bar - there was no other, and drank - and complained about -
their pints of bitter.

     As Alan went in, a few looked up and one gave a whistle, suggestive,
perhaps approving.

     Alan felt himself blushing.

     His dad was sitting at the bar, beer froth on his upper lip. One of
his mates said, loudly, "Handsome daughter you got there, Bert." Everyone
laughed, not unpleasantly but it disgusted Alan and obviously embarrassed
his dad, who frowned. Alan turned and went out, chased by more laughing.

     His dad didn't understand - didn't even try to understand, well fuck
him then. Keith had chucked him so fuck him too. Alan knew what what he
was going to do.

     The sun was going down, sinking beneath a bank of clouds and he found
himself outside the gates of Clarence Park. A few shadows of figures
lurked amongst the trees inside. To the casual observer, they might have
been the last of the daytime loiterers, catching the final few moments of
light but Alan knew better. These were an entirely different species, and
one to which Alan was both drawn and repelled. He knew that to wander
amongst them would lead to tentative gropes in the anonymous darkness and
then the unidentified, exciting, frightening sex.

     He hesitated indecisively while the sun sank even lower, disappeared.
Then he went in, walking up the curved gravel path which still lured the
way - a pale snake in front of him - towards the trees. Once there,
though, it was darker than ever. A figure approached him but he could
barely make out the features, could have been young or old, sixteen or
sixty. A hand brushed the upper part of his leg and was withdrawn. Alan
paused. The hand returned, lay flat against his thigh, moved round to the
fork, cupped his groin. Even this close he could scarcely make out the
features but it did not matter. His penis responded. The man's head was
looking over Alan's shoulder, keeping a watch, his fingers fumbling for
the zip, finding, pulling down, entering, reaching, holding. A warm hand
clutching his prick.

     Alan was dimly aware of other people around, outside the trees, an
uneasy scuffle nearer at hand. The man without warning dropped his cock.

     "Fuck!" he said. "Fucking cops!"

     He shot off to the left and, dimly, out of the corner of his eye,
Alan saw two figures step out from behind a tree and grab him by the arms.
There were people behind him, some running away, others running after. The
only clear area seemed to be ahead, further into the Park. Was there an
exit that way? Alan could not remember. He could not even think.

     He set off at a run, by instinct tucking his cock back in his jeans
and zipping up, pulling the fastener away from his body so that he did not
catch himself. Someone behind him shouted but he did not stop.

     He crashed through the shrubs, twigs catching at his clothes. He
could hear footsteps behind him. A torch flashed, the beam aiming wild,
missing him. Then he tripped over something, someone. It was a figure
lying on the ground. Alan fell, the breath knocked out of him so that he
could not make a sound. For a second he had the terrifying feeling that he
had tripped over another dead body but then it squirmed and lay still
again, holding Alan so that he could not move.

     Whoever was chasing, blundered on, the beam lighting up the branches
of the tree above his head. The footsteps crashed away, past and away from
him.

     A voice whispered in his ear. "Quiet, Donald." 

     Alan realised it must be the barman from the Olympia. No one else
called him Donald. He marvelled that he could recognise him in that gloom
but there was no time to ponder on that now.

     "When he can't find us, he'll come back," whispered the barman. "We
can get over the railings just over there."

     They got up and, as quietly and quickly as they could, made their way
to where an orange sodium street light lit up the pavement outside.

     "Can you climb over?" asked the barman. "Watch out, there're spikes
on the top."

     They clambered up, their trainers gaining some purchase against the
metal. The barman was over and jumped down. Alan swung his leg over the
top and, at that moment, there was a shout from inside the Park. Startled,
he slipped, the metal spike tearing the material of his jeans and piercing
the flesh inside his thigh. Panic dulled the pain and he flung himself
over to fall in a heap on the pavement. The barman was still waiting. He
pulled Alan to his feet and they set off, Alan limping, a warm wetness
running down his leg.

     The man on the other side of the railing was climbing up. The light
from the street lit up his face, a young face with a blond moustache.

     "We'll split up," suggested the barman. "He can't chase both of us.
You go that way." He pointed down the road which led into town and raced
off in the other direction.

