London Pride
============
Michael Gouda
Wednesday 23.57 West End, London
The light from the flashing neon advertisements lit up the dark blocks of buildings with intermittent washes of red and yellow. A brief spatter of sooty raindrops fell from the clouds scudding across the sky. Late night passers-by stepped aside to avoid the dark caverns of doorways which were at that hour already home to the homeless poor.
Stefan sniffed the air - take-away hot dogs, onions and chicken tikka masala. Petrol and exhaust fumes from the cars and taxis temporarily halted at the red traffic lights. Air that had been breathed in and out, used air, tired air. But it was London air.
A latenight double decker bus ploughed ponderously up Long Acre and down London Fields.
London - flaming June.
Fucking June, thought Stefan.
Summer nights should have been warm but there was a unseasonal breeze and Stefan suddenly shivered, the night air drying to a chill the sweat under his arms and between his shoulder blades. He wished he had worn a jacket over his T-shirt.
The sound of traffic faded as he turned off the main road and into the alley that provided the short-cut through to the street where he lived. Only a few minutes before he had left the convivial atmosphere and surroundings of the Club where he had been drinking, dancing and dropping the E's away. By rights he should have had company back home. He had had his eye on someone for most of the evening, the dark-haired youth whom he had met a couple of times before with a sneer to his mouth that both attracted and repelled. They had talked - he and Stefan - danced, groped. Stefan had thought he had clicked but when he had suggested going back, the dark boy had hedged, seemingly unwilling to commit himself. He might or might not have been something more than just friends with the blond boy with him. Anyway Stefan had left the Club alone.
The street lamps were fewer in the alley and the pools of light, giving a dramatic cast to the cobbles and piles of rubbish, were interspersed with zones of darkness which by contrast seemed impenetrably black.
It was from out of one of these that the two figures emerged. Menacing figures, dressed in studded black leather jackets, baggy jeans and stout Doc Martens - kicking boots. Woollen balaclava helmets hid their faces.
"Hey! Queer boy," said the leading one. "Where are you off to at this time of night?"
"Want to suck my dick?" asked the other, a sneering invitation that was no invitation.
Stefan assumed that the question was not serious and whatever answer he gave would be objected to. He said nothing trying to edge past the lads who blocked his way.
"Not good enough for you?" sneered the first, the flat planes of his slab-like face distorted with an irrational anger and hatred. Stefan managed to hit out and felt his fist sink into flesh before the lead attacker's foot shot out, catching the calf of Stefan's leg, and knocking him forward. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.
The two crowded round aiming vicious kicks at his groin and head. Shocks of pain spread through Stefan's body as he tried to protect himself with useless hands but after a while the pain dulled and it was only the jarring force of the blows that registered - until, mercifully, insensibility rescued him even from their impact.
Thursday 09.47 Islington Police Station
"Sergeant Hatch!"
An incisive call from the Inspector, ordered Keith Hatch, newly promoted to Sergeant and in the Gay Community Liaison force of the Metropolitan Constabulary, into his governor's office.
Inspector Sheridan looked at him from under a pair of grey eyebrows, unevenly aligned so that they gave him a perpetually quizzical look, and beckoned him over to the desk.
"Another gay-bashing last night, I'm afraid, Keith," he said. "Third in as many weeks. Young lad, 22 - " He looked at his notes - " Name of Stefan Boscovic. Robbery not a motive apparently, his wallet was still in his hip pocket. Just a savage kicking. He's in the Royal Islington Hospital."
"We haven't got any further with the other two cases, I'm afraid, sir," said Keith. "Everyone just clammed up when I tried to talk to them. It's not likely that the attackers were gay of course."
"They all know each other's business," said Sheridan. "You must be able to find out what these lads were doing on the night they were attacked, who they went with, what places they visited. It's the only way we can narrow down the area to search."
Keith looked depressed. "Not much good being gay myself," he said ruefully.
"It's why you were seconded to this unit," said Sheridan, "because you are. If you can't get into their confidence, I don't know who can."
"I don't think they believe I'm gay," said Keith. There was certainly nothing in his straight good looks and close-cropped dark hair that would make the casual observer suspect. No hint in his behaviour - but Keith had spent all twenty-five years of his life in living the so-called normal behaviour, cultivating the average appearance.
"Well prove it," said his boss, smiling as if it were a joke though there was an underlying seriousness in his remarks. "Pick someone up from one of the Clubs. Take him home. Do what you have to. You fancy some of them, don't you?"
Keith, who was still feeling the effects of the break-up of his own last relationship when he had left Feltenham to come to London, nodded uncertainly. He still missed Alan, especially when he went back alone to his tiny two up, two down house in Islington at the end of the working day. Physical things reminded him, the books Alan had read in the time they had lived together, clothes he had borrowed and worn - was there still a faint smell of Alan's body still on them, the sofa and bed they had made love on so many times. He still had Alan's photograph in a frame on the bedside table.
OK so he couldn't live in the past.
"Anyway," continued Inspector Sheridan, "get down to the hospital. See what the lad has to say - if he can talk at all. Report says he's in a pretty bad way."
Thursday 11.24 Royal Islington Hospital
The boy lay in the bed, his eyes closed, his head bandaged in a turban. The face under it looked much younger than his twenty-two years. Tubes came from his nose and arm and a drip stand stood beside him. A green blip on a VDU screen traced out the spidery green evidence of Stefan's life. As each one progressed across there was an audible 'ping'. It was all that showed he was still alive as his breathing was so shallow that his chest barely rose and fell.
For a moment Keith experienced a shock. The face looked like that of Alan's, the same youth, innocence, vulnerability - but the hair around the ears below the bandage was darker, the eyebrows thicker and the olive skin which overlaid the pallor had something of the Mediterranean in it. But it might have been Alan.
"Is he conscious?" asked Keith. "Can I speak to him?"
