Burning Passions
the 10th 'Feltenham' Mystery Michael Gouda
"He just sits there looking at me," complained Phil Howard, "with his wide, blue, innocent eyes while under the desk, where only I can see him his legs are spread and he's playing with himself."
Keith Hatch smiled across at his partner of some eight years. Even though Phil had had his hair cut short in order to give credence to his recently started career as an English teacher in an Inner London Comprehensive school, the dark, honey-coloured curls still struggled to escape from regimentation. His eyes still sparkled with scarcely concealed mischief. Certainly he looked older than when they had first met - Phil was twenty-eight now - but Keith still saw him as not much more than an adolescent, slim, exuberant, and always sexy - and loved him for it.
"What's his name?" he asked. "This juvenile would-be seducer?"
"Dominic," said Phil. "Dominic Spencer. The school doesn't insist on a uniform and he wears a black polo-necked sweater. It's made of a fluffy, almost feminine wool and emphasises the fairness of his skin. No other boy would get away without being teased unmercifully, bullied probably, called a 'poof' - but not Dominic. No one dares. A pair of clean, grey jeans covers his long legs stretched out under the desk, new, unscuffed trainers."
"Sounds a right little charmer," said Keith.
"Oh he is. He always seems to have a slight smile on his face but not blatant enough to cause offence. His straight blond hair is slicked back to reveal a high, wide forehead. His intelligent brown eyes under their slightly hooded lids are anticipatory. The tip of his tongue, pink and pointed, peeps out between his lips and licks the top one - very gently."
"You know, you have developed quite a style since you became a teacher... almost literary."
"Better than your Constable Plod one, you mean," said Phil. He put on a caricature of a policeman giving of evidence at a trial. "Just after ten o'clock am I was proceeding in a westerly direction...."
Keith laughed. "It's been a long time since I was a Police Constable."
"Sorry to remind you of your 'umble origins, Inspector 'Atch."
It was indeed, thought Keith. He'd been a Sergeant in the Gay Liaison Force of the Metropolitan Police when he'd met Phil for the first time, back in that dingy gay club when the lad had come on to him so outrageously. He should have arrested him rather than 'marrying' him. So much had happened since but they'd stayed together, even through the bad periods, like after Phil had suffered from meningitis when he had really changed - and now Keith couldn't imagine life without him.
"What's it really like, being a teacher?" he asked.
Phil hesitated. "Well, today for instance, Year 11 English, first period. Could be fifty minutes of unmitigated hell or a rewarding interchange of thoughts and opinions entirely depending, it always seems, on the whim or mood of Dominic Spencer. I can always tell from the way the boys crowd through the doorway into the classroom as the bell rings. If all is going well, they come in, in a vaguely civilised manner, chatting certainly but in a cheerful, companionable way. If it is to be a disaster period, the mood will be one of belligerence, pushing and shoving at each other, knocking chairs over, throwing books, demanding paper as they've forgotten their exercise books and looking outraged at the suggestion that their homework from last night be produced."
"Are you sure you did the right thing - becoming a teacher?"
"Oh yes," Phil said confidently. "I love it - most of the time anyway, and I think most of the kids really quite like me. I'd hate to give it up. Well couldn't now, could I? Not start another real career, I mean."
"But this Dominic? Sounds like he's trying to seduce you."
"Not sure. Maybe it's subconscious. They try it on, you know, testing you, seeing how far they can go before it gets to you."
"You don't have to tell me," said Keith. "It's the same with the young criminals I get."
"And yet, mine are sometimes very innocent, very likeable - even Dominic every so often."
"You be careful," said Keith. "Don't want to get caught with your hand in the till. That'd be the end of your teaching employment."
"No chance of that. Certainly I'd never touch a single pupil at the school. Not even an affectionate pat on the shoulder of my most favourite ones. All right I shouldn't have favourites, but I'm only human, and some are bloody attractive - not that I'd ever allow that to sway my opinion of their work, of course."
He got up and walked towards the mirror over the fireplace where he studied himself for a while. "I don't look gay, do I, well not camp at any rate, except when I put it on purposely. I don't wear my hair long or let it flop over my forehead. My chin isn't weak, nor my eyelashes long. I don't stand around with my hand on my hips or flap in a limp-wristed way. My voice - I know because I've heard it on an audio tape - isn't high and fluting. Clean-cut, straight-looking guy, aren't I?"
"You're adorable," said Keith.
"They all say that."
"They?"
"There are no 'they'" said Phil suddenly becoming serious. "Just you."
Keith held out his hand and Phil stepped towards him reaching out his own hand. They touched and Phil felt the other's flesh against his. It was dry and warm. Keith drew him close. Now Phil was quiet and still, their lips gently touching and then the point of his tongue emerged, insistently probing inside Keith's, past his teeth, into the mouth and meeting the other tongue, tasting the saliva, joining the two tongues.
Keith hands grasped Phil's waist and felt the angular boniness of his hips before rubbing the flat stomach down which a thin line of fair hair disappeared under his trousers. He undid the buttons of Phil's shirt and unzipped his jeans, pulling off his trainers and socks so that he could get the jeans over his feet. He drew down his shorts so that he stood there naked in front of his lover.
He clasped him and now his embraces were tender and ardent. Phil felt himself becoming stimulated, imprisoned as he was between the other's thighs and with that prick, which had never lost its hardness all the time, pressed into him and jousting with his own erection.
Suddenly Keith stooped and picked Phil up in his arms. He did it with no trace of effort or exertion, the muscles in his arms scarcely tightening, and carried him over to the bed. He laid him down gently on his back, lifting his legs so that his arse was exposed and vulnerable. Phil knew what was coming and tensed himself for the assault but instead of a steel-hard rod, he felt a tongue licking under the base of his scrotum and then along the perineum that sensitive area between the anus and the balls which some believe is the centre of sexual being.
Phil could scarcely bear the delight and arched his body upwards so that his arse was even more open and into which Keith's tongue probed and licked. He could not stop himself making animal-like noises being almost out of his mind with the desire to come and be fucked.
Then Keith's cock plunged in searing him with a pain which was both exquisite agony and delight. It filled him and at the same time fulfilled him. Keith's member was giving him the most acute physical pleasure, the frenzied ecstasy spreading out through his whole body in wave upon wave of anguished delight. He wanted the cock to remain inside for ever, going deeper and deeper until it merged with his very being.
He felt it being withdrawn and then plunging in again until the movement was regular - and at each stroke he knew delight and physical satisfaction.
Then the cock inside him pulsed and he knew that Keith was coming. He reared his own body up, clutching the other's haunches and pulling him if possible even closer, even further inside. His own cock twitched and jerked seemingly stimulated from behind, from some central core in his bowels. He came and came again and could not stop, the throbbing pulses feeling as if they were emptying out his very entrails.
He collapsed backwards on the bed, utterly spent, gasping and panting, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.
The following morning they were both late and neither had time for breakfast. Keith clattered down the stairs into the hall and picked up the post. Hurriedly he flicked through the envelopes, muttering. "Junk, junk." Then he called upstairs to the bathroom where Phil was still showering, and whistling a little out of tune. "Stop that dreadful row. There's a letter for you. Don't know who it's from. Postmarked Tottenham."