     Alan stumbled off. He was in Carrington Street, he recognised.
Various roads led off on either side. From behind him he heard footsteps.
The man had obviously decided to follow him. He felt the ache in his leg.
When he put his hand down to touch it, he felt the wetness. He reached the
corner and turned left, Percy Street. Left again, he suddenly realised and
he would be in Cadogan Square, where Keith lived.

     He forced his legs onward, the soles of his trainers slapping against
the pavement, passing in and out of the pools of orange sodium lights from
the street lamps. A few people were around but they ignored him. He turned
the corner. Now three houses down, climb the steps. The front door was
shut, of course and precious seconds were lost while he tried to locate
Keith's name under the bell pushes. Unexpectedly he realised he didn't
know Keith's surname. But he did live in the top floor flat so in
desperation he tried the bell at the top.

     Perhaps five seconds passed. It felt like five hours. He tried to
huddle into the shadow of the porch but anyone passing would have seen
him.

     Then a crackling voice from the intercom.

     "Hello."

     "Keith. It's Alan. Can I come in?"

     There was a pause. Suppose he wouldn't let him in. Peering round the
column which held up the pediment over the door, Alan saw the man who had
pursued him from the Park, come round the corner out of Percy Street at a
run. In a moment he would see him - and he was cornered. He pressed
himself back against the door.

     Then there was a buzzing sound and he felt the door give behind him.
He fell in and slammed the door shut.

     Keith was waiting at the top of the stairs as Alan limped up, almost
exhausted. He smiled when he saw Alan but immediately looked concerned
when he saw the state he was in. Pale and trembling, out of breath,
clothes torn and still snagged with pieces of twig, jeans blooded. 
Terrified, the cheek bones standing out whitely from his face.

     "What's the matter?" he asked. "What's happened?"

     Without waiting for an answer he pulled him into the flat. Almost
immediately he noticed the blood which had run down the inside of Alan's
leg and soaked his jeans.

     "God," he said. "You're hurt. What happened?"

     "I was in the Park," said Alan. "The Police raided it and chased me.
I caught my leg on the railings as I was climbing out."

     "The Police!" Keith's voice sounded alarmed. "Did they follow you
here?"

     "One chased me down Percy Street, but I think I got in before he saw
me."

     As if to prove him wrong, the door bell suddenly rang, startling them
both.

     "Oh Christ," said Alan. "It's him. What can I do?"

     Keith crossed to the intercom phone and lifted the receiver.

     "Hello," he said. Alan could not hear what the person outside was
saying only Keith's side of the conversation but he sensed a lowering of
tension. "Yes, that's right . . .

     No. No one's been here. . . . Of course I'd know. . . . OK. No
problem. Goodnight." He put down the receiver.

     Turning to Alan. "Now we'd better see to your leg."

     He unzipped Alan's jeans and gently eased them down over his hips.
His action was one purely of concern and though in other circumstances
would have been arousing, in these was not. The wound in the fleshy part
of the inside of his thigh had stopped bleeding. It looked raw and
painful. Keith seemed to be looking at it professionally and for a moment
Alan wondered whether he was a doctor.

     "It needs cleaning. I'll go and get some antiseptic."

     He went into the bathroom and while he was away,  Alan picked up the
paperback which was still lying on the table where it had been two nights
earlier. Idly he glanced through the opening chapter but it was a crime
story - not the sort of book that appealed to him and he was about to put
it down when he saw some writing on the inside front cover.

     'Keith,' he read, 'with all my love, Robert.'

     So Keith had a lover. But there was no date, no way of knowing
whether 'Robert' was 'ex', current - or perhaps even, happy thought, just
a relative. Alan's own aunt always sent him birthday cards lavishly signed
with 'all her love'. He put the book back.

     "This will sting," said Keith coming back with a bottle of lethal
looking liquid and a pack of cotton wool.

     It did. 

     Alan yelped at the first touch.

     Keith kissed him on the lips and Alan decided that he could put up
with the pain. The touch of his fingers was gentle and the liquid cooling
after the first sting. Deliberately or not every so often the back of
Keith's hand brushed against the bulge in Alan's underpants.

