Short
stories by
Alan
Edward
Part 4
The Keeper
In the interval between the first and seventh stroke of the Chapel clock Crispin had navigated across the rugger field, through the rhododendrons and the vegetable garden, over the wall and all the way down the narrow, half-overgrown lane to its junction with the main road.
Collins never knew how it was done. He opened his nearside door and the boy got in, then the Bentley moved off straight away; in the thinning traffic they would reach the forest in thirty minutes, the lodge in perhaps another five.
“How long do you have?” Collins asked.
“Till nine tomorrow,” the boy said. “It’s okay. I told them my mum was having people to dinner and I had to be there to play the piano - or stand on my head, or recite Gunga Din, or something.”
Halted at the junction, Collins took his first proper look at the boy since last Sunday. His foot slipped off the accelerator and the engine stalled; he re-started and they moved forward again. In the intervals between seeing Crispin he would begin to doubt whether the boy could possibly look like he did; the renewal of his belief always came as this brief delectable shock.
“Cheap petrol,” he said.
Mingled with elation, there was again the imperative need to find a form of words for conveying to Crispin what he knew could not be conveyed - that from now until nine tomorrow nothing else on the surface of the earth mattered, nor could possibly matter - that for him, Anthony W. Collins, nothing could ever be better than it was. He could try, but would in the end say something deflating, banal, and quite possibly inaccurate, such as that Crispin's hair needed cutting.
“Your hair needs cutting,” he said.
The boy pulled a face. “That’s not what you said about me before.”
“And you have brought a detectable portion of the school shrubbery into my car.”
Still, his St Andrew’s uniform did the boy proud, colour triumphantly imposing on texture and form in a manner that was, for a conscientious driver, unsettling. Blond hair just touching the scarlet blazer, pale brown legs against the tops of the matching socks.
“Your tie is crooked and your socks need pulling up,” he went on.
The boy made some token adjustments. “It’s called radical chic, didn't you know? Anyway, I get to wear long trousers next term. These shorts are too small for me now.”
“I can see that,” said
“And it gets chilly at night - especially when you insist on dragging me out like this.”
Against certain contingencies
“That's much better,” said Crispin several miles later.
“I'll do all of you when we get home. Every inch.”
“Wow! Promise?”
“And you won’t have to complain about your school uniform, because you won’t have it on. You won’t have anything on.”
“Oh, wow!”
The road, entering the edge of the
“Lemme drive.”
“Crispin, I've told you many times that in no circumstances...”
“Well, let me steer then. Please, Tony?”
The boy slid an arm around Collins's neck; Collins felt the boy’s chest, hip and thigh press tightly against his own. When Crispin did this Collins felt at once, as always, that two inches of space had materialised between his neck and the lower part of his skull, that his head was moving rapidly in a wide arc or circle, free of all roots and attachments.
“No, Crispin.” He kissed the boy with great firmness, then detached his hand from the wheel and turned slightly to lift his arm. Outside, it had been raining; the Bentley skidded, half-spun and, at something over seventy miles an hour, crossed the grass verge into a rampart of trees.
“Do try to keep up,” said the man behind Collins.
“Eh?”
“I said, please try to keep up. They don’t like you to lag. Otherwise everything gets behind, and then where are you?”
“Where indeed?” Collins looked around. Oddly,
it was daylight now; indeed the sky was lit from horizon to horizon as if
thrown up by sheets of flat water, by lakes. He thought of
The man who has spoken was small and querulous; with spectacles that were badly cracked, but still in place. “The railways are a disgrace,” he told Collins. “You take your life in your hands every time, Mavis said. Little knowing, of course. It’s time the government took a firm line.”
“I came by car myself,” Collins said.
He had become aware by degrees that he was not alone. Far from it. He was almost at the rear of a vast procession of people of all ages and in all forms of attire winding through the range of hills ahead of him, stretching on and on. A procession which, as far ahead as he could see, dwindled to a thin thread spun across plains, round the side of hills, cliffs and crevasses, onwards and upwards - a slender moving filament which, even when immeasurably distant, never completely vanished.
“Just like the seven-eleven,” said Collins to his companion. “You always join the wrong queue.”
“No levity, please,” came a sharp voice from behind. The procession moved on.
Collins sighed. By now, of course, the situation had become clear. Bloody car. Overall, indeed, his main emotion was of considerable irritation. It was really grossly inconvenient, this, coming now, when he still had so many things he wanted to do. Though, given the circumstances, some of them might be best unmentioned.
Like in a film where one scene dissolved into another, Collins was alone again. He heard voices, a shout, laughter. This was unexpected; he turned, following the sound along a path between towering foliage, almost back in the dark now. Where the sound was clearest two immensely tall pillars stood; between them hung a heavy studded gate, completely closing the path. Half lost in shadow at the foot of each pillar great presences like black dogs stirred as he came nearer, then were quite still. Suddenly brilliant light cut through the murk and fell directly on the gate, so that he was certain he had to enter. And indeed the gate yielded easily when Collins pushed; he took a step in, stood still, then, quite suddenly, laughed.
It was a familiar country after all. The usual dream, or one of them - Arcadian Type Two, perhaps. Everything was there as before. Boys, mainly. Dozens, scores of them, playing on the grass, in the water and among the trees as far as he could see. All, of course, unbelievably beautiful, with their floating blond locks and those brief classical see-through nighties or whatever they were - except for the usual number who, by accident or design, had lost everything but a daisy-chain or two.
Oh yes, he’d been there before, and so often. Next one of the innocenti would toss him a ball; he would catch it, and so on.
“Well, come in, then,” said a voice from somewhere. “I have to keep it at least tolerably warm in here - I mean, just look at them, hardly a stitch between them. I can’t keep the door open all day, you know.”
Collins looked around. He could see nothing; a shape, maybe. “Who are you?” he asked. “And where are we?”
“The answers to both questions would, I should have thought, been quite evident to a man of education,” said the Voice with slight impatience. “Questions, questions. All this and they’re still not satisfied, I don’t know. Have some nectar.”
A naked young elf scampered across the grass with it, his golden locks bouncing as if he had just tried the newest telly-ad hair conditioner. Collins sipped, looked around, and reflected.
“Ever grateful yet reticent,” he said, “it yields its essence with subtle delicacy, a suspicion of wild gooseberries, and a finite but essentially clean finish.” He handed the goblet back. “Thank you.”
“Actually, you only just got in,” said the Voice. “I mean, after this evening’s performance…”
“Oh, ah..” Collins looked down, started to speak, then thought better of it.
“In fact, you’d be surprised what a serious view is taken of reckless driving. You were never meant to career around in these things, in the first place.”
“Sorry.”
“But you did have some credits, naturally.” It was as if a sheet of paper rustled. “Special mention, for example, of little Arthur Stubbins. Didn’t have a dad, didn’t have anyone, really, until…”
Collins waved a deprecating hand. “Please…”
“So all of these - all you can see - are yours now. Your rewards - it’s the System. So, if you would just shut the gate behind you…”
Collins still hesitated, and the Voice said tetchily, “Something still the matter? Aren’t they pretty enough for you, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Collins, “Oh, yes, but - well, I was just looking for somebody, one in particular.”
“Description?”
Paper rustled again.