The doctor, middle-aged, grey-haired, a worried frown on her face, shook her head. "He is sleeping," she said. "He may not remember anything even if he can speak. There has been damage." She tapped her forehead with her forefinger.
"He isn't the first kid who has been beaten up." Keith's tone was urgent, pleading. "How could anyone do this? To prove their manhood? Just leave me alone in a cell with one of the bastards when we catch them. I'll show them some 'manhood' then."
"You're from the Gay Division, aren't you," said the doctor. "You'll get used to it. Just think of it as if he's had a traffic accident, then you won't get involved."
"I want to get 'involved'," said Keith savagely.
The doctor looked doubtful then seemed to make up her mind. "Speak to him gently," she said. "And only for a little while."
Keith sat down on the chair beside the bed. He took the boy's hand - the one without the drip running into the back of it - and held it. It felt dead and heavy - but warm and slightly moist.
"Stefan," he said softly. The eyelids flickered but did not open. He waited a second or two, looked over his shoulder at the doctor who still waited in the background. She nodded encouragingly.
"Stefan," he repeated slightly louder and pressed the hand he held in his. He felt an answering pressure. The lids fluttered opened but the eyes were glazed and unfocused.
"Can you hear me, Stefan?" The lips opened but no sound came out. "Someone hurt you. Can you tell me who it was?"
He waited while the electronic blip audibly measured the boy's life.
The boy's lips, full and sensuous tried to frame a word. Keith bent his head, his ear close to the mouth. "Who did it, Stefan? Who hurt you?"
Sounds came from the struggling mouth. Keith bent even closer so that he was almost touching. The sounds became words. "I - can't - see," he heard. His body writhed. "I'm blind."
Keith realised it was no use. He pressed the hand reassuringly. "It's all right," he said. "It won't last. Go to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake."
He felt the grasp on his hand tighten and then saw the eyelids droop, the grip relax. He didn't know if what he had said was true but it had at any rate taken away some of the panic - if only temporarily.
"You care," said the doctor. "They all do at first."
"Fucking bastards," said Keith under his breath.
He walked with the doctor down the corridor, aseptic, smelling of disinfectant.
"Can you let me have some details?" asked Keith. "Any idea what time he was attacked?"
The doctor looked at her notes. "Brought in at 1.15 this morning. I shouldn't think he had been lying there for long before he was discovered. Perhaps half - three quarters of an hour.
"Let me know if he comes round."
The doctor nodded though her expression didn't seem to hold out much hope.
At 2.13 pm in spite of all the endeavours of modern medical science Stefan Boscovic died.
Thursday 15.33 Stefan's flat
Keith and the young Detective Constable he had brought with him sifted through the detritus of the boy's life. Stefan had lived in a small single bed-sittingroom with microwave cooker and sink in the corner. Everything compact but everything cheap. The landlord hadn't wasted any money putting in any refinements. Bathroom and lavatory were down the corridor, shared by the other occupants of the house.
"What exactly are we looking for, Sarge?" asked D.C. Peter Lippett, very much the new boy, but eager to impress.
"Anything to tell us what he did with his spare time, where he went, who he knew."
There was a wardrobe filled with clothes which was what Stefan seemed to have spent most of his money on. Shirts with designer labels, jeans, soft sweaters, a new leather jacket. There were no books apart from a few cheap paperback crime novels, no CD player, no audio tapes. A small transistor and a 14" screen TV stood on a table in the corner. Apart from that a bed, an easy chair, a rug doing its best to hide part of the lino-covered floor, a chest of drawers. Little to show his character and personality.
"Here's a letter from his mum," said Peter who had been foraging in the drawer of the bed-side table. He read out - "'. . . looking forward to seeing you at the weekend after next. Your Dad sends his love.' That's sad isn't it? There's a bit more. 'Glad you liked the watch we sent for your birthday. Your Dad chose it. Distinctive isn't it?'"
"Dated?" asked Keith.
"Last Thursday," said Peter, checking. "From Chippenham in Wiltshire."
Keith sighed. "Job for the local boys," he said. "Telling the parents. Thank God it's not me."
"Here's an address book."
"Many names?"
"Lots of them. Most down in Wiltshire though some from London." He checked through. "All of them male, I guess. The London ones that is."
"It's a start," said Keith. "I'll leave them to you, Peter. Contact the London ones. See if anyone can tell where Stefan was last night, who he was with. Then there's the Clubs. I'll do the round of those. "
Stefan Boscovic had been a member of various gay Clubs in the West End of London. He had had the membership cards in his jeans' pocket when he had been attacked and Keith had been given them by the hospital authorities.
There was a photo of Stefan in the drawer too, laughing, looking young, happy, full of health, dressed in a green open necked shirt which complimented his tan. Such a waste of a life, thought Keith. "Wonder which is preferable," he said, "a quick death from a beating or a slow, lingering one from AIDS."
"Shouldn't have to suffer either, Sarge."
It was only later that, when going through Stefan's personal belongings at the Station, Keith noticed that they did not include a watch.
Thursday 18.06 Feltenham
The phone rang. Alan picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Hi, Alan. I haven't caught you at a bad time? How's things? How's your Mum?" Keith spoke quickly, words to disguise why he had called.
"Keith!" If Keith had been unsure about the response he would be given, he need not have worried. Alan's voice - instant recognition - expressed delight and pleasure. "You bugger! Why haven't you phoned before. It's been months. Feltenham's not the same without you."
"I wasn't sure what reception I'd get," said Keith.
"I wish you were here in person. I'd show you a 'reception'." He put a wealth of sexual innuendo into the word. "I've missed you."
Keith thought about that for a moment. Then he said "How have you been doing?"
"Oh, you know. Up and down. The job's pretty boring though it brings in the money - never enough of course."
"You always did have expensive tastes," said Keith, an audible smile in his remark, even over the phone.