     "What were you doing in the Park?" asked Keith, his tone teasing.
Then more serious. "It's a dangerous place, especially now."

     Alan blushed. Surely the answer was obvious. "I - er . . . "

     "Couldn't you wait until I phoned?"

     "I didn't think you were going to," said Alan. "I didn't know the
Police would make a raid like that."

     "They were after information, I should think. Didn't you see the
flier they delivered?"

     Alan hadn't, wasn't even sure what a 'flier' was.

     "The handbill," said Keith. He picked up a piece of paper from the
table behind them and handed it to Alan. There was a photograph of a boy,
a laughing, happy boy with bright shining eyes. He was wearing a T-shirt
with 'I Love Life' stencilled across the chest.

     Alan recognised the face immediately in spite of the fact that the
last time he had seen it, it had been dead, expressionless and empty. He
didn't need to read the name printed underneath. Robert (Bobby) Farmer.
'Wanted,' he read, 'any Information about the activities and whereabouts
of this boy on Monday 16th September between midday and 10.00 pm. Please
contact Feltenham Police Station. All information treated in the strictest
confidence.'

     Seeing the cheerful. smiling face reminded Alan too that he did know
him from the school production of 'Guys and Dolls'. He remembered his
irrepressibly good humour, the fact that he couldn't keep still or be
serious. He was unexpectedly sad. Poor old Robert, he thought. Suddenly
his brain made a connection. Robert! The inscription in the paperback.
'Keith, with all my love, Robert'. A coincidence must be. Handcuffs!
Robert! For a second he felt dizzy, his brain whirling. He tried to
concentrate.

     "Did you ever see him at the Club?" he asked and looked Keith
straight in the eyes.

     "No," said Keith and looked straight back at him.

     Alan wanted to believe him. He loved him; he had to believe him.

     Keith covered the gash in his leg, looking less livid now that it had
been washed and cleaned, with a dressing and put on a bandage winding it
round and round his thigh. Again the back of his hand brushed against
Alan's cock through the soft material of his pants. The bulge grew.

     Keith saw it and laughed. "Nothing stops you," he said.

     "Can I stay tonight?" asked Alan.

     Keith leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. "I have to go out
later," he said. "I'm - working."

     It sounded a lame, implausible excuse. What sort of job did Keith
have which demanded such odd hours? He was about to ask. What are you? A
night watchman? But the lips came over again and sealed his mouth,
stopping the questions. Stayed there. While the fingers outlined a
delicate pattern down his back, sides, under his shirt on the ribbed
tracery of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. Pulling down his
pants, revealing, holding down there, the centre of his being.

     Could these fingers, so tender, so delicate, have grappled round the
neck of two other boys? Squeezed so that the breath puffed, panted,
gasped, the air stopped in the bruised gullet. Sight whirling, darkening,
panic, screaming soundlessly. Only the muffled grunting of a dying boy.

     The desire in his loins drove out the thoughts. He wanted the
pressure of the other body on his closer, closer, inside him. He raised
his legs, opening himself to the other's probing fingers, along the path
which leads from the base of the ballsack to the hole. And all the time
their tongues twining together. One finger in. He could feel it exploring
the soft interior, finding something, some part of him that had never been
touched before but which sent waves of pleasure through his whole body. He
tried to cry out but the mouth on top of him stopped the sound and he did
not want to lose it.

     But he had to. "I want you in me," he said.

     "Are you sure?" asked Keith.

     Waves of pleasure.

     "Yes. Yes." 

     He sighed as the finger was withdrawn, the warmth of the body
removed.

     "What are you doing?" he asked.

     "Condom."

     "Don't bother with one."

     Keith didn't answer but reached behind to a drawer in the table for
the little safety package.

     Alan felt his legs lifted, the coldness of a lubricant inserted on a
finger, another finger entered and both moving, enlarging the hole. He
opened his legs and then raised his knees so that the access could be
easier and the fingers probed deeper then withdrawn. Now Keith's cock,
suitably protected, had found the cleft and Alan raised himself up even
further, Keith's body between his legs, his cock piercing the sphincter,
sliding slickly in, lubricated.