Collins said hesitantly, “Sort of blond hair, not very well combed, needs cutting, a rhododendron leaf in it when last seen. Distinctly grubby hands and dubious neck. Leaf-mould on both knees, inclined to be cheeky and make bad puns, some - “
“Please!” The features were still not clear, but Collins glimpsed growing distaste. “Nobody of that description here. Really - grubby hands, dubious neck, leaf-mould... I’m surprised at you.”
“Or - anywhere else around here?” asked Collins, uncertain about how to put it.
“No - nobody of that description came through all day. I have the records here, and I know.” Something snapped shut.
“In that case,” said Collins firmly, “I must ask you to excuse me.”
He stepped backwards very quickly, as if to take the Voice unawares.
This time there was no mistaking the expression. Total disbelief, then outrage. “Excuse you?” said the voice. “Excuse you? Stop him!”
The boys came shrieking from the grass and the river, scores of hands clutched at him, but he managed to keep moving backwards, and again further backwards... The blue sky vanished and it became dark; there was a noise like thunder and some warm drops began to fall, wetting his nose, cheeks and forehead.
Lights had come on again. They were somewhere beneath him now; one was coloured and spun and flashed. Someone shouted, and nearer at hand a familiar voice was sobbing hysterically, “No, Tony, please. Please...”
Collins called, “Okay-dokey!” then it seemed as if whatever was holding him in mid-air snapped, dropping him on the ground with a bump.
And it didn’t hurt a bit.
I Love My Little Brother
I hate my little brother. And so would you. I mean - just try to imagine the noisiest, brattiest, cheekiest thirteen-year-old in the business, with a perpetually mud-streaked face, hair a tangled and uncombed mop, permanently torn jeans, a ripped tee-shirt, a shriek like a hyena, a kick like a mule... and, well, there you have him more or less. And I - I with Finals three weeks away, left in charge of him for a week. In charge - what a joke - of this human plague, this one-boy pestilence, this insalubrious gadfly, this noxious insect....
And tonight - oh, tonight was worst of all. Not just the Insect, but his friends, if friends they be, yelling, rampaging and wrestling through all the house, rattling and screaming round and round the yard on their skateboards, then, inside again, making the night hideous with the squeaks, bleeps and squawks of their wretched electronic models, games and other similar contrivances invented to make the lives of their elders as unendurable as possible.
And then, his friends banished, the Insect refusing to go to bed, standing on his head on the floor, trampolining on the sofa, then doing some kind of acrobatic where his feet, in their size-six Nikes, finally crashed right on to the table, scattering my books and papers far and wide.
So at last I did what I should have done hours earlier: I turned him over, took his pants down and thoroughly reddened his bum, then packed him off to his room.
Peace at last... Yet I still couldn’t concentrate. I thumbed through my papers. The Fifth Peregrination of the Visigoths... Or was it the Fourth. Shit.
Then the door creaked and I looked around. The cheek of it. The Insect again. Half-naked as usual, just clad in the skimpy little shorts he wears in bed or around the house in the evening. Looking pathetic this time, but it wasn’t going to work.
He came over and stood behind me.
“Go away,” I said.
He had the impudence to wind his bare skinny arms round my neck.
“I’ve been crying,” he said.
I couldn’t be bothered to push him off.
“Hardened villains don’t cry,” I said.
“Well, my bum’s sore,” said the Insect.
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said I. “Now, shove off and let me get on with my work.”
Paid no attention, of course. In fact, squashed himself right up against me (yuk!) and said, “You’re just cross because that silly girl isn’t here and you can’t smooch with her. You’ll have to smooch with me instead.” He pressed his face up close and blew into my ear.
I pushed him away; the Insect gets really stupid sometimes. What annoyed me more, though (and I’d never have told him this), was that when I reached round to shove him off, my hand pushed against his bare upper leg - and, well, I began to feel a distinct prickling right under the table, just below my third trouser button.... And, indeed, I’d felt the same when I’d been smacking him - which had never happened before. Was I going crazy?
“Shove off,” I said again, furiously.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what? You have so many things to be sorry for that I’d like to be sure just which of them we’re talking about.”
“For earlier.”
“Well... all right, then.”
“What you did,” said the Insect, “I wouldn’t take it from anyone else, y’know.”
“You mightn’t be asked,” I said shortly. “Now, look here - are you, or are you not, going to go off and leave me in peace?”
Silly question. The Insect shook his head, and his untidy locks flew. He needed a haircut, besides everything else.
I sighed. “What do you want, then?”
“This.” Quick as a flash, the Insect reached under the table. He grabbed.
I yelled and shoved him away, but he jumped up and down on the carpet, clapping his hands in triumph. “So you do like me - you do! I knew it, I knew it!”
“Oh, shut up,” I said shortly. “The fact is, I simply can’t stand you, and you might as well know it.”
“You can’t fool me!” He grabbed me from behind again, and started swinging on my arms. “And I felt it underneath, when you were smacking my bum. Hard as a rock, it was.”
“That was yours,” I retorted, making an unsuccessful effort to detach him.
“Mine too,” the Insect admitted. “Couldn’t help it, feeling your nice big hand on my bare bot…Wish you’d gone on longer. I was just going to shoot.” He giggled. “How’d you have liked your trousers stickied?”
“If you’d done that, you wouldn’t have sat down for a month.”
“Sorry I didn’t, then,” said the Insect shamelessly. “Anyway, you’d probably have stickied first. Like an iron bar under me it was, you think I couldn’t feel it? Bare skin’s sensitive, you know.”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Next time,” the young wretch went on, “I’ll wriggle and wriggle, as much as I can, and you will sticky, you’ll see!”
“Just go away and let me get on,” I said wearily.
The Insect sat in a chair alongside and pulled his knees up to his chest.
“Okay, I’ll play a game with you. If you win, I’ll go away and leave you in peace. But if I win, then you have to do whatever I say.”
I sighed and pushed my chair back. “All right, what do I do?” Better to humour him than refuse.
The Insect placed his palms together, held upright. “You do the same.”
I did, then the Insect said, “Go!”, reached out quickly and slapped me gently on the cheek. He said, “You lose. You should have done that first.”
“I wasn’t ready. It’s not fair.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, too late. Now you have to do what I say.”
“Well?” I asked, resigned.
Quickly the Insect stood, skinned his pants down. “Suck me,” he said.
I stared. Of course, I’d seen all the Insect has, many times, as he certainly isn’t shy. But not like that - and I’m really talking hard. I admit it, I was impressed.
He kicked his pants off completely, then grabbed me round the neck again. “And you must do it properly,” he said, his voice a bit breathless. He swallowed. “I mean, go on and on till I shoot. I can, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said, still looking. Of course, there was no other way to get rid of him, so I leaned forward. But suddenly the Insect’s arms tightened, he locked his mouth on mine, and he started doing things with his lips, tongue and teeth that even “that girl” never dreamed of. How did he learn?
And, as for me, that tingling down below got ten times worse than before. And because of the Insect... I ask you!
Anyway, I found my hands clasping his two round bare rear cheeks and, just to please him, I poked the ends of my fingers in between and wiggled them around a bit. Of course, being the Insect, he squirmed and squealed extravagantly and, when I took my fingers out, he reached round and pushed them back in again, as far as he could. Finally - quite a bit later - his lips detached themselves and I bent down again, but he pushed my head and said, “No - you must do it properly now. I mean, both of us upstairs and completely bare.”
Before I could protest he was scampering for the door, his bowsprit waving in front like you wouldn’t believe. So... that was how we came, shortly afterwards, to be wrestling around on my bed with not a stitch between us; what I do in the cause of a peaceful life!