"The odd Rolls. Nothing flashy. Wait while I pour out a glass of champers."
"Been to the Park?" asked Keith. Almost the only pick-up place in Feltenham.
"No," said Alan quickly, then modified it. "Coupla times. Nothing special though. Saving myself for you." Keith could see the grin on his face, the flirtatious pose of his body, hand on narrow hips thrust forward.
"You want to get me excited?"
"You want to get excited?"
Keith changed the subject. "Seen anyone I know recently?"
"Yes I've been seeing Carey. Of course he's only a Constable, while you know I prefer Sergeants."
"So isn't he a sergeant yet? Not got made up - even after outing me?
"That wasn't Colin. That was the barman at the Olympia, Nick. You remember him? Just to make a move on me. Just wanted to get rid of the competition . . ." He did not admit that he had discovered the information in the course of some extremely satisfying sex.
"The bastard . . "
"Well maybe you didn't tip him enough."
"The bastard," repeated Keith. "Hey what you doing at the weekend?" He hadn't meant to ask but the question, obviously always at the back of his mind, slipped out. He held his breath waiting for the answer.
"Nothing special," said Alan. "What you got in mind?"
"Come up to London and see the sights. Special weekend - Gay Pride March. We can do the Clubs, eat out, buy some clothes. You can stay here. There's plenty of room." He added, "I've got a spare bedroom." He mustn't sound too eager.
"If I come up," said Alan, "we won't need the spare room. How's the new job?"
"Frustrating," said Keith, "and sad. Young kid just been killed by a couple of gay-bashers. It's going to be a sod finding out who did it." Something of his worry and upset came through in his tone and Alan recognised it.
"I'll come up on Friday evening, straight after work," he said. "Get the train. Can you meet me at the station?"
"You bet," said Keith. "See you Friday."
"I'll really look forward to that," said Alan. "Friday it is then. Look forward to it." He rang off.
While waiting for his frozen TV dinner to defrost in the microwave, Keith sorted through Stefan's collection of Club Membership cards and decided he would have to visit them, find out which ones Stefan had been to on the night he had been killed, if he had been seen leaving with anyone in particular.
Take your pick, he thought to himself. 'The Jam Factory' sounded grotty. probably rent, 'The Burlingham' pretentious, 'Clicks' for the young - Alan's sort of place - 'The Neptune' sailors?, 'Major Barbara' - now who would that cater for?
Of course Stefan might not have gone to the Clubs at all. He might have been doing the numerous gay pubs in the area or just cottaging. Still the cards which he had been carrying obviously showed an intention to visit on the night he had been attacked, so Keith closed his eyes, shuffled the little plastic rectangles and picked one at random.
'The Jam Factory' - Shit - it was the one he least fancied. He could just imagine it, dark, sleazy, full of groping hands where the cock was more important than the face and, even if Stefan had been there, no one would probably recognise his picture - now if Keith was able to give the size of his erection - well that might be another matter.
Still it was in the same street as 'The Neptune' so if he got no joy (of whatever sort) from the first he could always try the other one.
He checked himself in the mirror. White shirt, tie, casual jacket, tan trousers. Perhaps he was dressed too 'straight'. He found a dark blue sweatshirt that Alan had persuaded him to buy back in Feltenham and which he had never worn. And a zip fronted Ben Sherman jacket. That would do.
Thursday 21.25 'The Jam Factory'
He was pleasantly surprised when he got down the steps of 'The Jam Factory' having shown Stefan's card to the burly man at the street doorway. The bouncer gave it no more than a casual glance and waved Keith down. The room wasn't badly lit at all. It put Keith vaguely in mind of a village hall back home with a raised stage at one end hidden at the moment by closed curtains. A strip show, wondered Keith. A bar down the left hand side - not village hall at all - and half full of young men, and not so young, mostly dancing though some standing round drinking and sizing up the talent. Not bad for a Thursday night. There was a sign behind the bar 'NO FUCKING SWEARING' it said. The music wasn't too loud either.
Keith ordered a beer - three quid for a half pint - and perched himself on a stool. One of the young barmen was temporarily free and lounged against the bar on the other side. "Seen Stefan?" asked Keith casually.
"Who?"
"Stefan Boscovic."
"Haven't seen her tonight."
"What about last night?"
He thought for a moment. "Last night? Yeah she was in last night."
"Did you see who he went off with?"
"Who wants to know? You her husband or summat?"
"No," said Keith. "He just didn't turn up to a meeting. Wondered what had happened to him."
"Popular girl that one," said the barman. "Didn't see her leave." He went off down the bar to serve.
The music stopped. There was a recorded fanfare over the loudspeakers. The lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on the stage curtains. The dancers cheered and started to clear the central area, crowding back towards the bar. One young man, not much more than a boy really, slender figure, scarcely any hips at all, bumped into Keith's legs, his buttocks pressing against his knees. He didn't back off and Keith opened his legs so that the boy could slide between. From the back he looked young, his fair hair forming a soft V down the back of his neck. As he nestled in the cleft, he looked round at Keith and smiled. A shock of soft wavy hair which looked dark in this light but might have been fair in daylight, fresh complexion, young, a smiling mouth.
"Do you want a drink?" asked Keith.
The boy nodded. He'd been bought drinks before, Keith could tell.
Keith ordered him a beer and the boy sipped it, his buttocks still cupped in the space between Keith's legs. Keith found himself rising to the occasion. He might have been 'on duty' but wasn't this just what Sheridan had ordered?
The curtains swung amateurishly apart and the crowd cheered. A man in drag stood there, pink flounces cascading down to the floor, long blonde wig, heavy make-up almost disguising a forty-year old face. A Judy Garland record started, 'Meet Me in St Louis' and the audience groaned but stayed to listen.
The boy pushed backwards their bodies pressed together the boy's back against Keith's chest, rubbing his buttocks against his erection. Keith put his arms around the boy's hips and felt in his groin, an answering hardon. His fingers traced the sleek contour.