     Alan pushed against him and felt Keith's tense body straining, the
passion building up and then the orgasm pulse and pulse inside him. He
arched himself upwards, lungs bursting, body rigid, his cock spurting
without being touched, at last pulling his mouth away to gasp the moans of
satisfied desire. Keith shuddered and collapsed onto him murmuring his
name again and again. He held him tightly as he finished, their bodies
pressed together.

     At last "Keith," he said, "I've never . . . "

     "I know," said Keith. "Done that before!"

     They held each other until eventually Keith sat up. "I've got to eat
and go out." He sounded reluctant but definite.

     "How can you think of food at a time like this?" asked Alan. He felt
young and foolish and silly. And very happy.

     "I've got to eat," repeated Keith. "It'll have to last all night.
You'll have something too." He got up and went into the kitchen. Alan
could hear him washing his hands, getting a saucepan, opening a tin.
"Fancy some soup?" He appeared briefly at the doorway and threw Alan a
towel and a pair of his own jeans to replace the ripped pair.

     "I fancy YOU," said Alan, lying back.

     "Insatiable," said Keith, smiling down at him. "Stop lying there like
the Queen of Sheba. Make yourself useful. Get out some spoons. It'll only
be soup and some bread and cheese. There's a beer if you want."

     Alan sat up, wiped himself dry on the towel and opened the top drawer
of the cabinet. As he did so he remembered that the cutlery was in the
next one down but, out of curiosity, he felt under the cloth for the
handcuffs. They were not there. Alan wondered what had happened to them.

     After they had eaten Keith walked with Alan through the streets to
the bus station. His leg pained him but it wasn't too bad. There was a bus
for Elmcombe at 8.00 pm. If he missed that one, there wasn't another until
11.15 but they were there in plenty of time. The bus was waiting in the
station, the driver still hadn't arrived.

     "I'll see you tomorrow," said Keith and laid his hand gently on
Alan's shoulder. It wasn't as good as a kiss but it would have to do - out
here, out in the open with anyone looking.

     Alan sat inside the bus on the hard slippery imitation-leather seat
watching Keith's retreating figure through the window. He wondered where
he was off to. Suddenly he made up his mind. He had to find out. So, he
would be stuck in Feltenham for the next three hours but that couldn't be
helped. Some of the passengers gave him a curious look as he got up and
climbed stiffly down the three steps to the street.

     There were few people around and he could still see Keith, walking
tall and slim, perhaps a hundred yards ahead, his back alternately lit up
and then plunged unto darkness by the street lights. He turned the corner
by the BurgerBar and disappeared from view into the High Street. Alan
increased his speed, limping, and reached the turning. Luckily he paused
and peered round before rushing in pursuit for Keith had stopped and was
talking to a man not five yards away. They seemed in earnest conversation.
A twinge of unexpected jealousy stabbed through Alan. Who was this man? He
knew so little about Keith, his friends, his 'real' life - nothing really.
From his vantage point Alan could make out the other man's features.
Young, with a moustache. He loathed him on sight.

     Keith laughed, raised his hand as if to say goodbye and went off
again. The other man came towards Alan. As he reached him he gave him a
searching look, almost as if he recognised him. With a shock Alan realised
it was one of the two Police Constables who had come out to the Common
when he had found the body. Carey or Dunne, he couldn't remember which,
the one with the moustache anyway. He did not say anything though and
continued past Alan who limped on after Keith, keeping in the shelter of
the buildings, a Bank, the Post Office, Police Station, shops, the elegant
facade of the Town Hall and Council Buildings.

     The High Street eventually went on to where the Olympia Club was.
Could Keith be going to the Club? But no. He had forgotten that the High
Street crossed Clarence Street and it was into this that Keith turned -
and Clarence Street passed the entrance to Clarence Park. Alan could not
believe it. Surely Keith could not be going to the Park, not after the
raid that the Police had carried out so recently. He must be going
somewhere else but he saw Keith stop at the entrance and then, without a
glance either to right or left, go straight in.