Anyway, as I promised, I took my little mouthful (though not so little as I’d expected) and did my best, with the Insect - typically - playing up madly as usual, flinging his legs and arms about, laughing, whooping and shouting... And did he shoot, too - his body snapping like a whip - and with a scream like a banshee. And not just once, either!
Well, did I escape at last? Not likely; in an instant he’d wriggled upwards, pinning me down on my back, lying on his tummy on top of me. Somehow, he managed to trap mine in the tight, warm space between the tops of his thighs. He squirmed and squeezed, and I couldn’t hold back a gasp.
He giggled (the Insect missed nothing) and repeated the process even more energetically - and I couldn’t prevent catching my breath that time either.
The Insect said, dropping his face on mine, “1 could make you come, now - with me, because of me. Couldn’t I - couldn’t I?” He jerked and squirmed again; two-thousand-volt shocks began to run all through me. “Couldn’t I?”
“Aaaah! Yes, yes!”
“Either this way, or suck. You can choose.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. The Insect began to squirm again. “Go on - admit it - you’re crazy about me, like I am about you. You’d like to turn me over and stick it right up me, wouldn’t you? - just as far as you can. And I’d let you, and I’d wriggle my bum like mad for you - and I’d be the best fuck you’ve ever had, the best anyone’s ever had. Wouldn’t I - wouldn’t I?”
“I told you - I c-can’t stand you,” I gasped.
“Yeah? Then why are you in bed with me, naked bare?” He squeezed tight as a clamp, writhed again and again.
“Waah!”
“Choose!”
I chose and - the things he had done with his tongue and his teeth downstairs were nothing, I can assure you. I just couldn’t keep still or couldn’t keep quiet and - Insect or no - I forgot about everything for a while. Though I don’t think it took long - not long at all.
I lay absolutely breathless afterwards. Not the Insect, though. On his tummy on top of me, he bounced up and down again, and I groaned.
He prodded the end of my finger with his nose. “So - I know now - you are crazy about me!” He prodded and bounced again. “Tell the truth, now!”
I’ve always found that’s a mistake. So I don’t know what possessed me then. But whatever the reason - so help me - I shrugged, pulled his head down, then whispered in his ear.
“I knew it, I knew it!” He bounced even more gymnastically. “Now every night I’ll sleep with you - every night, all night. I’m your boy now. You can suck me as often as you like, and you can stick it up me too, as much as you like and as hard as you like, and I’ll do the same to you.”
He thudded and thumped and I groaned again. Why can’t I keep my trap shut?
“And I’ll be really nice to you in the day. I’ll be quiet and good as gold. I’ll let you do your work and never interrupt and do everything you tell me.” He lifted my hand and slapped the palm. “Deal?”
I made a face. Then, suddenly, I laughed, kissed the Insect on his cheeky little mouth and slapped his palm in turn.
“Deal!” I said.
King of the Castle
There were soldiers everywhere. For the past week, ever since Candlemas, the town had been in turmoil. At its centre, in the old square, the gates of the castle had been opened for the first time in months, a thousand candles burned behind the slit windows, and a huge fire leapt in the Great Hall. Because tonight the King was in town, and all week heavy ox-carts laden with the choicest viands and poultry, with barrels of the richest wine and ale, had creaked their way up the lanes, along the streets, and through the gates into the milling inner courtyard. And that afternoon, amid the huzzas of the crowd, the carriages with the King and his Court themselves had driven quickly across the square and in at the castle archway, followed by a score of mounted knights, heralds and standard-bearers. Then the flag had been raised, a triple guard had been set, and none dared approach but soldiers or the richest townspeople, guests at the King’s banquet. As evening approached, the carriages of the guests, one by one, had rattled over the drawbridge and through the castle gates, which had clanged shut behind each.
The bright-eyed urchin hiding in a doorway opposite watched and calculated. Then, as a soldier opened the gate to admit another carriage, the boy, fast as quicksilver, dodged behind him and was through the gate in an instant. A moment later, as the carriage clattered through and the gates slammed again, he crouched in the shadow of the high courtyard wall, eyes alert in the warm flickering light from the interior. Silas Slipper was aged about thirteen, though no-one was sure, not even he. He was small but wiry, his body and his senses sharpened by the battle for day-to-day survival in the medieval streets. He had done this before. When there were banquets in the castle there were also, he knew, rich pickings of food and wine, some to eat and drink, some to sell. And often the nobles, especially after a yard or two of good ale, were not very careful where they left their valuables...
He skirted the courtyard, keeping close to the wall. Nearly everyone was inside now; he could hear the hubbub from the kitchens, the shouts and roars of laughter and the strumming of the minstrels from the great hall, where the banquet had already begun. He knew where the kitchens were, and in a moment he was through the wide arch, down a flight of stone stairs and was flattening himself in a corner by the doorway, watching the sweating, quarrelling cooks, maids and scullions labouring round the huge stoves, running up and down with laden wooden trays on the stairway to the banqueting hall above. Rows of joints - ham, beef, venison - were laid out on a long trestle table opposite him, ready to be carried upstairs. Silas’s mouth watered; the desire in his belly was almost painful.
No-one was looking in his direction; it was a moment for boldness. As if fired from a bow, Silas was out of the doorway, had snatched a ham, and then was through the door and haring back up to the courtyard, all in a split second. There was a shout, then another, and footsteps came pounding after him, but Silas, dodging from one patch of shadow to another in the vast courtyard, was confident that he could evade any pursuer. And he knew the pursuit would be half-hearted anyway. Small thieves and starvelings, through not exactly tolerated, were nevertheless a fact of life in the castle as well as in the town.
In an angle of the high wall, knees tucked up to his chest, Silas munched the ham; soon he felt good, better than he had for a long time. He looked around. He knew he could get out as easily as he had got in, but he was reluctant to abandon his adventure so soon. Just across from him, a long outside staircase wound upwards on the castle wall, then ended at an area bathed in light, just below one of the tall windows of the banqueting hall itself. He tucked the remains of the ham into the waistband of his ragged trousers, made sure he was unobserved, then scampered across the yard and up the stairs, stopping just before he reached the top, raising his eyes above the level of the sill with great caution, inch by inch.
He could see almost nothing. The window gave on to a broad but deserted gallery, but beyond its rim he could see the leaping firelight and the candle-light on the roof, could hear the roar of the multitude underneath. Carefully, Silas swung his legs over the sill, then crawled on his knees to the edge of the gallery and peered over.
He gasped. Underneath, far underneath, as in a fairy-tale, sat row upon row of richly-attired burghers, burgesses, earls, peers, knights and their ladies eating and drinking from vessels of shimmering gold and silver; in a lower gallery minstrels, tumblers and jesters entertained the guests. But Silas’s intake of breath was because he was directly facing the high table where sat the King himself, together with the Queen and the very greatest of the nobles. Initially alarmed, he ducked his head quickly, then raised it again; all were occupied with their conversations, tales and jesting, and none was likely to look up, still less likely to see his small form half-hidden in the shadows.
So he crouched, completely still, taking it all in. His eye was caught in particular by the boy, scarcely older than himself, who stood behind the King, slightly to his right, sometimes pouring wine, sometimes fetching fresh dishes. A boy with long fair locks, richly dressed in scarlet and gold livery, his doublet carrying the royal arms on its chest; gleaming crowns stood on his high collar. The boy’s blue eyes roamed around ceaselessly, attending to the King’s every wish, yet relaxed; sometimes he smiled when the King spoke to him, smiled brilliantly, showing perfect white teeth.