The whistling stopped abruptly.
"Didn't really mean it," said Keith. "Bye, lover. See you this evening. I'll get the food." He went out and the front door banged behind him.
Phil appeared at the top of the stairs, a towel in his hands but still dripping from the shower. He ran downstairs and looked at the pile of mail on the table, snatched up the one addressed to him and ripped it open.
Quickly he scanned the contents - there were few enough lines - and, if anyone had been there to see, the watcher would have noticed the blood drain from his face leaving it pale, almost haggard so that suddenly he looked a lot older than he really was.
"Morning, guv," said Police Constable Peter Lippett cheerily as Inspector Hatch breezed into his office. Keith looked at his PC with trepidation. Peter had been well known through all his time with the force for a succession of short relationships with unsuitable young men, the first being with Stiff, a drug user, hustler and suspected murderer . 'Stiff' had been found innocent of the murder but Peter had soon found this, and subsequent, relationships impossible and each breakup had resulted in acute depression for some time after. A 'cheerful' Peter Lippett usually meant that he had met a new lover and, for the moment, was looking forward to a rosy and fulfilling future.
"Had a good weekend, Peter?" asked Keith.
"Oh yes, sir." He failed to go into more details and Keith was grateful. It was difficult to be enthusiastic sometimes when Peter related the latest acquisition to his list of inappropriate and obviously (to anyone but the ever-optimistic Peter) doomed boyfriends.
"Good. Good," he muttered and sat down at his desk where, amongst the correspondence and inter-office memos, he found a message from the Divisional Commander waiting for him. It appeared that he was wanted for a meeting later that day to discuss problems created by a militant religious group calling itself 'Jehovah's Tabernacle' which was violently anti-gay and had threatened if not actually carried out several attacks on prominent homosexuals.
Something about the name struck a chord in Keith's memory but, for the moment, he couldn't remember what it was - certainly nothing recent. He wondered if they had anything on the group in the files and called out for Peter to find out. It wouldn't take much investigation to sort out this little problem, he thought. These crack-pot organisations were usually self-destructive anyway. He stared out of the window where starlings squabbled on the window ledge outside.
While his constable was searching through the files, Keith looked again at the note and realised that the meeting with the Commander would mean he would be late home and his last shouted message to Phil, that he would get the food, would obviously not be possible. He rang Phil's school and was answered by the School secretary whose voice he remembered from previous occasions.
"Could I speak to Mr Howard?" he asked.
There was a pause and then she said, "I'm sorry Mr Howard isn't in school today."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh yes. I just had a phone call from him. He said he wasn't too well and wouldn't be able to come in. He said he might make it for the afternoon."
This was strange. Phil had shown no signs of feeling ill this morning but, since his almost fatal attack of meningitis three years before, Keith worried about him, as Phil said, like an old hen over her chicks. He tried their home number but the phone rang unanswered. Perhaps, if Phil had suddenly felt ill, he had gone to the local doctor's surgery. Keith tried not to feel anxious.
Peter came in clutching a folder in which were some clippings from local and national newspapers.
"Sounds like a real crowd of weirdoes," he said as he placed them down on the desk in front of Keith..
'Jehovah's Tabernacle zealots threaten Bishop', read Keith from the headlines of one article, which went on, 'Also known as the 'Temple of the Wrath of God', this extremist group have sent a letter to the Bishop of Hoddesdon, the Right Reverend Arthur Turner, accusing him of being a homosexual, charging him with sexual misdemeanours with his choirboys and threatening to burn down his church. The Bishop,' continued the article, 'a married man with three children, confessed himself bewildered by the accusation. "As Bishop," he said, "I do not even have a particular church of my own. Even the one in which I most often perform services doesn't actually have a choir, or at least, when it does, it's mainly composed of middle-aged ladies. I fear they must have mistaken me for someone else." 'Asked whether he would be taking legal proceedings against the group, the bishop said that he would prefer not to give them any more publicity than they had already achieved...'
There were more articles in a similar vein revealing accusations against an actor, several hairdressers, a scoutmaster and an author who, though writing under the name of Granville Hunter, was, in fact, a woman. A note in Inspector Sheridan's (Keith's predecessor) handwriting suggested that the activities of this group were so bizarre that they best be ignored for the time being, though possibly later action should be taken if the attacks continued.
"Where is this place?" asked Keith, who, when the Commander asked questions, liked to have as many answers as he could ready and waiting. "This Jehovah's Tabernacle."
"I looked it up in the phone book, sir," said Peter. "They obviously aren't worried about hiding themselves. The church, if that's what you can call it, is in Edmonton, Radcliffe Street."
"Almost on our doorstep," said Keith, the boroughs of Edmonton, Tottenham and Islington composing a contiguous large part of North London. "How are you placed today, Peter? Busy?"
Peter shook his head.
"Right. Let's leave the office in the capable hands of Sergeant Webb and go visit. I'd like to have a look at this place."
Jehovah's Tabernacle was a large, pseudo-Gothic building built of grey stone, soot-blackened and ugly. It looked like a relic from some mid-19th Century Protestant enthusiast denomination which had presumably run out of funds, been sold off and was now owned by the present sect. Its wooden double front doors, fitted into a stone Gothic arch were painted a dull grey but the paint was peeling and the whole place looked scruffy and uncared for. The windows, high pointed arches, though of plain glass, were so dirty as to be as good as opaque. It was locked and only the notice board outside, proclaiming its name, its pastoral leader, Rev. Ezekiel Fox and a list of times of worship, showed that it was still used.
A woman passing by with a pair of plastic shopping bags bulging at the seams looked at them curiously as they tried the doors.
"You won't find them open except at service times," she said. "Mostly Sundays, but they ain't exactly welcoming even then." She put down her bags on the pavement and looked as if she was preparing for a chat.
"You're not a member then?" asked Keith. "Of the congregation?"
"Ooh no, love," she said. "I go to the Presbyterian down the road. They do a nice cuppa tea on Thursdays." She paused and then added, "With a biscuit."
"And this lot?" asked Peter.
"Don't think they approve of tea and biscuits," she said in a tone of disparagement. "They don't seem to approve of much else at all. 'Aven't even got seats inside. You 'ave to stand. And that preacher, Reverend 'e calls 'imself, he ain't a real vicar. 'E just shouts at you."
"How do you mean 'Shouts'?" said Keith encouragingly.
"Yes, you know. What you done wrong. Yer sins. As if I 'ave the money for sins. Lives at number 117." She picked up her bags and started off.
"Do you?" asked Keith. "Can we carry your bags?"
"Not me, dear. The so-called Reverend. And no thanks. This is where I live." and she went into the house next to the Tabernacle, the first in a long line that made up the Victorian red-brick terrace.
"Are we going to call on the Reverend, guv?" asked Peter.
"I don't think we've got any real reason to," said Keith. "I'll wait to hear what the Commander says this evening." The mention of this evening's meeting reminded him that he still hadn't got in touch with Phil so he gave the school a call on his mobile.