     A breeze sprang up blowing the leaves around in the gutters. They
whispered Alan's disbelief. 'He's gone to pick someone up.' The bastard!
Alan stood in the almost darkness between the light cast by two lamps. He
didn't know whether to turn his back and march off, never to see the
cheater again. Something, though, held him there. There didn't seem to be
the slightest doubt what Keith was doing but perhaps he'd better make
sure. 

     Yes. Keith, the fucking shit, was sitting on a bench looking as if he
owned the Park, legs outstretched, pelvis forward - an open invitation. He
hadn't gone into the trees yet - just waiting for someone to approach! As
Alan waited a young man passed giving him an intense look as he went by
but when Alan didn't respond, he carried on into the Park. Alan watched
him as he slowed down by the bench Keith was sitting on. Then he went on
up that winding path to the cover of the trees, and Keith got up and
followed him.

     Angry now, Alan followed them though they had disappeared long before
he too entered the darkness. Deeper shadows surrounded him, ones that
moved, felt, stimulated. A hand groped, a groin pressed into his, a voice
whispered into his ear.

     "Do you want to go somewhere more private? I've got a car," said the
voice.

     Who it was Alan had no idea but caution was cast to the winds, forced
out by the anger of rejection and the abandonment of betrayal.

     "OK," he said.

     The man led him back to the path towards the gates. Outside was an M
Reg Volvo, not new but looking smart and powerful. The man opened the
passenger door with his electronic key. There was a ping and the warning
lights flashed.

     "Get in," he invited. "I'm Harry, your email pal."

     For the first time Alan had a good look at him under the orange
glare. Middle-aged, a short bristly moustache, not attractive - but not
repulsive either. Then he knew him. In the Club - it was one of the
middle-aged men he'd chatted with. Grey-hair was Harry! The strange look
in his eyes though put him off. There was something acquisitive, almost
gloating in his expression. Alan took a step backwards.

     "I think . . . " he began.

     The man's left hand grasped his arm and he felt the other one in the
small of his back pushing him.

     "Get in," he repeated, and this time it was an order. "You'll never
experience anything like this again."

     The words suddenly took on a horrible meaning. Could this be what
other boys had heard before going on a last ride to deserted places like
the Common, the Racecourse?

     "No," he shouted and was struggling against the relentless push of
the man's hands. "Help," he shouted - or tried to but the man's hand came
up and covered his mouth and nose so that the word came out as a strangled
sound. He could not breathe. He was being forced nearer and nearer to the
car seat. Once in and the door slammed behind him, he would be a prisoner.

     He tried to flail his arms but they were imprisoned by the stronger
man, tried to kick but over-balanced, toppled forward into the car. the
man's weight pulled on top of him. He despaired. His face buried in the
upholstery, the smell of leather. sickening. The scream of hopelessness
muffled, his breath choked.

     Then suddenly the weight was pulled off him. He sobbed with relief
and gulped a breath of fresh air. Someone was holding the struggling man
from behind and saying words which meant very little to him. "Arrest - do
not have to say anything - do not say now - later use in court - do you
understand?"

     Alan turned and it was Keith. He was snapping a pair of handcuffs
around Greyhair's wrists. Then another man arrived, this one from along
the road. The policeman with the moustache. "You OK, Keith?" he asked.

     "No problem," said Keith. "I think we've got the bastard. He was just
about to take another kid." He gestured at Alan.

     "I know him," said Carey. "He's the boy who found the first victim -
up on the Common. I saw him back in Town and followed him. Name's Alan -
Alan Forrest." He spoke into his intercom asking for a car to pick up a
suspect, a witness and two police officers.

     "You all right, Alan?" said Keith, as if he had just heard the name
for the first time. Out of sight of Carey his right eyelid closed in a
wink.

     "I think so," said Alan, wearing Keith's jeans and with the smell of
Keith's body still on him.

     "Right," said Keith, "we'll go back to the Station, take your
statement and then I'll see about getting you safely back where you
belong." Again he winked and Alan smiled.

     He knew where he belonged.

-- 
Michael Gouda