The guy on the stage mimed to the record, his lip movements slightly out of sync. The audience laughed good naturedly. "Get it together, Judy," suggested someone.
"Where the fuck is St Louis when you need him?" asked another.
The boy put his drink down on the bar. His hands found Keith's and moved them so that they were at the waist band of his jeans. Then he loosened his belt so that Keith could slip down inside them. The darkness hid all. He sucked in his stomach and Keith, diving down, felt the elastic of his shorts, slipped under them, down over the warm flat silkiness of his stomach, the furry fuzz of pubic hair. Finally the hard shaft with its soft outer skin and the warm droplet of excitement exuding from the top. His hand grasped the cock and he rubbed it, the darkness around hiding the regular movement from those around. The boy pushed himself even further back so that Keith's cock was forced into the crack between those tantalising mounds only the material of his jeans preventing actual physical contact..
Keith sniffed the clean, just washed, smell of his hair, the after bath body splash he had used. "What's your name?" he asked into his ear.
"Phil," said the boy. "Don't stop."
Keith obliged and the boy suddenly went rigid, his cock pulsing. Keith felt the warm liquid spurt into his hand. He held him till he finished. The boy turned to face him, mopping up with a handkerchief, doing himself up.
Phil kissed him, his hand now roving over Keith's erection, fiddling with the zip. "Not now," said Keith. "I'm all right."
"You got a place? Do you want me to come home with you?" asked Phil. "I'd like to. We could do lots of other things." His smile promised much. "I don't take long to recover."
"It's a bit difficult," said Keith, "at the moment. I'm really looking for a boy called Stefan, Stefan Boscovic. Not for sex," he added. "I - er - need to talk to him."
The boy looked disappointed. "I know Stefan," he said. "I've not seen him tonight. He's not been in."
"What about last night?" asked Keith.
"Yes. I was talking to him early on. But he left."
"Did he go with anyone? Did you see him leave?"
"Yeah. He left about 9 - 9.30 I suppose. With a couple of guys. Sparks and Lovell, they're called. Don't like 'em myself but Steffie fancied the dark one, Sparks. Don't know where they went. Could be back to their place - or to another Club. Haven't seen him since."
The song from the stage came to its rousing close and the lights came back up. There was a spatter of applause. Phil picked up his drink but stayed close to Keith, their bodies touching.
"I've got to go," said Keith.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" asked Phil.
"Not this time," said Keith.
The boy obviously thought he was getting the brush-off. His body stiffened and he drew away.
"OK," he said. "I'll see you around I expect."
Keith wondered why he had refused the offer. Lying alone in his bed that night, he called himself all the names under the sun.
Friday 09.27 Islington Police Station
"Well, Peter, what did you find out yesterday?"
The young Constable looked pleased with himself.
"Well, Sarge," he said. "there were sixteen London and area names in the book. They all knew him."
"Of course they did," said Keith who hadn't spent a very good night and was still kicking himself for turning down Phil. "They were in his address book."
Peter looked slightly snubbed but his exuberance overcame it. "Sorry, Sarge," he said. "What I meant was that they all recognised who I was talking about when I mentioned his name. Anyway four of them said they had seen him on Wednesday night. Two at a pub called 'the Lighterman's Arms' early on - about half past seven. That's these two here." He pointed out their names in the book.
"Too early," said Keith. "We're looking for after midnight."
"Yes, Sarge. Then there was this Ted Prentice - "he handed Keith the book to show an entry which read 'Ted and Ric' and then an address and phone number. The address was in Islington. Keith recognised the road as being not far from where he himself lived, just a street away in fact. "Prentice said he saw him at a Club called 'The Jam Factory' and then later at another one called 'Clicks'. That was later on."
"No one mentioned a couple of lads, one dark called 'Sparks' and the other fair haired, Lovell?" asked Keith.
"No," said Peter. "Wait a moment though. Lovell." He repeated the name over to himself as if trying to remember where he had heard it before. Suddenly it came to him. "I've got it, Sarge. The lad living with Ted Prentice. His name's Lovell. Ric Lovell."
"Is Ted dark-haired?"
"Yes, Sarge, jet black. He's got an odd sort of mouth, twisted, sort of smiling and sneering at the same time. Quite attractive." Keith gave him a look but said nothing.
"I mean," Peter qualified. "Some people might think so."
"I think we'd better have another chat with them," said Keith. "I got some information that Stefan was seen going off with those two from 'The Jam Factory'."
"It's not what Prentice said. He said that they saw him at 'the Jam Factory' and then saw him again at 'Clicks'."
"Quite," said Keith. "If what the other lad said is true, why should Prentice lie?"
Inspector Sheridan came in."Any progress with the Boscovic killing?" he asked.
"Possible lead, sir," said Keith.
"We're going to get them," said DC Lippett. Sergeant Hatch flashed him a look which told him to shut up but Sheridan smiled. He liked keenness in his men.
Friday 11.23 Sparks and Lovell's flat
Ric Lovell let them into the flat which was on the second floor and overlooked one of those Victorian, tree-lined Squares which reminded Keith of Feltenham - different period but same idea.
The first impression Keith gained was one of complete and utter squalor. Dirty plates and empty frozen food dishes had been tossed into the sink so that they overflowed onto the draining board and even cascaded onto the floor. Curtains were minimal and what there were, were ragged and filthy. Grease seemed to cover the furniture, the chair and sofa backs had large dark stains where dirty and greasy heads had rubbed. Someone, presumably one of the two, had attempted to cheer up the place by pinning up some posters on the walls which were of the 'Skinhead' 'Violence is Beautiful' type. From one a leering shaven horror showed his teeth in a grimace of bestial hatred and stretched out a claw-like hand towards the viewer about crotch level suggesting that he was prepared to rip out your genitals with great glee.