Silas sighed. To be page to the King of England; how utterly wonderful. Probably the boy himself was of noble blood; he certainly looked like it, with his fair, clear skin and his easy and graceful carriage. He was clearly the favourite of the King, too; a couple of times Silas saw the King look up and share a joke with the boy; he smiled at him often, once patted his arm. The urchin’s eyes remained riveted on the page. He wondered what it would be like to have a friend like that - to play with a boy like that - instead of the little ruffians and vagabonds who were his daily companions. It was unthinkable - and this, oddly, hurt in a way he wouldn’t have believed.
He must have grown careless, approached too near the edge. His eyes had begun to roam around the hall, over the rushlights, the tapestries, the banners, the great hounds asleep in front of the fire. But when he looked back towards the high table he saw, to his horror, that the page-boy’s eyes were fixed full on him. Or was he mistaken? He saw the boy whisper to an attendant, who left, but then everything seemed as usual, the boy didn’t look again, and there were no signs of alarm or upheaval. Slowly, Silas relaxed. However, he sat down on the stone gallery floor, back against the wall, for a moment; watching the banquet had made him hungry, and he fumbled for the ham-bone again.
“So ’ere’s a nice little cock-sparrer.”
Silas started and shot to his feet, but he wasn’t quick enough for two soldiers, both young and fit, who had come silently through the gallery window. He was caught and held firmly, with only a token struggle.
“Well, well, well,” said the other soldier, looking the ragged youngster up and down with distaste. “We do get proper little varmints in this place, no doubt about it. Come on!”
Silas, resisting furiously, was dragged back down into the yard, down a further flight of stone steps, then the door of a dungeon was pulled open.
“The King’s got a nice cage for sparrers like you.”
He was pushed forward hard, falling on to the straw, then the door clanged behind him. He ran to the barred space in the door and swore at the guards, though without rancour. He sat on the straw-covered floor with his legs doubled under him and went back to work on the ham, which fortunately had not been found. He wasn’t greatly bothered. He would be released in the morning, he knew - probably after being whipped - but it wasn’t the first time, and he had survived. For the moment, he was warm, dry, and had a full belly; what more could a street-urchin want?
In a few hours the hubbub from the banqueting hall had subsided, the wheels of the homegoing carriages had stopped echoing through the yard, and Silas, head on a straw-filled sack, was asleep as deeply as he had ever been, either in the hovel he called home or on the streets.
When he awakened, however, it was still dark. There were lanterns that burned in the courtyard all night, and some light penetrated even into the dungeon, making barred squares on the floor, but of daylight there was none. He knew, somehow, that a sound had wakened him - a sound very near at hand. He stiffened, trying to see into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing.
There it was again - a muffled sob, then another. Someone, in the dark, was crying, crying bitterly. All of Silas’s skin tingled; he went ice-cold. He had heard the stories about the old castle, about the ghosts, the hauntings, the headless knights and white ladies, the cries and screams heard in the empty dark. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a fairly solid shape huddled in the straw a short distance away. So there was no ghost, no mystery. He had company. Another prisoner had been brought in while he slept.
The crying continued, and he gingerly moved closer. He drew in his breath slightly. Curled in the straw was a young boy, completely naked, his head hidden in his hands, his body shaken by sobs.
Silas touched his shoulder. “’S all right,” he said awkwardly. “It’ll be all right, we’ll get out tomorrow, we always do.”
“It’s not just that,” came the muffled voice. “I’ve been punished. I spilled the best wine, I was whipped. Look.”
He twisted slightly, and Silas whistled as he saw the red lines on the boy’s delicate rear cheeks. Then, touching him again, he said, “It’s hard luck, it hurts, but it doesn’t last. I know. You’ll have forgotten about it by morning, you’ll see.”
“But - but I’m so ashamed.”
“G’wan, nothing to be ashamed of. I’m always spilling and breaking things. Here, my name’s Silas. What’s yours?”
“Arthur.” The boy on the straw twisted around again and looked up, his face tear-stained, his hair mussed, but Silas drew in his breath immediately.
“You’re the page! The King’s page!”
Arthur hesitated, then nodded. “But if I spill wine, do anything wrong, then I get in trouble. Like now.”
Silas nodded. Clearly, being a page in the royal household had its drawbacks. But he still couldn’t take his eyes off the fair-haired boy beside him. He was like one of those boys in great paintings in the local churches or cathedrals, like the slim beautiful angels you saw clustered round the saints on the altarpieces - beings with flawless bodies, perfect features. This boy, like them, didn’t look real; touch him and he might disappear.
With great care, grimacing slightly, Arthur pulled himself up to a sitting position on a sack of straw and hugged his knees. He smiled weakly. “You’re right, it doesn’t feel quite so bad after a while.”
“You want to talk for a bit?” asked Silas, now wide awake.
Arthur looked down at the ground. “You won’t want to talk to me, will you?” he asked in his soft, cultured voice, so different from those Silas was used to. “You’ve probably guessed, haven’t you?”
Silas frowned. “Guessed what?”
“Well, it was I who gave you away, wasn’t it? You must know that. I saw you, and told them.”
Silas shrugged. “I don’t mind; it ain’t so bad here.”
“But you want to know why I told them?’.
“I s’pose you had to.”
“It wasn’t just that. But it was just - well, I was looking into the gallery, and suddenly saw this dark-haired imp with very bright eyes looking down at me and - well, I thought…he could be fun, maybe.”
Silas laughed. “That’s odd. Because I thought…oh, it doesn’t matter.” Then he said, “But someone like you - I mean, you must have a lot of mates.”
The blond boy shook his head. “I don’t really have any friends - mates. I just get to meet people like - well, bishops and so on.”
“Cor!” Silas was appalled. “Cor!”
The page shifted from the sacking with another grimace, then curled up on the straw. “Brr, it’s cold in here.”
Silas hesitated, then said half-shyly, half defensively, “S’pose you wouldn’t want a street boy to keep you warm, snuggle against you, would you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, my clothes ain’t so nice, I mean...”
“Take them off, then,” said Arthur.
“Sure you don’t mind?”
Arthur shook his head, so Silas wriggled out of his clothes, then crawled across to Arthur and wound himself around him; Arthur’s arms twisted round his neck and their thighs twined together; soon Silas felt the smooth cool skin become warm and the shivering cease.
“How’s it feel there?” asked Silas, reaching round Arthur and down, gently touching the spot with his fingers.
“Stings a bit still.”
“You - you wouldn’t want the likes of me to stroke it a little, would you?”
Arthur took Silas’s hand and pressed it back into place; Silas gently moved his palm to and fro over the smooth rear cheeks, stroking them, gently parting, then stroking again
“And stop saying things like that about yourself,” Arthur said. “If we’re going to be fr - mates. If we are.”
“‘Course we are,” said Silas. He thought, then said, “But we can’t, Arthur, can we? Tomorrow you’ll be back paging again, and I’ll be out on the street. It ain’t no good, is it?”
Arthur said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. You could be a page.”
“Yah!” said Silas derisively. And then, “Don’t make fun of me, Arthur.”
“I’m not,” said Arthur earnestly. He twisted up to a kneeling position. “Stand up.”