The Secretary answered. "Yes, Mr Hatch," she said, "Mr Howard is in now but I'm afraid he's teaching. Can I give him a message?"
"If you could just tell him, I'll be delayed this evening."
It was getting on for seven o'clock when Keith eventually got home. The meeting with the Commander, Chief Superintendent Wilson, and various other senior officers had gone on for longer than expected. The Jehovah's Tabernacle affair had taken a rather more sinister turn. One of the organisation's accusations had apparently struck home. A man on the Tottenham Borough Council had, it appeared, committed suicide. Amongst his belongings had been found a letter from the Jehovah's Tabernacle accusing him of sodomy with another man, and threatening to tell the story to the local paper.
"Even if it were true," said the Commander, his moustache bristling, "both men were of age and they weren't doing anything illegal."
"Immoral, sir," suggested a Chief Inspector.
"Depends on your view. Anyway, Hatch, what do we know about this group?"
Keith was glad he'd made the effort earlier. He was able to brief his superiors and they were obviously impressed.
"Good job, Hatch," said the Commander. "But I think we'll have to do something about this Reverend Fox. Go and see him tomorrow, will you."
Keith wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do, after all it did not seem as if the Tabernacle was actually breaking the law but he'd find out something. They seemed an unpleasant bunch. But now he was pleased to be home. It had been a long day, and a meal and the company of Phil would be welcome.
He unlocked the front door and was surprised to find the house in darkness.
"Phil," he called out, but there was no answer. He remembered the school secretary's disclosure that Phil had felt ill that morning and wondered if he was in bed, but there was no one in the bedroom and the bed was as they had left it that morning. Feeling rather disturbed, Keith went downstairs again and into the kitchen. On the work surfaces he found evidence of the beginnings of a meal, some vegetables had been cut up and there was a bowl of eggs which had been whisked as if about to be made into an omelette. It looked like a scene from the Marie Celeste.
He went into the hall again and looked to see whether Phil's coat was hanging there. It was there that he found the hurriedly-scrawled note. 'Tried to phone you,' it said. 'Father dead. Have gone to see mother.'
Keith remembered that he had switched off his mobile phone when he had gone into the meeting, the Commander didn't take too kindly to external interruptions, and had forgotten to switch it on again. But the information was, if anything, very upsetting. Phil's parents had taken very badly to the news that he was gay, even more so that he was living with another man. When Phil had been in hospital with meningitis, they had visited him and, although Keith still found this almost impossible to believe, it appeared they had wanted their son to die, perhaps even tried to suffocate him when it looked as if he had turned the corner and was getting better. Keith still wondered whether this was just the imaginings of Phil's bewildered mind, though a nurse had herself been suspicious.
He tried to imagine Phil's response to the news of his father's death. The parents had behaved so badly to their son that he didn't scarcely imagine Phil could still feel too much love or concern for them, but, knowing his mother was on her own he might have felt it was his duty to be with her. What her reactions would be, Keith had no idea. He had never actually seen them together and in the past all her vitriolic hatred seemed to have been directed at him. Perhaps, without the influence of her husband, she and Phil might form a normal, loving relationship.
He dialed Phil's mobile number and after a single ring it was answered. "Phil," he said. "I just saw your note. I'm terribly sorry. How are you feeling?"
"I'm OK," said Phil. The tone was noncommittal.
"I'm sorry I switched off the mobile. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to fetch you in the car?"
"I think I'd better stay here with Mum. She's very upset."
"Was it sudden? Your father, I mean."
"Of course it was. He was shot."
"Shot!" Keith was momentarily taken aback. "You mean he committed suicide?" It was the first thing he thought of.
"No. Someone shot him."
"Oh God! Have the police been?"
"They've just left." The brusqueness of his replies revealed how Phil was holding his emotions in.
"Have they any idea who did it?"
"Don't think so. The gun's disappeared. They took fingerprints and things. They'll be back in the morning."
"Would it help if I came over?"
"I wish you could, but you know what Mum thinks about you. I guess it would just make it worse. She's lying down now. The doctor gave her a pill."
"OK. I'll leave it until tomorrow. If you want me - at any time over the night, just ring. I love you, Phil. I wish I could be there."
"Love you." Keith heard the click of the connection being broken and for a moment remained with the phone against his ear as if he was still in some way attached to Phil. Then he put the receiver back in the rest and, almost mechanically, though he didn't really feel hungry, began to cook the omelette that Phil had started preparing earlier.
It was not of course the first night that they had ever spent apart since the relationship had begun but the circumstances were so unusual and the knowledge that Phil must be suffering meant that Keith experienced a devastating feeling of loneliness. He slept little and lay awake long before dawn until the grey rectangle of the window gradually lightened. Then he got up. At 8 o'clock he rang Phil again.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'll take the day off," said Phil and Keith remembered that he hadn't asked him what he had been doing the day before and why he had had the morning off then, but it didn't seem either the time nor the place to start quizzing him when there were other much more urgent matters to worry about.
"I want to see you," said Keith.
There was a pause at the other end then Phil's voice. "OK. When can you come round?"
Keith had to visit the Jehovah's Tabernacle leader some time during the day but so far he had made no appointment. "Any time," he said.
"One of the perks of being a boss," said Phil, with the faintest return of what sounded like a lifting of his spirits. "Perhaps on your way to work."
"What's the address?"
"24 Radcliffe Street, Tottenham," said Phil and Keith made a note of it on the back of an envelope.
He had rung off before the significance of the address struck him. It was the same road as the Tabernacle, must indeed be not far from the Reverend Fox's house.
"Peter," said Sergeant Webb, "are you doing anything?"
Peter Lippett, lost in his own personal recollections of Jason and what they had been doing the previous evening, was staring through the computer screen, ostensibly looking up any previous 'form' of the Reverend Fox.
"Police Constable Lippett!" Webb's tone was sharper.
"Sorry, Sarge. I was - er - a bit busy."
"Well, if you can come down to earth for a minute. Inspector Hatch has just been through. He wants you to meet him at the Fox house, ten o'clock. So, chop, chop. Get yourself going."
Keith drew up outside number 24. There was a police car already at the kerb and a young police constable on duty at the door. He looked inexperienced and enthusiastic, a bit like Peter Lippett had done when he had first joined the force.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the PC, as Keith walked up the crazy paving path through the gaps of which weeds pushed their ways vigorously. "It's not very convenient to visit at the moment. There's been an accident."
Keith showed him his warrant.
The PC looked a little nonplused. "Could you hold on a moment, sir," he said. "I'll tell Inspector Glossop."
Keith felt a slight sinking feeling in his gut. Glossop, whom he had met before, was a hard-bitten, compassionless man who had a reputation of achieving results at whatever the cost, and whoever he hurt in the process.
The PC returned. "Inspector Glossop would like a word."
Glossop was in the hall. A pair of baleful eyes under thick black eyebrows looked at him aggressively. "Well, Hatch, what's all this got to do with you?"
"Only that I'm a friend of Phil Howard," said Keith.