In comparison Lovell and Prentice themselves seemed the essence of normality. They were both conventionally dressed in open shirts and pullovers, Ted's dark green and Ric's brick red, and comfortable looking trousers - what someone of a previous generation might have termed 'slacks'.
Keith's attention was immediately drawn to the sneer on Ted's face which, as Peter had mentioned, was both attractive yet at the same time slightly repellent. Ric had a bland face which gave nothing away at all of what he was feeling or thinking. Keith judged that they were both in their early twenties.
"I think DC Lippett here mentioned when he called on you before that we were interested in the movements of a guy called Stefan Boscovic," said Keith.
Prentice, who was lounging on the stained and faded sofa in the middle of what must be their main room, nodded. He was sipping a beverage, presumably coffee, from out of a mug but did not offer the police officers anything. Judging from the state of the washing up, though, Keith was not sorry.
"I believe you saw him at a Club called 'The Jam Factory' on Wednesday evening."
Prentice nodded again. He pointedly looked at his watch. "I haven't got much time to spare," he said. Lovell tittered. It was an odd sound - inappropriate.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'll try not to keep you long. Did you speak to him?"
Keith noticed that Prentice gave a sharp but only momentary glance at Lovell before answering. Keith realised that it would have been better if the two had been interviewed separately and wondered if he could get rid of Lovell.
"We may have done," said Prentice. "Talked to lots of guys. It's that sort of place."
"I also understand that you left the club with Stefan about half past nine."
"Who said we did that?" asked Prentice sharply.
"Just someone who saw the three of you going out together," said Keith calmly.
"Well we may have done," said Prentice.
"It's not what you told D.C. Lippett," said Keith.
"Perhaps we got a bit muddled."
"There's no crime in that, is there?" asked Lovell speaking for the first time since he had let them into the flat.
"What exactly has happened to Stefan?" asked Prentice.
"What makes you think something has happened to him?" asked Keith.
"Well you wouldn't be making these sort of enquiries if he had just lost his car keys."
"I'm afraid Stefan Boscovic was beaten up later that evening. He has since died. We are in fact investigating a murder."
"Stupid little sod!" This from Lovell. "I always told him to be careful. To watch who he picked up. He'd go with anyone, that one would."
Ignoring the outburst, Keith went on. "You went with him to another Club, 'Clicks'. What happened there?"
"What do you mean, 'what happened there'? What do you think happened? We danced. We had a few drinks. We popped a few pills." Bravado here in front of the police. "Then he left to go home."
"What time was that?" asked Keith.
"Oh I don't know. About 11.30 I suppose - perhaps quarter to twelve."
"And what did you do?"
"We stayed on for a bit. I don't know. Walked down Piccadilly, looked at the lights. Then came home."
"Together?"
"Together."
Neither of them was prepared to admit any further information about the subsequent activities and fate of Stefan Boscovic.
"I don't like them, Sarge," said Peter in the car on the way back to the Station. "Wouldn't trust them an inch. Did you notice how each looked at the other, to keep the story straight?"
"There's certainly something nasty about them, something weird. But why should a gay couple want to beat up other gays?"
"I suppose they are gay."
"They're living together. They go to gay Clubs. Apart from catching them fucking each other, it's difficult to know how to disprove it," said Keith. He had a sudden idea, tried it out on Peter. "What if they weren't gay, that they got some sort of perverse kick out of going to gay clubs, selecting a victim, going off with him and then beating him up."
"That's really sick," said Peter.
"So how would you sum them up - that place they live in?"
"You'd have to prove it," said Peter. "If you're right I suppose we've got to wait until they attack again? If it's them that are doing it."
Keith didn't answer. He was thinking the same.
Friday 20.24 Paddington Station, London
The Feltenham train came into Paddington Station only thirty seven minutes late - practically on time really.
Keith had got there early, twenty minutes early, and so had been waiting nearly an hour before he saw the slim figure of Alan Forrest, clutching an overnight bag and weaving his way through the other passengers who had alighted from the train.
"Alan," he called from behind the barrier and waved furiously. Alan saw him and a smile broadened on his face. They met and, heedless of what anyone might think, Keith kissed him.
"Fucking queers". He heard someone hiss and looking up saw a red-faced man staring angrily at them.
"Alan," he said in his best French accent. "Comment vas-tu? C'est la si longue heure puisque nous nous sommes pour la dernire fois runis."
"Eh?" said Alan.
And the same outraged voice of the red faced man - "Fucking foreigners."
Keith laughed. "Tu es mon meilleur ami. Ta mre et ton pre, comment a va?"
He linked arms with the bewildered Alan and led him to where he had parked the car.
"You wouldn't have done that in Feltenham," said Alan. "What were you talking about?"
"I just said it was a long time since we had last met and how were your parents. I doubt if it was good French. Anyway hop in. I've got a meal cooking though it's probably burnt to a crisp by now."
He was pleased when Alan snuggled up to him in the front seat of the car and put his hand on his thigh, though he made a mock protestation. "How am I supposed to be able to drive with you draped over me like that? And that is not the gear lever."
"Feels like it, though perhaps it's a bit longer and thicker."
The meal - a slowly cooked moussaka, layers of minced lamb, aubergines, tomatoes, topped with a creamy cheese sauce served with a green salad and a bottle of white wine - tasted delicious.
"I didn't know you were such a good cook," said Alan.
"It's the only thing I can make. Anyway you never allowed me to cook back at the flat in Feltenham. You always had my clothes off me the moment I got in from work. What chance did I ever have to perform my culinary arts?"
To complement the Greek dish, Keith had bought some baklava from the local delicatessen, a sweet pastry with nuts, dripping with honey. He made the coffee while Alan gobbled up the dessert.
"What do you want to do now?" Keith asked from the kitchen. "Fancy a tour round the Clubs?"