Silas stood, slightly bashful, in the dim lamplight while Arthur’s eye ran over him from top to toe.
“You’d do very well, actually,” said Arthur decisively, at length. “There was a knight who said once, ‘Even a little peasant boy, stripped of his clothes, can have the skin of a prince and the body of an angel.’”
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not.” Arthur smoothed Silas’s dark hair and arranged it on either side of his face.
“Yes - washed, combed, and in the King’s livery, you could make the prettiest page anyone ever saw. And - speaking of princes - the prince needs a page - has done for a while.”
“The princeling, you mean,” said the urchin with slight contempt. “He’s a bumptious little whipper-snapper, they say.”
“I - I suppose so. Anyway, the King keeps trying to find a page for him, but he’s hard to please. He’s only got a tutor, whom he hates.”
“Well, you couldn’t fix it, anyhow,” said Silas. “You, thrown down in the dungeon like me.”
Arthur shrugged. “Strange things have happened before now. And, as you say, tomorrow it’ll be forgotten. Let me try, anyhow.” He hesitated. “If you really want me to, that is?”
Silas nodded. Then he said slightly cheekily, pulling at Arthur’s arm, “Now it’s my turn. Come and stand in the light and let me have a look.”
Arthur stood on the straw; Silas slid to his knees, his hands gliding down Arthur’s flanks and thighs. Then he said shyly, leaning forward, “You got a nice one. The nicest one I ever seen. And you’re getting little hairs, too.”
He reached out gently with his fingertips. “And it’s hard! Coo!”
Arthur bent slightly; his palms slid all over the urchin’s slim body. “It’s hard because of you,” he whispered accusingly.
“Because of me!” said Silas, thrilled and flattered. Then he said, “ And mine’ s-”
“Sssh!” said Arthur, then he clasped his hands behind the urchin’s head and pulled it down and forward, his hands remaining tight clasped in the tumbled dark hair.
A moment later Arthur squealed. “You bite!”
“Sorry.”
“No - again, again. Please.”
Arthur slid back on the straw; Silas, thighs astraddle the blond boy, pressed him back, bent forward.
“Oh, oh, waaAAAH!”shrieked the page.
Silas’s hand slid round on the straw, under Arthur’s wriggling buttocks, then he slid a finger in between, pushed.
The blond boy whooped again. For a moment or two Silas was immensely busy. Then Arthur convulsed, screamed. His long slim legs spun, scissored, clamped on either side of Silas’s head, splayed, then smacked back again.
Arthur held Silas’s head where it was for a moment, his whole body still shivering from top to toe. Then, very quickly, he pulled upright and pushed Silas back on the straw.
The page was astonishingly diligent. Silas’s four limbs thrashed on the straw floor - then, with a piercing crescendo of shrieks, the urchin’s lithe, nude body jack-knifed again and again as it was racked from end to end with shock after delectable shock, such as the youngster had never - ever - felt in his young life until now.
After that, light-headed and exhausted, he remembered very little, perhaps just Arthur whispering “Mates?” into his ear as they twisted together to go to sleep, and himself nodding emphatically.
It was completely light when Silas opened his eyes for the second time. Remembering, he looked round, but he was alone. Awake almost at once, and half panic-stricken, he jumped up, searching, rummaging through the straw, throwing handfuls aside. Nothing and no-one. At last, he sat down on the straw to think. Had it been a dream? But it had been so vivid; he’d never had a dream like that before....
Perplexed, he raised a hand to rub his eyes, then noticed something, stopped, and frowned in puzzlement. On his hand, traces of dull red - like ochre, or chalk dust.
He rubbed it and it came off. He remembered what had been red - the marks on the pale, delicate skin on the previous night; he remembered how, and for what a long time, he had touched and stroked them. His frown deepened. But that sort of red didn’t come off - or it wasn’t supposed to. Not a dream, then - but had he been tricked? Had someone made a fool of him? But if so, why?
He was still puzzling, and no further on, when he heard the rattle of chains and the door was pushed open. It was the two guards, the same two as the previous night.
“Come on, nipper, you got a job, you’re lucky.”
“Eh?” said Silas foolishly.
“Yes, so move it,” said the other guard. “An’ get them clothes on. We can’t ’ave a page showing all ’e’s got, can we?”
“A page?” Silas stared, then began to struggle quickly into his rags.
“We’ll ’ave to get all the flummery on you, mind, before you’re fit to hexhibit - but get that lot on fer now,” said the first guard, watching him with distaste. “And I don’t think much of ’Is Royal ’Ighness’s choice neither, but the Prince’s wish is my command. I want to keep me ’ead on me shoulders for a bit longer.”
“’Aving ’is royal bath, ’e is,” said the second guard. “Wants you to wash ’is ’air - no doubt ’is other pretty little bits, too.”
“Come now,” said the other with a wink, “we mustn’t speak of ’is ’Igh an’ Mightiness like that, so disrespectful, must we?” To Silas, “Come on, you!”
Silas, at the cell door, hesitated. “Where - where’s the page who was here last night?”
The guard frowned. “What d’you mean page? The King don’t never bring no page ’ere. Where d’you think this is, Windsor Castle? Now - git.”
Trompe-l’Oeil
“Very nice, M’sieu. You agree?”
Martin made no sign. Then he took a pack of cigarettes, flicked it open and held it out diffidently, not turning his head.
“Thank you, M’sieu. You want, eh?”
Martin shrugged, still not making eye-contact. But not moving on either. On the Boulevard Pasteur, as always at the time of the promenade, the string of youngsters opposite sold oranges, matches, contraband Marlboro. The one on the corner, cross-legged on the pavement, was selling coloured handkerchiefs and...
“Is my Chouchou, that. I speak to my Chouchou for you, yes?”
“Mebbe.”
Unusual, these days, to see a kid in the old-style djellaba, except in high summer. This one was perhaps from the mountains. Slim, a sight of softly-curved cheeks, dreamy-dark eyes. Two bare brown legs poking from underneath, two grubby feet in sandals. From the mountains... It was said that they wore nothing, but nothing at all, underneath.
“You cough bad, M’sieu. You smoke too much perhaps.”
“Mebbe.”
There would be no more of the brash town-brats, that was for sure. Haggling not only before and after, but during, for Christ’s sake. This could be different. Let me be kissed with the kisses of wine, not stung as many times as a one-legged beekeeper.
“How much?” he asked.
Chouchou, whose eyes had been fixed unmoving on the pair, pocketed the handkerchiefs and wandered across. Favoured with a hundred-watt grin that exposed surprisingly good teeth, Martin mentally upped the sum he’d had in mind, and was favoured with a word or two of quite serviceable French. Not from the mountains after all, maybe.
The men smoked again and spoke of numbers. Parent or pimp, Ali Baba would be paid off first, Chouchou later; at least the kid would be properly rewarded. The man was paid a little more than he expected. Not wanting to be followed, Martin lingered a little. Then he bought a bag of tangerines and gave it to Chouchou to carry. With youngster and tangerines a short distance to the rear, Martin followed the winding streets to his apartment and arrived in a few minutes.
“M’sieu?”
“Through here. Wait a moment.”
He went off to store the tangerines, then returned to his bedroom.
Wow-ee! He had been right about the djellaba. The single garment had already been tossed to the floor, and the kid lay naked and tummy-down on the bed. A little shy, perhaps - or perhaps not. Head turned, a cheeky grin. “I ready, M’sieu!”