Glossop appeared to consider for a moment.
"OK," he said, having apparently come to a decision. "Come on in."
The room was dark and rather shabby. The furniture, a settee and two armchairs, looked as if they had seen better days and the mahogany sideboard and table were scuffed and unpolished. There were no pictures on the wall, no decorations at all apart from the pattern on the carpet which itself had faded to an almost universal grey. Keith wondered if Phil had grown up in these surroundings. How soulless it must have seemed. They had never talked too much about his upbringing.
Phil himself was standing by the window. As Keith went in, he took a step forward but then stopped. A woman, middle-aged, sat in one of the armchairs. It was obvious that she was Phil's mother. She had the same honey-coloured hair, but hers looked faded and lifeless. The eyes were the same grey though hers had lost Phil's sparkle - if they had ever had it. Not that Phil looked particularly bright at the moment. He had obviously had little sleep and there were dark shadows under his eyes and a worried frown on his forehead.
"Just run over the events again, would you, Mrs Howard - for my colleague's sake. You say your husband's behaviour was just as usual, yesterday morning."
The woman nodded.
"And you went out about 10 o'clock?" prompted Inspector Glossop.
She nodded again.
"Could you tell us, in your own words, what happened next."
Mrs Howard looked around her as if she was searching for something, someone. Her eyes though had a strange blankness about them. When she spoke, the words came out in short bursts, the words running together so that occasionally they seemed to make little sense. They were interspersed with phrases that sounded to Keith vaguely Biblical. He wondered if she was mentally unhinged.
"Had to go to the shops - man shall not live by bread alone but the spirit called. When I got back, at the eleventh hour, I found him with the mark of Cain on his forehead. But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Spirit hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation. The blood stained the wall."
"The mark of Cain?" Keith asked.
"The bullet hole," said Glossop. "He had been shot at close range. There were powder burns on his face showing how close the gun was. He must have known who the attacker was but he doesn't seem to have tried to protect himself."
Keith glanced at Mrs Howard to see how this frank description was affecting her, but she didn't seem to have noticed. Phil, on the other hand, looked distraught.
"The gun?"
"Missing," said Glossop. "Mrs Howard, is there anyone you can think of who had a grudge against your husband?"
She looked blankly around and then seemed to see Keith for the first time. "Who's he?" she demanded.
"This is Inspector Hatch," said Glossop. "I told you he was a colleague."
Suddenly her blank eyes focused. "Keith Hatch?" she demanded. "He's the one. He took my son and turned him into a perversion. Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexuals." She swung round to face Phil. "And you lie with him in corruption. Your sin, like his shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God. You hated your father."
Glossop looked at her sharply.
Keith could almost read his thoughts. Amongst the pseudo-religious rubbish, Mrs Howard had introduced a suggestion which could and probably would, spark off a suspicion. As if to confirm his thoughts, Glossop turned to Phil.
"Just as a matter of form, where were you yesterday between 10 and 11 in the morning."
"In school, of course," said Phil. It was the first thing he had said since Keith's arrival and Keith felt a twinge of alarm for he knew it was a lie. He said nothing but knew he must talk to Phil as soon as possible.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. It was ten o-clock and Keith remembered he had arranged to meet Peter at the Reverend Fox's house. "Can I just have a private word with Phil?" he said.
Mrs Howard suddenly got up from the armchair so that she stood between them, raising her arms in a rather theatrical gesture. "Get away from him," she shouted, even though Keith had made no move towards Phil. "I will not allow the contagion in my house."
Keith was about to protest but Phil shook his head. "You'd better go, Keith. I'll phone you later."
There were various things that Keith wanted to say - but not in front of Glossop, so he nodded to him and went out, feeling distinctly worried about the way things were turning out.
Glossop followed him out into the hall. "I think we should have a little chat," he said.
"I'm late for an appointment," said Keith. "Perhaps this afternoon. Give me a ring at work."
He passed the Constable on the door who was talking to a woman standing on the porch of the next door house. She peered curiously at Keith as he got into the car and drove down the street to number 117.
It was practically indistinguishable from any of the other houses in the road except that the curtains were drawn across all the windows, both upstairs and down. Peter was standing on the pavement, obviously undecided as to whether he should go up to the door or not. His face cleared as the car drew up and Keith got out.
"Do you think there's anyone in, guv?" asked Peter.
Keith looked dubiously at the blind windows and shrugged. "Let's see," he said.
The sound of the bell echoed hollowly through the house. They waited. Keith tried to peer through the glass panels in the door but they seemed to be obscured by whatever was on the other side. He was reminded of the blind windows of the church, they had seen earlier.
Suddenly, with no warning of approaching footsteps, the door was opened and a man stood in the doorway. Keith got an impression of greyness. He was tall and thin, wearing a grey suit. Even his skin seemed to be grey in the morning sunshine. He blinked as if the light was too much for him.
"Mr Fox?" asked Keith.
"Brother Ezekiel," said the man.
"Inspector Hatch, Police Constable Lippett."
"You'd better come in." Fox retreated backwards down the hall which, Keith noted was completely bare, no carpet, the walls painted an indeterminate shade of beige, no pictures, an unshaded light bulb suspended from the ceiling. "Shut the door behind you."
Peter, who had let Hatch go in first, shut the door and immediately they were in pitch darkness. The glass door panels had been painted over on the inside and not a chink of light showed through. Keith, brought up short by the surprise, stopped and Peter bumped into him, automatically folding his arms round him so that they stood there for a moment in an involuntary embrace. Keith could feel the young man's body fastened to his back before he bounced off again. He could imagine Peter's embarrassed blush.
"Could we have some light, Mr Fox," said Keith, as calmly as he could.
"Brother Ezekiel." The grey, colourless voice came out from the darkness before there was a click and a small 25 watt bulb was switched on to light up the gloomy hall and allow them to avoid the stairs and enter a room on the left.
Another flat and sterile, almost featureless room with a table and five upright and uncomfortable-looking chairs around it. There was nothing more. If Brother Ezekiel had aimed at a sort of monk-like austerity, he had achieved more the effect of vandalised vacancy. He sat in the chair at the head of the table with his back to the windows. The curtains, heavy and grey, though drawn, let in a just enough light to see facial expressions.
Keith and Peter took two chairs on one side. It was a little like a badly attended committee meeting.
"I suppose you've come from the Howards," said Fox.
Keith was surprised but, after a moment's thought, it began to fall into place. Mrs Howard's wild, religious ravings, Jehovah's Tabernacle. Perhaps this was the line to follow - at least for the start.
"You, of course, know the Howards?" he began tentatively.
"A mainstay of the church," said Fox. "Where would we be without them?"
"But, of course, you are without them - or at least one of them. Mr Howard being dead." He wondered whether this would surprise Fox but he took it calmly, pursing his lips before he replied, as if in disapproval. To Keith's eyes, though, his emotion did not appear to have any true depth.
"Yes, of course, such an appalling tragedy. Are you any further in your investigations? Have you found the perpetrator of the crime?"
"Tell me, Mr F... er Brother Ezekiel, how did you come to learn about Mr Howard's death?"