"I don't believe this is the Keith Hatch I knew and loved in Feltenham, the one who wouldn't go out of the flat in case he was seen by someone who recognised him. Guess London agrees with you." He collected the dishes and took them out to the sink. Keith was measuring grounds into the coffee machine. The smell of freshly ground coffee filled the air.
"Mmmm," said Alan. "The most beautiful smell in the world, along with freshly baked bread and frying bacon." He went behind Keith and kissed him on the back of his neck, putting his arms round his waist and holding him firmly against him. "And you, of course," he said. "It's been a long time."
Keith turned so that they faced each other, bodies touching, chest, hips, thighs. Their lips joined in a tender, affectionate kiss. He could taste the honey sweetness remaining on his lips, feel the warmth of the young body.
Keith felt the old attraction, the surge of affection, as well as the sexual excitement so that his prick immediately hardened. The kiss became more demanding, sensual. Tongues twisting together.
"You're pleased to see me," said Alan, taking a moment to breathe and feeling the hardness pressing into his groin.
"Likewise."
Alan raised his hands and gently touched Keith's face, running the long sensitive fingers down its length, feeling the hollows of his eye sockets and the mounds of cheek, nose and chin. The touch was arousing.
"You are handsome," said Alan, and his hands strayed lower, down the sides of his neck, across his shoulders and chest, feeling the broad expanse of muscle and flesh through the thin material of his shirt. "And strong." His fingers found the buttons and one by one undid them so that the shirt gaped open, his fingers entering and gently brushing the surface of the skin.
Lower and lower drifted those caressing hands, undoing his belt and gently opening the zip of his jeans allowing them to slide down to his ankles. The hands passed over the flat stomach, round the slim waist, around the back to cup the firm buttocks, then down the outside of the long slim legs. Keith felt a sensual delight in the embrace.
"What do you want to do?" whispered Keith.
Teasing, the fingers stroked up the sensitive inside of his thighs to find and gently cup his ballsack and finally to clasp the erection. Keith gasped.
"This is what I want," said Alan. "I want you inside me."
"Let's go into the bedroom," said Keith
"No here. Take me here." He turned and bent over the work surface exposing himself, an invitation, an entry, a command.
Keith put his hand on Alan's invitation.
"You know I haven't been, well, exactly 'faithful'?"
"Nor me either. You have heard of Durex, I hope."
"Got a bucketful, all with your name on them." Keith ran to the bedroom, ran back to the kitchen.
"You know how embarrassing this is?"
"Sorry Alan, but I wasn't expecting - well I was hoping that - but I thought you - "
"Keith, for chrissakes shut up, and fuck me!"
The condom rolled on, it looked a little silly, but safety first!
Keith felt Alan's instinctive tension as he slid inside him and then the relaxation as he paused and then started his rhythm, thrusting in and pulling out. At each thrust Alan groaned but when Keith, fearing that he was hurting him, tried to stop and pull out, he would not let him.
Keith held him by his narrow hips and fucked him, his thrusts growing more urgent as his lust overcame his inhibitions. The cries of Alan under him became inarticulate cries. It was as if each rammed propulsion forced out a sound. The climax came in five shuddering roars.
Keith shut his eyes, panting. He felt drained and exhausted - but happy. He looked at the work surfaces, stained with the evidence of their love-making.
"I'll never feel the same about making welsh rarebit out here again," he said.
"We're fuck-buddies"
"Alan" said Keith in a tone of mock severity "Where on earth did you learn that dreadful expression?"
Saturday 14.08 Gay Pride March, Piccadilly Circus
The weather at any rate looked kindly on the Parade that Saturday afternoon. The sun was out, the air warm so that shirts were off and those who had any figure to speak of - and many who had not but just didn't care - exposed as much of their bodies as was seemly. Alan and Keith stood in Piccadilly Circus and waited for the Parade to appear.
It was headed by a crowd of people all carrying Rainbow Flags. They were young and old, male and female. Drag Queens, dykes on bikes, nuns on roller skates, elderly queens on pot, chickens on toast, jailbait on parole, business persons on 350,000 a year - All God's chilluns on show.
A group of youths who had obviously been preparing for this day for some time, in fetching white - very - briefs, performed a set callisthenic dance along the street, moving in perfect synchronisation and gaining much applause from the onlookers.
A long banner stretched across the width of the road proclaimed ' ABOLISH CLAUSE 28' that offensive piece of Tory legislation which prohibited the promulgation or encouragement of gay lifestyles.
Some skimpily and diaphanously garbed queens pretended to be Caribbean and banged discordantly on a set of steel drums. It was difficult to make out what the tune was. Keith said he thought it was 'Greensleeves'; Alan maintained it was 'Singing in the Rain'. It didn't really matter. They were enjoying themselves. Someone from high up in an office block threw confetti.
A phalanx of female tennis players advertising 'Gay Sport' threw tennis balls into the crowd. They were flung back, mostly good-naturedly, and fielded or blocked with their rackets.
A float passed seemingly inhabited by angels and devils, the former with somewhat unmanageable wings and the latter painted bright red - though it was unclear what the relevance to gayness was.
A policeman joined the procession to cheers and a few cat-calls from the crowd then caused even more when he grabbed a policewoman round the waist and the two of them, smiling and holding hands, marched ambiguously along with the rest.
"Do you want to join in?" asked Keith.
"Won't it spoil your image in the Force?" asked Alan.
"Fuck the image."
"Well you've fucked everything else of importance," grinned Alan and holding hands they left the curb side and joined the procession, those already there welcoming them with cheerful hugs and kisses.
The Parade proudly continued its way towards Green Park.
Saturday 21.37 Clicks Club
The Festival in the Park - the obvious gay bands, a couple of 'Boy' groups who might or might not be - but were pretty enough for no one to care - had been enjoyable, though it was the comradeship in the audience which had the real effect. Later on in the evening there would be the world-renowned lesbian singer, k.t. webb but before then Keith wanted to go to 'Clicks'.