Martin crossed the room and drew the curtains, preferring the half-light. Though standing motionless to stare for a century or so. Perfectly shaped, the contours and skin flawless. The slim waist and legginess of early adolescence, but still with childhood’s soft rounded swell of hips and buttocks...
“M’sieu!” Impatient...
Martin had taken his clothes off; he lay down, stroking and caressing the youngster, running his hands over skin of petal-smoothness that sent electric quivers all through him. Savouring the delicious squirms and wiggles of response.
“Flip over.”
Teasingly, the head shaken vigorously, dark locks flying.
Martin said, “I’ll make you.”
“Oh yes, M’sieu?”
Sliding his hand underneath the youngster, Martin ran his palm over the delicate chest and tiny nipples, the smooth flat tummy, the minute and almost imperceptible wisp of pubic hair, then -
“Good God!”
He snatched his hand away. He reached again, then in an instant was on his feet and had snapped the light on.
Staring, biting his lips. “There - there’s been a mistake. A big mistake. I’m sorry.”
Chouchou sat up, blinking and bewildered.
“M’sieu?”
“Look, I’m sorry, kid.” Martin gestured to the djellaba on the floor, then picked it up and threw it on the bed. “It’s that thing - you can’t tell the difference. Put it on.”
The kid still stared. “You - you not want me now, M’sieu? But you -”
“Oh, you’ll get your money. Now, just put that on, then I’ll pay you and you can go.”
To his dismay, Martin saw the dark eyes start to fill.
“Do not be angry, M’sieu. What is it I have done?”
Disappointment, Martin realised, had made him harsh. And he was not proof against a child’s tears. Whichever the sex. He sat down on the bed again and put his hands on Chouchou’s slim shoulders. “You see, in that djellaba boys and girls look much the same - when they’re young anyway, and it’s easy to - well, make a mistake.”
“Oh, I see, M’sieu. You thought I was...”
“Mmm.” Martin nodded. He found a tissue and dabbed very gently. “And I’m not angry. It was my own stupid fault - not yours.”
Surprisingly, his arms were again round the youngster, comforting and stroking. Even more surprisingly, the skin was no less deliciously satin-smooth, warm and lickable-soft than it had been a moment before - not on the kid’s arms, back, tummy, or... anywhere. Even more so, he thought, though that was ridiculous, of course. Two arms were round his own neck in turn; the body squirmed under him and a pair of delicate lips smacked repeatedly against his own. Then the slim body quivered at a giggle…
“Eh?”
“Was funny, that.”
Yes, quite crazy. And in just a moment he’s disengage from Chouchou, stop exploring the delicate mouth with the tip of his tongue... In a moment. If they could see me, he thought.
He chuckled in turn.
“So you want now, M’sieu?”
“No, really, I - “
The small hand explored disconcertingly. “Oh, M’sieu, you lie!”
“I - I can’t help it.” And Martin blushed.
“I show you,” said the youngster, taking a surprisingly firm hold.
“No - really.”
“Yes, I show you.” Chouchou held, then guided, very firmly indeed. And soon Martin felt every single millimetre tight-clasped in the living warm so that, at the merest twitch of Chouchou, electricity sparked and flickered upwards, so that he could keep still no longer... And under him the small body twisted, hips writhing and grinding, until mega-volt surges rolled, gathered, rolled, at last sent lightning crackling through his body again and again, blinding him with white and scarlet. Someone cried out, and then it was dark again.
After he did not know how long, Martin disengaged - very, very slowly.
“Was the first time, M’sieu?”
Martin nodded, still scarcely able to speak.
The youngster whispered, “Tomorrow you make your own choice. We are a large family, brothers and sisters both.” Another giggle. “They shall line for you all naked, then you make no mistake!”
Martin coughed, swallowed, then asked , “Are they all as pretty as you?”
Another faint giggle. “My mamma always say I am the prettiest, M’sieu.”
“Um. Tomorrow, perhaps we’ll... talk about it. Just you and me.”
“Of course, M’sieu,” said the kid solemnly. A moment of hesitation. “And now, M’sieu, for me...?”
“Ah, yes, of course, the money.”
“No, not the money.” Again Martin felt his hand being firmly guided. Resigned, he made one or two experimental moves.
The kid gasped, writhed. “Oh, yes, M’sieu!”
And then, once again, Martin performed magnificently. Though he began with hesitation, like a man who caresses a small but unpredictable pet snake that instantaneously stands quivering at his touch but might at any moment spit like a firecracker.
Empathies
1. The Good Boy
My dear, I was furious at first. I mean - his third year at College now, wanted to bring his girl-friend down for the week-end. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But when I say that she can have his room and I’ll make up a bed for him on the sofa, he says, cool as you like, “Oh, don’t worry, my bed will do. We’ll be sleeping together; it’ll be okay.”
No, it would not be okay. And a nice girl too, by the sound of it. Jeremy had been on about her for ages, I’d even spoken to her on the phone. But now - what his father would have said I simply cannot imagine. Next thing, a teenage pregnancy and - oh dear me, no thank you very much. So I simply made up a bed for Jeremy on the sofa like I’d said and, if there was going to be a show-down when they arrived - well, I was ready for him.
But what a relief! “Toni” was actually Tony, not a girl after all but a boy - a younger boy from Jeremy’s year in college. Quite a lot younger, in fact. That was why I’d been misled on the phone. One of these infant prodigies he was, went up to Oxford about a year ago when he was only twelve and Jeremy took him under his wing, so to speak. And a really likeable youngster too, as it turned out - a little shy, but with charming manners. And very attractive as well, with big blue eyes, delicate features, a lovely smile - well, it was easy to see how anyone could take to him. I certainly did. And he was so nice about the sleeping arrangements too, wouldn’t hear of Jeremy taking the couch, simply insisted they would share. And it made me proud of Jeremy to see just how helpful he was to the youngster - kind and protective, just like any mother wants her son to be. And, after supper, as Tony was fatigued after their long journey, Jeremy even helped him with his bath before they went off to bed, unusually early for Jeremy. Yes, the youngster was clearly going to be a good influence.
It wasn’t until the next morning that, so to speak, the penny dropped. Not right away; when Tony first came into the kitchen, that just tickled me. I was pottering about, sorting out breakfast, when the door opened unexpectedly and young Tony appeared. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, and his mouth opened with dismay to see me there. As well it might, with him not having a stitch on.
“Oh - oh, I thought it was Jeremy,” he stammered, standing there sort of transfixed.
“Don’t you have any pyjamas?” I asked.
“I - I well, not in the summer,” he said, “Sorry.” Then, pink-faced, he turned and scampered off upstairs.
Well, my dear, I’ve brought up three boys. Seen them a thousand times without their pj’s. So I simply had a bit of a laugh to myself when he had gone. Poor kid, though.
When I went along the landing a few minutes later, however, I heard giggles and laughter through the door of the bedroom, and guessed that Tony had seen the funny side of it too.
Then I stopped dead, right there. Something went cold, deep down inside me. Call me slow on the uptake if you like. Yes, I suppose I was. You hear stories naturally, but where your own are concerned you have a kind of blind spot. Or I had, until then. But suddenly, with a mother’s instinct, I knew. Some people, of course, say that it’s just a kind of phase they go through, but - well, I wasn’t so sure.
I went down to the kitchen, sat quite still for a moment, then called Jeremy. I’m one for having things out, right there and then. So I put it to him, straight.