"Oh Sister Muriel phoned me immediately she found her husband's body. She wanted to know what to do. And I of course told her to inform the police. Then I immediately went around to console her."
"Her son, Phil, arrived soon after, I think"
For the first time, Fox seemed to become rather less than self-possessed. His hands, which before had rested quietly on the table surface, now began to take on a life of themselves. The fingers started to move, almost as if he was playing the piano, long thin digits moving independently. Both Police officers looked at them and suddenly Fox snatched them away and hid them under the table.
"Philip Howard," he said, his lips moving as if the sound of the name itself was distasteful to him. "A great scourge to two courageous and steadfast believers."
"Scourge?" repeated Keith.
"Abomination!" The word came out like a hammer-blow and with it a globule of spit which shot out from his mouth onto the table surface. "A profanity to the creations of God."
Keith felt a surge of anger against the man but he controlled himself. "In this connection," he said carefully, "it seems you have been writing letters accusing people of being gay, threatening to 'out' them."
"They are against the Law of God! God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies." He shouted as if he were in the pulpit and facing a large congregation rather than two people sitting within a couple of feet.
"But not against the law of the land," said Keith.
"I serve a higher authority."
"No, sir, you do not. Well, not if one contravenes the other. Your action appears to have resulted in the death of one of the recipients of your letters."
"It is a sin against the Holy Spirit."
"I thought you believed that the only sin against the Holy Spirit was one which resulted in the impossibility of repentance afterwards, suicide for instance."
For some reason, which Keith did not quite understand, Fox seemed to have been affected by the last comment. The shouted answers quietened and Fox narrowed his gaze to look at Keith closely for the first time. He said nothing though for a while.
Keith stood up. "Mr Fox," he said. Fox's mouth opened as if to start to say 'Brother Ezekiel' but no sound came out. "I suggest you suspend your campaign of prejudice and discrimination. I shall report to the Chief Commissioner. It is against the law to send homophobic - or indeed any other sort of hate-mail. We are leaving now, but may well return." Even to his own ears, it sounded weak but Fox still said nothing. Keith nodded to Peter and they went out, through the dark hall and into the sunshine.
Outside both of them breathed deeply. After the claustrophobic confines of that house with its fanatical inhabitant, even the City air with its pollution and petrol fumes, smelled sweet.
Keith felt almost light-headed. "And next time, Peter, I'd be obliged if you would warn me before you make another sexual assault on your superior officer."
Peter looking at him, judging what he could get away with.
"Thought you might have enjoyed it, sir," he said.
The rest of the day seemed to consist mostly of a succession of telephone calls. The Commissioner called before Keith had even had time to compose a report of the morning's interview with Brother Ezekiel. Superintendent Wilson sounded interested that Fox had some, albeit peripheral, connection with another case and asked for the details. "Keep me informed, Hatch," he said before ringing off.
Inspector Glossop phoned sounding formal and remote, and wanting to quiz Keith about Phil's relationship with his father. First though he asked him about his own relationship with Phil.
"Close," said Keith. "We live together." There did not seem to be any point in avoiding the truth. No doubt Mrs Howard had already told him in her own inimitable way and, divested of its Old Testament embroidery, it would have been made absolutely clear.
Glossop seemed to appreciate his candour and his voice sounded less distant. "And Phil Howard with his father?"
"Not what you could call a relationship at all," said Keith. "His father had disowned him, if I can use that rather Victorian phrase, after he found out that Phil was gay. Phil was upset but it was years ago now and I know he'd got used to it. I'm pretty sure it didn't upset him any more." Keith saw no point in telling him about the incident in the hospital, as he was sure it was quite irrelevant to the inquiry.
"Hm," said Glossop, noncommittally. "So you don't think I should consider Phil as a suspect."
"No," said Keith. "He wouldn't kill anyone. He couldn't kill anyone. Why would he want to kill his father anyway? There was no contact between them."
Glossop didn't reply.
Keith waited, then asked, "Is there anything else?"
"The post mortem's come through. Not quite what we'd expected, though I don't think it makes any difference."
"He wasn't shot?"
"Of course he was shot. But the pathologist found a brain tumour. He'd have been dead anyway, within a month or so."
"Did he know?"
"Must have done. On and off he'd have been in intense pain. We found morphine anyway, prescribed. We'll be seeing his GP tomorrow, but, yes, I'd say he must have known."
He rang off.
Then just as Keith was about to go home, Phil himself called.
"Where are you? I'm so glad you phoned."
"I'm still at mother's. Something rather bad's happened. The next door neighbour said she saw me coming out from the house yesterday."
"Going in, you mean," said Keith. "After your mother told you about your father's death."
"No! Between 10 and 11 in the morning, before mother came back from the shopping, before she found my father."
"But that's stupid," said Keith. "You were at school. You said you were at school." Even as he said it, he knew it was useless. Phil hadn't been at school that morning. They both knew that. "What did Glossop do? He didn't arrest you?"
"He wanted to," said Phil, "But I don't think he could find a motive,"
"Come home, honey," said Keith. "I can't talk on the phone. We must discuss this."
"OK," said Phil.
Phil hadn't arrived when Keith got home so, while he waited, he decided to clear up a bit. Yesterday's muddle was still much in evidence. He washed up the supper things, made the bed and tidied the muddle of towels which was still in the bathroom. It was there that he found the letter, screwed up and lying in a corner.
Keith smoothed it out.
Couched in those pseudo-Biblical terms which by now Keith found familiar, the letter was from Phil's father, accusing him of being a danger to children, and threatening to inform the education authorities, unless he resigned from his teaching post immediately.
Keith could scarcely believe the man's petty spite but immediately knew how Phil would have reacted, the shock when he realised that the career he had trained for for four years was now in danger. Here, indeed, was the motive that Glossop was looking for. Scarcely thinking what he did, Keith tore up the letter and flushed the pieces down the toilet.
When Phil arrived home he looked worn and tired. "I could do with a drink," were his first words as he came through the door.
Neither of them drank much usually. "We've only got that bottle of sweet sherry Peter Lippett gave us last Christmas," said Keith. "Do you want to go out?"
Phil made a face. They'd tried the sherry; it was sweet and sickeningly cloying. Phil shook his head. "Jesus, Keith, I'm frightened. I don't know what's happening."
He looked so 'little boy lost' that Keith took him in his arms. "It'll be all right," he said.
"I wasn't at school yesterday morning," said Phil. "Glossop will find out as soon as he checks up."
"Where were you, honey?"
"I went round to see my father. He sent me a foul letter, threatening to out me to the Governors. I wanted to - oh I don't know, try to persuade him not to. I knew, though, from the start it was hopeless."
"I saw the letter," said Keith. "I destroyed it. Glossop would only see it as providing a motive."
"You destroyed it?" Phil sat down on the sofa.
"Of course. I know you couldn't have killed your father. There is no need for Glossop to get lost following a wrong lead. What happened when you saw your father?"