He explained to Alan that it was 'work' and Alan didn't mind. A West End Gay Club would probably be more exciting than the staid old Olympia back in Feltenham. Privately he thought Alan might be disappointed but said nothing.
"I'm just checking up on this lad, Stefan. He was at 'Clicks' on the night he was killed and someone might have seen him leaving with someone they can identify. It probably won't take long and you can have a drink and look around while I ask."
He went in on Stefan's Membership card to avoid showing his warrant and signed Alan in as his guest. The actual club was a single long rectangle of a room with a padded form running round three sides of it to sit on. The fourth side was the bar. A row of pillars went down each long side. Decoration was minimal and relied on three of those revolving spheres covered with small squares of mirror glass on which coloured laser beams caught and reflected a myriad colours into all corners of the room. Anyone with a tendency to fits would have hated it.
Keith entered first and as he did so through the few gyrating couples that were dancing in the centre, he caught sight of two figures lit up by a sudden flash of light whom he recognised immediately. They were Prentice and Lovell. Keith quickly dragged Alan behind one of the pillars out of sight.
"Two guys at the other end of the room," he said quickly. "I think they know something about Stefan but I couldn't get them to talk. They're an odd couple."
"Do you want to talk to them now?" asked Alan.
"No point. They know I'm a copper.."
"I'm not. Do you want me to talk to them?"
Keith was dubious. "I don't trust them," he said.
"Oh come on," said Alan. "Nothing can happen here. You can keep an eye on me anyway."
"OK," said Keith. He gave Alan a 5 note. "Buy yourself a drink. Then go over and see if you can get into conversation. Talk to them if you can, try to find out anything. But be careful."
He watched the boy go to the bar and then, with his drink, walk down the room to where Prentice and Lovell were sitting. After a short while he saw the three of them talking. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink for himself. He could see the three reflected in the mirror at the back of the bar.
"Hello," said a voice.
He turned. A boy with blond wavy hair and a welcoming smile stood beside him. "Phil," he said.
"At least you remember my name," said Phil.
"Of course. I'm pleased to see you. Did you watch the Parade?"
"I was in it," said Phil. "Didn't you see me in the set dance?"
"I didn't look at the faces," admitted Keith. He looked round at the crowded bar around them. "I'd like to see you privately - to talk."
"Only to talk?" asked Phil archly.
"No," said Keith. "But I've got things to tell you. Do you want a drink?"
"Let me," said Phil. "I owe you - in more senses than one." He put his hand on Keith's thigh. "I guess it's not dark enough in here." He smiled. "Give us two beers," he asked the barman.
Keith looked at his profile, the straight nose, the fine hairs of his eyebrows, the long lashes, the mouth, eminently kissable. Phil pushed a glass towards him. "Did you find Stefan?" he asked.
"Stefan's d . . ." he started almost without thinking, but it was too complicated to explain. "Stefan seems to have disappeared."
"No one's seen him since he went off with Sparks and Lovell on Wednesday night."
"What?"
Phil spoke deliberately - as if he was talking to a small child. "Stefan was in here. Then he went off with them. No one's seen him since."
Keith glanced at the mirror. The two were no longer sitting at the back. Nor could he see Alan.
"Where are they?" he said. "They were sitting down there. They couldn't have got out without passing us."
"Who? Sparks and Lovell? There's an exit at the back. They went out a coupla minutes ago with the blond boy."
"Oh Christ!" said Keith. He ran down the room and out of the back door.
"What did I say?" asked Phil to the air.
Saturday 22.02 Piccadilly
Evening, an extravagant sunset, orange and pink bands of cloud in the west but fading now as the sky darkened and the street lamps came on. The streets were still crowded. There was no sign of Sparks, Lovell - or Alan. Keith peered desperately round. He had no idea where to look for them. What on earth had Alan been doing? He had specifically warned him, said that Prentice and Lovell were dangerous, told him to be careful.
Shit! Shit! Shit! He told himself to calm down - but if anything happened to Alan he knew he would never forgive himself.
Where would they have gone? If they were looking for gays then the obvious place would be the Festival in the Park - but they already had Alan. Stay in the crowds, Alan, he shouted with his mind. They can't do anything to you if you stay in the crowds.
Because there was nowhere else to look, Keith went up Piccadilly towards Green Park. As he got closer he could hear the muffled beat of rhythmic drums and then the singing. The Park had been floodlit and was bright with the glaring lights, happy with the noisy exuberance of celebrating people. The singer - was it the legendary k.t.webb - her sultry voice backed by layers of vocal harmonies and supported by fluid guitar lines, was instantly appealing but Keith was too worried to care.
The night was sultry and most of the audience wore T-shirts or less. There were many stewards but they seemed to have little to do; the crowd was animated but peaceful. Keith saw one whose T-shirt bore the legend, 'Deputy Chief Steward'. He had a badge on which announced that his name was Andy.
"Hey, Andy," said Keith.
"Sh!" said Andy who was listening to the singing.
"Could be urgent," said Keith.
Andy sighed but turned his attention to Keith. "It is just possible that there are two guys who may have beaten up two gays, killed another and about to do the same to a fourth."
Andy stared at him in disbelief.
"Look I'm not making this up. I'm a police officer. Yeah I'm gay too." He showed Andy his warrant. "I saw these two at Clicks Club but lost them there - and they've got a friend of mine who may be in danger."
"You think they're here?"
"I honestly don't know," admitted Keith. "If it's them, and if they act the way they did before they'll wait till they get him in a dark quiet place - then kick him about."
Andy looked at the crowds around them, at the bright lights.
"Yeah I know," said Keith. "But look!" He pointed to a shadowy area between two of the tents. "What's going on down there?"
"Coupla guys or a coupla girls making love," suggested Andy. "Might even be a straight couple." He paused. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll round up a few of the stewards. Get them to look around."