“And I want the truth, mind.”
At first he blustered a bit, tried to deny it. Then when he saw that that didn’t work, I got the lots-of-others-do-it routine.
I waited till he had finished, then said, “They may do, but have you considered what age Tony is? You involve a boy of that age, it’s regarded as a very serious offence, you must know that, You get into big trouble.”
“Oh, come on, Mum,” protested Jeremy. “Anyway, it wasn’t me started it, it was Tony, honest. He had this friend before, and -“
Losing patience, I said sharply, “Please, Jeremy, lie to me if you have to - just don’t put the blame on to the youngster. Whatever happens, you are the elder, you are the one who will be held responsible. You must see that.”
Jeremy looked at the floor, then said slowly, “Yes, I suppose so. But - “
“But nothing. Call Tony down.”
“No.”
But I insisted, and in a moment the youngster appeared through the kitchen door once more - though this time he had a towel knotted round his waist.
“She knows,” Jeremy said without preamble. “She’s found out.”
Tony, his eyes big with dismay, stared at me, then to my dismay burst into tears. Jeremy at once went over and put a protective arm round him; the youngster locked his arms round Jeremy’s waist and buried his head in Jeremy’s chest; his whole body shook with sobs. His towel came undone and slid to the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Oh dear, oh dear, I thought. Whatever I’d wanted, it wasn’t an operatic set-piece like this. Suddenly, I really began to feel like the Wicked Mother. I went over, patted Tony on the shoulder and said, “Look - don’t worry. It’s not as bad as all that.”
Indeed, I almost smiled, as I saw that what the kid had was sticking up like a medium-size beanpole - but of course I pretended not to notice. I simply retrieved the towel from the floor, dropped it in the laundry-basket, then said, “I don’t want to make things difficult for you. I just want to help, that’s all.”
“It’s okay, Mum,” said Jeremy. “We’ll stop. I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Honest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper package. “Here it is. That’s all of it.”
I opened the packet, sniffed and nodded. Yes, I’d have recognised the smell anywhere, even - as I had a few minutes ago - on my own upstairs landing. Cannabis sativa. To tell the truth, I’d smoked it myself as a kid, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. And now I felt a lot better about Jeremy. Indeed, I began to feel proud of him again as I watched him comfort Tony, saw the way the kid smiled back at him. Yes, he’s a good boy really.
So’s Tony.
And - best of all - he won’t get pregnant.
2. Scotch Mist
The wind, as on most days, blew lustily in from the Forth estuary and roared up the Royal Mile like an Inter-City train. The heavy stone buildings round the Mound broke it up and in the square between them it began to die, though it still fluttered through the tumbled hair of the boy piper under the wide battlement of the Royal Gallery. Gusts flickered at his kilt, at the ribbons of his pipes, and at his long plaid as he played a pibroch, a reel, then a slow lament, the sound echoing poignantly through the old pillars and passages. Knots of tourists gathered to listen, many dropped money on the pavement.
When he had finished, the boy picked up the coins and tucked them away, then, slightly flushed and breathless, he wiped his forehead and, pipes alongside, perched on the low wall to rest, swinging his buckled shoes. At length, lifting each knee in turn, he pulled up his scarlet-topped socks and adjusted the garter-tabs, squinting down to get them straight.
On the pavement opposite Pickering swallowed, then he went across and gave the youngster a two-pound coin. His eyes lit up. “Gosh, thanks.”
“Not at all,” said Pickering. “It was delightful. You must play a good deal.”
“I take it as my instrument in school,” said the boy. “I just come down here at week-ends; I’m saving for a mountain-bike.”
“Doing all right?”
“Not bad. It was the Festival last week, that’s always the best time. I’m nearly halfway there.”
Pickering took another two-pound coin out his pocket, tossed it up and caught it again. His eyes slid down, not for the first time, to the delightful bare brown knees, a poem in themselves, poking out from under the tartan.
His eyes moved back again, he spun the coin between his fingers, then said, “Tell you what. If you’ll satisfy my curiosity on a certain point I’ll give you this as well.”
The boy cast his eyes up. “Oh, how boring, not again! Everyone asks the same thing, Americans even. But I won’t tell. Not ever.”
Pickering laughed. “Fair enough - here, have it anyway.”
He tossed the coin and the boy caught it. “Thanks!” He turned a brilliant smile on Pickering, brushing back the delicate strands of hair from his forehead, making the man’s heart lurch almost painfully.
“Would you,” said Pickering, “have an equally vehement objection to joining me in a Big Mac?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said the boy. “I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat for hours.”
“Not since when?”
“About nine.”
It was eleven-fifteen. Pickering shook his head gravely. “We can’t have that, can we? Come on.”
“The best burger-bar’s right over here. I’ll show you, said the youngster, leading the way.
“What’s your name?”
He was Gavin, aged thirteen-and-a-half. His pipes tucked under his arm, he half-walked, half-skipped along, just keeping up with the man’s longer strides.
“Not everyone asks, by the way,” he said. “The Japanese don’t, they’re much too polite. Not like you.”
Pickering, entranced by the boy’s gentle, liquid accent, smiled down and said, “Sorry.”
“And if it’s not that, it’s will I play Amazing Grace.”
“I’d like that as well,” said Pickering.
“Tell you what,” said Gavin. “I’ll have a bet with you. If you can make me tell, I’ll give you the two pounds back. If not, you have to give me another two.”
“Fair enough,” said Pickering. He looked at the boy again. “Is that all your own gear?”
“Not quite. The kilt’s my school uniform - the Royal Grammar, you know - and the socks too. The rest I’ve just sort of scrounged or borrowed. Okay - here were are.”
He had been right. The burgers were stupendous, the toppings unparalleled, the accompanying portions of chips gargantuan.
“Well chosen. I compliment you on your taste,” said Pickering eventually. “About the bet…”
The youngster shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“I just wanted to say that there are - other ways of finding out.”
Gavin said, “Well, I’m not going to swing on a lamp-post - or stand on my head or walk on my hands for you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Drat - foiled again.”
Gavin smiled. “Though I might, if there wasn’t such a big audience. Could you pass the ketchup, please?”
Pickering gulped, obeyed, then said, “And there are still other ways.”
“Like what?”
The table was blessedly small. Pickering’s palm rested easily on the youngster’s knee, and it was just as easy to slide it up the delectably smooth thigh.
“Do you think they do extra onions?” asked Gavin.
“For you, apes, ivory and peacocks.”
“Just extra onions. If you don’t mind.”
“I’ll enquire in a moment,” Pickering promised. His arm slid to its full length, and he swallowed again. “Oh, wow,” he breathed.
After a moment he asked, “Don’t you get cold?”
“No, I’m used to it - in school, you know.”
Pickering leant forward a little more. “We’re really talking a boner, aren’t we?”
The boy swallowed a mouthful of chips, then said, “Your fault, with all that talk about me doing handstands for you.”
Pickering laughed. “As I recall, it was in fact you who raised the topic. However - you can’t go out like that, can you?”
“S-pose not.”
“Certainly not,” said Pickering. “Wouldn’t do at all, no, no, no. Never mind, I’ll see to it.”
Pickering saw to it, diligently. And a few moments later, suddenly, fragments of burger, onion and cucumber exploded all over the table, even speckling Pickering’s shirt and tie and the empty chair beside him.
A waitress hurried over, looking concerned.
“Is he all right?”