"He was in a state," said Phil. "Almost irrational. Nothing he said made any sense. We had a row of course but when I left he was most certainly alive. I think his final words to me were, 'If it's the last thing I do, I shall destroy you'. I can still see him standing there, in that room where you were today, actually spitting out the words."
Keith thought of the other man, Fox, who had been so moved by his own vituperation that his spittle had sprayed out of his mouth. It was not a pretty sight and he wondered at the sort of religion - if that's what it could be called - that engendered and fostered such hatred. "What time was this?" he asked.
"I don't know. I got back to school about twenty past eleven. I suppose it took half an hour to get there. I had to wait for a bus for some time."
"And your mother wasn't there?"
Phil shook his head.
"I wish you had told Glossop this," said Keith. "What made you say you were in school?"
Phil looked as if he was about to break down. "I don't know," he said. "I just panicked."
Keith sat down beside him and put his arms around him again. "We've got to decide what to do next," he said. "I think it would be best if you did tell Glossop."
Phil looked up at him and eventually nodded. Keith went towards the phone and, as he did so, the front door bell rang. They both jumped. Somehow the ordinary, everyday sound had a menacing quality to it.
Keith went to the door, Phil's silhouette standing in the opening to the living room looking down the hall. It was Inspector Glossop, the young Police Constable standing just behind him on the door step.
"Sorry about this, Hatch," said Glossop and stepped into the hall. He looked at Phil. "Philip Howard, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Arnold James Howard. You do not have to say anything but if you...."
Keith scarcely heard the familiar words of the caution. Phil's face had drained of blood and he looked as if he was about to collapse. "No, I didn't do it," he said.
"You're wrong," said Keith but knew he could do nothing now. "I'll get a lawyer," he said to Phil, touching him on the shoulder as he walked past, Glossop's hand on his elbow.
"Take Mr Howard to the car," said Glossop to the P.C.
"You're making a mistake," said Keith.
Glossop paused and looked at him. "You're too close," he said. "We've checked with the school. He didn't come in until nearly midday. The neighbour actually saw him coming out of the house not long before Mrs Howard got back from the shops."
"Yes, Phil was there. He'll tell you that. But his father was alive when he left. I believe him."
"Of course you do," said Glossop. "But there were no other people in the house. There are only fingerprints of the three of them. Get a lawyer by all means. We won't question Phil until one arrives."
It was a small concession but Keith knew it was all he would get. He watched the car drive off into the night and then went to the telephone.
The following day was Sunday. Keith had spent another worried night. The lawyer friend Keith had engaged had been with Phil while he was questioned. Everything had been done according to the law but Glossop still was keeping him for the legal limit, arrested but not charged, and there was nothing more to be done. There would be more questioning later and the lawyer assured Keith he would be there.
Keith decided to visit the church. There would be a service that morning and perhaps it would keep his mind off his concern for Phil. How he was feeling, Keith could only imagine. He'd seen how some people reacted to being in the confines of a concrete box, sitting huddled on what passed for a bed in the corner. He tried not to let his feelings for his lover overpower him or he knew he would not do anything. As his own mother was fond of saying, 'What can't be cured, must be endured.'
The church of Jehovah's Tabernacle did little though to lift his depression. Inside was as dismal as the outside. A huge almost empty Gothic interior rose to a pointed roof, metal pillars holding up a gallery round three sides, and the sooty windows allowed scarcely any light in so that the whole place was gloomy and cold. Frivolousness - and that presumably included comfort - was certainly not part of the Tabernacle's agenda. There were no seats and the congregation stood in the centre of the building looking not unlike a flock of morose sheep who had been harried into a pen by an over-zealous collie and who expected to be further herded at any moment. Wearing dark clothing more suitable to a funeral than a celebration, they whispered together almost as if they felt guilty at being there. One or two gave him curious looks but no one spoke to him. Clearly it was not a welcoming community to 'new' members.
Keith saw Mrs Howard in the midst of a small group and was just making his way across when the arrival of 'Brother Ezekiel' brought a stop to the even limited whispering. There was complete silence while he made his way through the congregation to what in a normal church would have been the altar but where here there were just two steps climbing to a dais on which stood a table. He went behind this and raised his hands, palms outwards, not so much a blessing, Keith thought, as a prohibition, barring entry. A tall gaunt figure, dressed in the same grey suit he had been wearing the day before, his general greyness merging with the gloom at the end of the church. Only the palms of his hands emitted an almost translucent paleness.
The silence stretched. The upraised hands seemed to have a mesmerising quality. Keith remembered those same hands skittering over the surface of the table. Fox gave himself away with his hands Leaving fingerprints. Fingerprints! He suddenly remembered Glossop's remark about fingerprints. Only Mr and Mrs Howard's and Phil's. There should have been some left by Fox. Keith recalled the sequence of events as told by Fox. He had advised Phil's mother to phone the police (who would have gone round quickly in the case of murder) then had gone round to comfort the widow. But there was no record of anyone arriving after the police until Phil came. So what had happened to Fox?
What if the sequence was in fact reversed, he had gone round first and then she called the police. What would Fox have done, get rid of the weapon? Why? Surely not because Mrs Howard had shot her husband. But to Fox there seemed to be an even greater sin even than murder - suicide, the sin for which there is no forgiveness. What would the 'congregation' think if one of their group had killed himself? All he would have had to do was remove the gun and instantly it would be murder. Did he know that Phil had been there earlier that morning? Mrs Howard might well have told him and in that case, to deliberately frame Phil for the murder made Keith very angry.
But how to prove his hypothesis?
"Brothers and sisters." said Fox. "We come as sinners in front of the Lord and we are naked to him, all our sins are laid bare - and he sees everything...."
It was a long sermon but Fox held his listeners from beginning to end, alternately lambasting and threatening them with the direst punishments in Hell and promising them enticing rewards if they lived the good life and, more importantly it seemed to Keith, they discovered and accused anyone who was sexually aberrant. The religion he subscribed to was one of prejudice and enmity to those he disapproved of - basically anyone who didn't belong to the Jehovah's Tabernacle, but especially towards those he saw as sexual deviants.
He ended with what must have been a familiar diatribe - for the whole congregation joined in - against the world which was seen to have turned against all that was righteous and holy:
We are those that hath seen affliction by the rod of the world. It hath led us, and brought us into darkness, but not into light. Surely against us is it turned; it turneth its hand against us all the day. Our flesh and our skin hath it made old; it hath broken our bones. It hath builded against us, and compassed us with gall and travail. It hath set us in dark places, as they that be dead of old. Also when we cry and shout, it shutteth out our prayer. It hath inclosed our ways with hewn stone, it hath made our paths crooked. It hath turned aside our ways, and pulled us in pieces: it hath made us desolate. We are a derision to all our people; and their song all the day. It hath filled us with bitterness, it hath made us drunken with wormwood. It hath also broken our teeth with gravel stones, it hath covered us with ashes. Truly the world hast removed our soul far off from peace.
Keith saw it as ironic that these well-fed, well-dressed men and women with their electric toothbrushes and smart hats should see themselves as chewing gravel or being sprayed with soot - but they were certainly right, they seemed filled with bitterness. He wondered how this negative religion sustained them in their everyday troubles, or indeed whether it neutralized their joys.