"Tell them to keep in pairs," said Keith.
"You're really worried aren't you?" He set off to find reinforcements.
Ignoring his own warning, Keith started his own search. During the day, various people had set up small tents and kiosks to display and, if possible, sell what they felt was appropriate merchandise. It had formed almost a small village and though now closed down, the structures were arranged in lines leaving darkened alley ways between them. Almost no one was around, as all were watching and listening to the music.
Keith started down one of the alleys. The floodlights scarcely penetrated down here and though his eyes soon became accustomed to the gloom, it was difficult to make out whether the darker shadows were anything more sinister than mounds of rubbish. One, in fact, turned out to be a couple of people enjoying each other and Keith, with a hasty apology, hurried on - though his interference didn't seem to bother the pair, one of whom even asked whether he would like to join them.
Keith turned the corner into yet another darkened passageway but was brought up short when he heard a strange sound, an almost animal-like grunting coming, as far as he could make out, from further down the passage. Another couple on pleasure bent? He could see nothing until at the end perhaps a hundred metres down there suddenly appeared a torch beam. Silhouetted against the light Keith could see two figures kicking at a prostrate heap lying on the ground. He shouted and ran forward. The kicking figures were also alarmed by the simultaneous appearance of light at one end and his shout from the other. They stopped for a brief instant and then hared off down one of the side paths between two tents.
Divided in his mind between caring for whoever was on the ground and pursuit of the attackers, Keith paused but then stooped over the figure. At the same time the stewards with the torch arrived and shone it down on the face of - Keith was so sure it would be that of Alan that he experienced a physical shock when he saw a stranger's face, bloodied but conscious, the eyes staring up at him, frightened and in pain.
"Look after him," said Keith and turned to chase after the attackers. But they were not to be seen. The passageway up which they had disappeared was empty and when he reached the top and found himself amongst the crowd watching and listening to the music, there was no sign of them.
"Did you see two guys running out from here?" he asked but all the faces showed incomprehension; they had been listening to the singing, had seen nothing.
Keith retraced his steps and found the two stewards talking into a mobile phone. They had rung the Ambulance; it was on its way. The lad on the ground was sitting up, groaning. He didn't appear to be seriously injured but they insisted he stay still until the medics could check him over.
"Who were the two guys beating you up?" asked Keith, but he didn't know. They had jumped on him from behind. He had never seen them before, couldn't recognise them again. He though anyway that they had been wearing sort of woollen ski-masks. All he had heard had been their swearing, anti-gay obscenities.
The ambulance arrived announced by its flashing blue light though there was no siren. Two paramedics got out and, after examining the injured youth, took him away. The concert proceeded.
Keith felt a heavy despondency. They had got away with it again. He was no nearer proving that the attackers had been Sparks and Lovell. He certainly couldn't identify them himself from the brief look he had got of them as they raced off. Depressed he turned and stared into the face of - Alan.
His relief found expression in anger. "Where the hell did you get to?" he asked.
"I saw the ambulance. Was it them? They said they would get one more. Boasted about it. I was so frightened . . . " His words became almost incoherent.
Keith put his arms around him and sat him down on one of the park benches. k.t. webb's dark, almost sexless and androgynous voice floated in the air around them.
"What happened? Why on earth did you leave the Club with them?" asked Keith.
"They were just so eager to talk. I didn't have to ask about Stefan. They hate gays. Then they said they were off to the Festival to get another. I had to go with them otherwise I'd have lost them. I thought you'd follow straight away."
"I didn't see you go," said Keith, feeling guilty when he remembered the reason.
"Anyway I didn't think they would be after me. For some reason it never crossed my mind. Then when we got to the Park and there were all the gays around, they went almost berserk. The dark one, Sparks, you know was almost frothing at the mouth. He hated them so much. It was then that I got frightened."
He paused for a moment. Keith held his hand.
"They kept wanting to go off from the crowd. At last I got away from them. I was terrified they were looking for me so I just stayed in the crowd. Then I saw the ambulance and I knew they'd got someone."
He looked so wretched that Keith had to try to comfort him.
"We'll get them now," he said. "With your evidence, and what a guy called Phil told me at the Club, we've got enough evidence to bring them in. We'll break them. If what you said is right, they're bound to make mistakes. We'll get them."
He was almost sure that, if separated, the stories the two told would differ. They would incriminate each other.
"It's a pity there isn't any concrete evidence though," he said.
"Sparks has got his watch," said Alan.
"What?" Keith suddenly remembered something about a missing watch, a birthday present he thought. Then he remembered the letter from Stefan's mother.
"They boasted they always took something, not the obvious things like a wallet, but something that might not be noticed. They took Stefan's watch. Sparks was wearing it. It had a midnight blue face. Very distinctive."
"We got them," said Keith. "Stefan's parents will identify it. We've got them!"
Sunday 10.27 Islington, London
Keith had seen Alan back on the train to Feltenham. It felt lonely in the house by himself. The couple of days Alan had spent with him had shown Keith how much he missed having someone else around, being able to chat, to feel another physical presence but Alan had made it quite clear that, though a romp every so often was acceptable - even welcome, he had no intention of coming up to London to stay on a permanent basis.
On the mantelpiece was Stefan's address book. Keith had put it there when he had come home from work on Friday night and got changed. Idly he looked at the names and addresses. There were Ted and Ric's - Sparks and Lovell. Others, just names, part of Stefan's past. Now no longer of use to anyone. He wondered whether the police had informed his parents - must have done by now - wondered how they were taking it. At least they had the people who had done it.
His eye caught a name - Phil, no address but a London number, Islington from the code. Optimistically he punched out the numbers, heard the ringing, waited.
A voice answered. He recognised it immediately.
"Hello, Phil. It's Keith. If you still want to, I'd like to talk - "
9740 words Finished 14th July 1998 9:24:06 am
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