Gavin turned his eighteen-carat smile on her. “Oh, yes.”
“You sure?”
“I’m quite sure. But might I have a tissue, please?”
“Och, don’t worry. I’ll wipe the table down for you, no problem.”
“It’s not for the table,” said Gavin. “It’s for my - ow!” He turned wide eyes on Pickering. “Why did you kick me?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.” The boy turned back to the waitress. “I want to wipe my face, but my friend seems to object.”
“His friend will smack his bottom in a minute,” Pickering informed the waitress.
“Och, don’t be hard on the wee lad, he means no harm,” said the waitress as she bustled off.
“Well, would the wee lad like a drink the noo?” Pinkerton asked.
“That wasn’t very funny,” said Gavin. “Still, you’re just a Sassenach, I pity you really. I’ll have a Coke, please.”
The drink arrived.
“Thanks.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” said Pickering, sitting back in his chair. “After all, I’ve found out what I wanted to know, haven’t I?”
The youngster finished his Coke.
“Yes, but I didn’t tell,” he said. “And that was the bet.”
He held out his hand.
“I’ll take it now.”
3. The Hunchback
There was just one gas-lamp, on the street corner. It had been lit no more than an hour past, and already the snow was beginning to cover it, like a great nightcap, funnelling its yellow light to a dim puddle on the pavement. It was only six in the evening, and within a mile of St Paul’s, but it was the darkest time of year, and, as the homegoing cabs, carriages and hansoms from the City clattered past, the link-boys were all out, running ahead of the carriages, their torches streaming flame and smoke, their nimble bodies flitting through the traffic like dragonflies. There were few lights in the houses, but firelight shone from between several shutters, as the night was bitter, and freezing fog was already beginning to drift up from the river, making the passers-by muffle up heavily against the penetrating cold, speeding them on their way homeward.
Amid the hubbub, few could hear the singer who stood in a broad doorway near the lamp, half-dwarfed by its heavy lintel. He was barefoot, in rags - a shredded jacket, tattered trousers - and he was several degrees thinner than any twelve-year-old boy has a right to be, even an unwashed urchin like this. A cap was on the ground in front of him. Most people, already late because of the snow, pushed by unheeding, but not all. Some lingered, some raised their eyebrows in slight surprise, and some few - but very few - dropped a coin in the boy’s cap.
Because the urchin’s singing was strangely sweet and tuneful, even as heard through the rattle of the carts and the clangour, now, of the Cathedral bells. But those who lingered would soon pass on impatiently as the youngster’s body was racked with yet another coughing spell, as the boy stooped and clutched his narrow chest, as again the song broke up and died.
Then one passer-by lingered a little longer than the others. The boy had been concentrating on his songs but, in a moment or two, gradually becoming aware of his companion, he turned and looked at him curiously.
It was a lad only a little older than himself. One he hadn’t seen in the street before, one with tumbled fair hair and oddly bright eyes. He wore a heavy cloak.
He smiled at the urchin. “Will you sing that one again?”
The younger boy eyed him thoughtfully. The newcomer didn’t look like he had any money - but then friendliness was rare on the street.
“Awright, then.” The youngster took a deep breath and began again.
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
Then, after a few lines he again started coughing; his thin body shaking, doubled up; he gasped for breath, croaked, whooped. This happened more often now.
“Sorry,” he said weakly, after a moment.
“Don’t be,” said the other boy. “That was beautiful. What’s your name?”
“My name’s Sam, Master.”
“Master no-one. I’m Michael. Mike.”
Then Mike said, “Here - sit down for a minute. Back here, where it’s more sheltered.”
The snow was not yet lying between the massive door-pillars; the two boys sat on the step and Mike reached into the depths of his cloak. “It’s not much, but - here.”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “Cor!” Just two slices of bread and a wedge of cheese - but the half-starved urchin’s mouth watered even at the sight of it. “You - you sure?”
“Yes, take it all, I’ve had plenty.” Then, after the boy had munched for a while, he asked, “Where did you learn that song?”
“There,” said the urchin indistinctly, nodding towards the tall church on the corner. He swallowed, then said, “I always sits in the porch when the choir sings. They ’ave the stove on, an’ a bit of heat gets out. An’ - an’ I listen to the singing. It’s wizard!”
He looked at Mike. “An’ I see the boys in the choir sometimes, in their white robes an’ all. Coo, I think, they must all live in big houses like palaces, have beautiful mothers, have hundreds of toys - like a dream it must be.”
“Hmm - maybe,” said Mike.
The youngster went on, “I once asked if I could sing in the choir, but the vicar said they didn’t want no ragged kids. After that the bloomin’ sexton chased me every time I tried to sit in the warm. Eh, what’s that?”
Mike had turned his head away and had muttered something, it seemed angrily, but now he said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Anyways,” Sam went on, “I still listened, and they sing that one more’n any. I learnt it by heart. Don’t ’arf like it.”
Mike said, “Yes, it’s a favourite of mine too. It was written by a brilliant young man in a country called Austria, a long way from here.”
“I dunno about nothin’ like that,” said the urchin, munching again. “Ain’t never bin to school, see.”
The bread and cheese finished, Sam started to sing quietly again, but in a moment or two he started shivering, then coughing once more. Mike put his cloak round both of them and pulled the younger boy in against himself. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks, Mike.”
In a few moments Sam stopped shivering. Mike asked, “You want to sing some more now?”
The youngster coughed, half-retched. “Dunno as I can, Mike.”
“Oh yes, you can.”
Sam, his attention caught by something in Mike’s tone, turned to look at him, then his mouth fell open in dismay. He new friend was standing up now, and Sam could see that under his cloak was a hump, an enormous hump that pushed the heavy cloak back, and his body forwards.
Then, as if realising that he was staring, he said, “Oh, sorry.” Then, with awkward sympathy, “Rough luck, Mike.”
Mike laughed. “Oh, don’t be sorry. Look.”
Slowly, he began to remove his robe. The hump seemed to get bigger and bigger; it rose behind Mike’s head, then spread out on both sides.
The urchin had stood as well. There was light in his eyes, then on all of his face.
“Cor!” he breathed at last. “Cor!!” Then he started coughing again, convulsing and whooping as if he would never stop.
But he did, and then the other boy put a hand on his shoulder. “Will you come with me now?”
The urchin, his face still bathed in the pure light, looked up at him and nodded.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Come on, then,” said Mike quietly. “It’s not as far as you think, though it’s very dark. But take my hand, I know the way.”
They walked together down the pavement and into a long alley beyond it, Mike’s strong fingers entwined with Sam’s. And at the end of the alley the snow, the mist and the darkness took them.
Next morning, when the two parish constables came on early patrol, one of them stumbled over what at first looked like a bundle of old clothes on the pavement. But it was the small singer, cold and lifeless.
“Oh, Gawd,” groaned one of them. “Not another one. Well - call the cart, Henry.”
The other looked down, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember ’im, bit of a card as I recall. But the cold was getting to ’im in the end, talking a lot of nonsense ’e was.”
“Look,” said his colleague, stooping and then standing up again. From beside the dead boy he had picked something up.
A feather.
A white feather - larger, whiter and more beautiful than either of them had ever seen.
For a moment or two the constable who held it stared, was totally silent.
Then quickly, he crushed it in his hand and threw it into the pile of rubbish in the doorway.
“Bloody kids,” he muttered. “Come on, let’s get this pavement tidied up.”