The service wound on without even the cheerfulness of a hymn. Perhaps singing was considered unholy. At last, after a final 'prayer' which emphasised their sinfulness, Brother Ezekiel 'blessed' then with an exhortation to carry on with the Lord's work and the congregation began to shuffle towards the door, chatting a little louder than formerly, perhaps in anticipation of escape into the fresh air.
Keith had lost sight of Mrs Howard during the service but now saw her making her way out, Phil's curls topped by a black hat. He caught up with her before she reached the door.
"Mrs Howard, I know you don't like me, but I must talk to you. It's about Phil."
She turned and looked at him. Keith feared the mad stare of yesterday but was surprised to see her eyes, grey like Phil's, were full of tears. Had that pseudo-religious diatribe affected her emotionally? The congregation streamed out, past them into the sunshine.
"Not here," she said. Keith took heart. At least it wasn't an out and out rejection.
"Inspector Hatch," said a voice behind them. Fox had also caught up with them. "I'm pleased to see you here. I wanted a word with you. Perhaps if you could step this way."
He gestured with his hand to a door in the side wall. "And you, sister Muriel." Smoothly he ushered them through and into a corridor which seemed to be used as a storage place for, perhaps, those things of the original church which had been rejected by the Tabernacle. The wood of dismantled pews was stacked against the walls and Keith detected the musty smell of stacks of old hymnbooks, a reminder of his Sunday school childhood.
There was another door at the end and they went through into a room which was presumably the old vestry. Tall cupboards lined the walls, though an open door displayed no vestments. A window, high up in the wall, let in a little light, enough to make out features, Mrs Howard's drawn cheeks, Fox's long grey countenance.
"Did you come to our service for any particular reason?" asked Fox.
"I wanted to see Mrs Howard."
"And now you have seen her." Fox paused.
"I wanted to tell her that her son has been arrested for the murder of his father."
Mrs Howard gave a start and put her hand to her mouth.
"Ah," said Fox.
Keith turned to face her. "You may think all manner of things about me," he said. "But I'm sure you know Phil didn't kill his father."
Mrs Howard looked as if she wanted to run away. Her eyes darted to the door, now closed behind them. Then she looked at Fox, pleading.
"I think," continued Keith, "you know more about this than you told Inspector Glossop. Mr Fox here told me that he came round to see you after you found your husband, yet there were no fingerprints, and no one mentioned his being at the house. Did he take the gun, Mrs Howard? Did your husband commit suicide?"
Mrs Howard gasped.
"Brother Arnold knew that suicide is the unforgivable sin," interposed Fox smoothly.
"Removing the gun won't change the act," said Keith. "You could deceive the police but your God would hardly be similarly fooled. Sending your son to prison for a crime he didn't commit is much less forgivable."
"He is a sinner," said Fox. "He fornicates with other men."
"He loves rather than hates," said Keith.
Mrs Howard stared at the two of them, tears running down her cheeks. "He couldn't stand the pain," she said.
"So what really happened?"
"The heretic son killed him," Fox shouted.
"No," said Keith.
"No," said Mrs Howard. "My husband shot himself."
"Are you prepared to tell Inspector Glossop that?" asked Keith.
Mrs Howard paused and then nodded.
"And Fox took the gun away?"
"You will burn in hell," shouted Fox.
"And you will go to prison," said Keith. He took a step towards him but with a sort of sideways jump, Fox stepped round him and ran towards the door. He opened it, slipped through and was out before Keith could reach him. The door banged in his face and he heard the sound of a key turning.
Keith banged on the door. "You won't get away," he shouted.
There was silence for a moment and then the sound of some thing or things being dropped on the floor outside. Then the dragging of something heavy. Keith couldn't imagine what Fox was doing. A sweetish smell, familiar, seeped through the cracks at the top and bottom of the door. Paraffin! Keith could scarcely believe what Fox was doing.
"Don't be a fool," he shouted. "Let us out." But he knew it was useless. The man was mad. He put his shoulder against the door and shoved but it was a strong door and the keyhole looked like one of those that needed a large metal key, ecclesiastical. He wasn't going to barge his way easily through that.
"We've got to get out," he said to Mrs Howard who was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes wide.
Keith looked around. The only other way out was through the window. It looked big enough to let them through but set high in the wall, perhaps fifteen feet up, and probably made of toughened glass. They would need something to smash that, something heavy and metal.
There was a sudden rushing sound from the other side of the door, like a gust of wind.
"I need something to break the window." As he spoke they were aware of the smell of smoke and a thin wisp of it curled in through the gap at the top of the door.
Mrs Howard's expression was one of pure terror. "We're trapped," she screamed.
"Look in the cupboards," he shouted, hoping that giving her something to do would calm her panic a little. He flung open the door of the first one but there was nothing inside except a debris of dust, cobwebs and mouse droppings. The second had a wooden clothing rail and a clothes hanger. He wrenched at the rail and it gave way. It was something though he didn't think it was strong enough. Now how to get up to the window.
Keith walked back to the middle of the room and took a run at the ledge. He leapt and managed to grab hold of it but his grip slipped and he fell back into the room. He tried again and this time his hand caught and held. His toes scrabbled on the wall but he couldn't hoist himself up. "Can you give me a push?" he asked, out of breath, but Mrs Howard seemed incapable of doing anything. She stood as if petrified staring at the door.
The smoke had thickened now, creating a thick pall of smoke along the ceiling. There must be a roaring inferno on the other side of the door. If Fox had used hymn books and the wooden pews, they must have been tinder dry and had caught immediately. As they watched the wood of the door started to twist as the individual planks were distorted by the heat. Wisps of smoke curled through. The door was singeing and the fire would be through in a minute or two.
Suddenly Keith noticed that one of the cupboards was different to the others. Instead of doors it was composed of long flat drawers, so that vestments could be laid out flat. It was the opposite side of the room to the window but if he could get to the top of the cupboards, he could crawl round on them. He pulled out the bottom drawer and, as he did so, something rattled and rolled towards him. He reached in and felt cold metal, a candlestick, broken at the top where the candle would fit but still with a heavy base.
Quickly he pulled out the second drawer so that it became a step. There were eight drawers, eight steps and he was on top of the cupboard where the acrid smoke swirled and caught at his throat, making him choke. As fast as he could, he crawled around the room, thanking whatever designer had thought to furnish the walls completely. He reached the window and smashed at it with the base of the candlestick. The first time the glass only cracked but the second it shattered and he breathed deeply as the cold air filled his lungs and then the smoke started to drift out.
He turned. "Come on, Muriel, we can get out here," he shouted. Mrs Howard started and seemed suddenly more aware of the situation. She was middle aged but by no means out of condition. She was tall and she could reach up and grab hold of Keith's hand. He tried to pull her up to him but she was too heavy and her feet could get no purchase on the smooth wall. "I can't get up," she panted.
"You'll have to get up by the drawers." He pointed but the smoke was now filling the room so that it was difficult to see what he meant. He jumped down and almost dragged her across, pushing her up in front of him until she reached the top, then guiding her round. She whimpered as she went.
There was a crackle as the door burst into flames and, sucked by the wind from the open window, the inferno flared into the room.
"Go on," he shouted as they reached the window. Keith could feel the heat searing his back. Mrs Howard got her legs through the opening and sat there, hesitating for a moment. Keith gave her a push and with a scream, she disappeared from view.
He had to turn a little to get his own legs through. He put his hand up to protect his face and felt himself falling backwards. His arms flailed ineffectually and then his body hit the ground outside with a spine-jolting thud. Suddenly he was lying on his back looking upwards at the cold blue afternoon winter sky.
From the distance he could hear the fire engines' sirens.
After all the formalities were over, the paperwork completed, they both went home. They sat on the settee together and Keith took Phil into his arms.
"Welcome home, darling. I've missed you."
"They let me go."
"Of course they did. You were innocent. You had nothing to do with the death of your father."
Phil smiled wryly. "Keith to the rescue."
"Your knight in shining armour!"
They kissed - a long, lingering kiss which started gently and then rapidly became more urgent. Phil came up for air.
"So what happened afterwards?" he asked.
"Afterwards?"
Keith's delicate narrow fingers unfastened the belt around the young man's waist, opened the button at the top, drew down the zip exposing the white underwear and a bulge that already was larger than it had been moments before.
"Do you want me to tell you - or carry on?"
"At the same time," said Phil greedily. His lover's mouth fastened itself on his covered prick, teasing it softly through the cloth, and the wetness of his tongue soaking the material so that it became translucent.
"They found Fox in his church preaching to an empty building. The fire was all around him but he wasn't hurt."
"What will happen to him? ...Ooh yes, do more of that!"
The touch of Keith's body pressed against his was inexpressibly exciting, the movements, the caresses. Although they had known each other for years, Keith still had the ability to thrill and his body could do nothing but respond.
"Well, he'll be charged with attempted murder, me and your mother. She's not hurt at all. She thought the distance was enormous from the window to the ground but in fact it was only a couple of feet outside. And then of course there's the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice..."
"Removing the gun?"
"Yes. Of course if Glossop had any gumption at all, he'd have tested your father's fingers and found the residue of the gunfire. But your mother told everything anyway."
Proficient fingers undid the buttons on Phil's shirt, gently stroking and embracing his chest, gradually going lower, removing his clothes seductively, the shirt, shoes, socks, stripping the jeans, the white briefs until Phil lay completely naked and exposed. His fair skin was almost luminous against the red material of the sofa. His legs were slightly apart, his body open and vulnerable, his head laid back exposing his neck - everything available.
"Will he go to prison?"
"Quite mad, I suspect. Probably end up in Broadmoor. That'll be the end of the Jehovah's Tabernacle. My Commissioner will be pleased."
Keith stripped and lay on top of him. Phil could feel the texture of his lover's skin touching his, erotic and sensual. Chest to chest, groin to groin, the weight of him. A hard cock lay on top of his equally aroused penis, pressing into his stomach. Keith slid slowly down his body, kissing, tasting, rubbing, stroking - lingering for a time under his chin where the soft suppleness of his throat offered itself, and then going - perhaps a little reluctantly - further down, lower, pausing to take care of Phil's nipples, his belly button, the trace of blond hair which led downwards before spreading into his bush of pubic hair, from which the cock sprouted. His tongue tasted under under his ball-sack, along the trail which led to his hole. Slowly Phil spread his legs apart but was unable to stop the momentary, involuntary twitch of resistance as the tongue touched the sensitive place. Keith looked up and saw the look of anticipation on Phil's face.
"Do you want me to?" asked Keith.
Almost as if they had a separate life of their own, his legs opened and he surrendered himself. Keith put his hands under Phil's buttocks and lifting them a little, dived into the sweet, musky darkness. At the first touch of his tongue, Phil tensed again, but suddenly was overcome by that tantalising delight which he always felt. He lay there on the sofa and enjoyed the feeling that Keith's warm tongue produced, gliding over his hole, now with fast, brief cat licks, then slowing down, butterfly-light, each touch something different, each contact providing a different sensation. Phil felt himself fast approaching a climax.
Keith's mouth was now nuzzling at the base of his prick and Phil felt a moistened finger gliding into his hole. It slid in without any pain or resistance. He could feel it inside him, probing and investigating, finding the very centre of his sexual being. Slowly and languorously, Keith washed the length of the penis and licked away the oozing excitement from the top.
"You want me to continue, don't you?' Keith tantalised, the sounds felt through the closeness of their mouths rather than heard. "You want me to go all the way?"
"Don't stop. Don't stop."
Keith inserted two fingers into his hole, stretching the muscle and watched the face of the young man underneath him. He gently enlarged the opening, caressing his balls in the palm of his other hand.
"Come into me," Phil murmured. "Come into me."
But as he felt his legs lifted and sensed the urgent head of Keith's penis pushing strongly against his opening, he tensed for a moment.
Keith leaned over his body so that his breath whispered into his ear. "Relax your muscles. Just relax. Relax." Phil stared into the cavernous hollows of Keith's dark, almost black eyes which gave away nothing except his lust. The words and the tone were hypnotic. Phil felt a growing pressure at the entrance to his arse and then suddenly it was past the sphincter muscle and inside him. There was a mounting fullness, a slow penetration. At last Keith stopped. He was inside Phil as far as he could go.
Phil smiled. "I have you now, Keith."
Keith bent over to kiss him on the neck, and at the same time he began to move his hips lowly. Long, smooth strokes which pushed both of them up on an erotic crescendo. They lost almost all feeling of time, of place, of sound, of vision, of the external world. The only thing Phil could feel was how the muscles of his own arse clamped around the invading cock holding it as every stroke was made and the tiny rasps of Keith's teeth on his neck. He heard, as if from a far distance, the loud gasping breaths of two voices and knew one of them had to be his own. The tempo boosted, the cock sliding freely in and out, increasing the pace, the sensation, the stimulation.
Then his lover bit and his teeth sank into the tender flesh of the neck while at the same time Keith's shaft pushed to its full extent, deep into the compliant hole. Any pain that Phil felt as the sharp teeth clenched on his skin was subsumed into the ecstasy until with a cry Keith exploded and Phil felt the spurts inside him.
At the same time, he himself came, his cock pulsating, the semen shooting high over his own chest and stomach while he was filled by his lover's juices.
Afterwards Keith buried his face in the hollow of Phil's shoulder, panting. Both lay and listened to each other's heartbeats gradually slowing and becoming regular. At last Keith lifted his body and let his cock slip out. Phil gasped at the sudden emptiness. He raised his head and their lips met. Then he pulled Keith to him, cuddled close to him, stroked his chest, defined with the tips of his fingers the contours of Keith's body.
"That was the best yet," said Phil.
"You always say that," said Keith and smiled.
"I always mean it."
Phil lay back with a sigh. "Now there's just the problem of Dominic Spencer to deal with," he said.
28th January 2001 12,100 words