Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

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Tristan could hear a roaring in his ears, but everything was so confused and he couldn't really focus on the indistinct shapes and fleeting movements before his eyes. The pain somewhere was intense. People were saying things to him and he couldn't answer. It was like that first day--the day he met Colton. Then he could feel himself blacking out. Sinking into velvet. He knew he was now lying down and so, in the small portion of his rational brain that was still functioning, he knew that this was all right. He went with it and then could remember no more.

In the time before, Tristan had been busy preparing for a term paper that he was to deliver in Dr Macpherson's tutorial group, of which Tristan was a member. Tristan was going to compare arguments on the causes of the drift of the European Powers towards war in 1914. There were the economic theorists who had long held sway and now there was a newer group who studied prevailing racial and nationalist theories for explanations. And like all academics, there were those who placed a bet each way.

So it was, begrudgingly, that Tristan made time to attend the GSA under its new presidency since Tree had been dropped like Bismarck and a delicate balance of alliances, treaties and ententes had allowed the Society to stumble on.

The GSA had galvanised itself sufficiently to take a public stand on a new bill before the Texas Legislature. Christian fundamentalists were asserting that the traditional family was under attack from supporters of same-sex marriage and this had been extended to include the Federal Government and its Washington bureaucracy who were seen to be imposing these laws against the will of the people. In particular, they were agitating for the right of Christians with `sincerely' held beliefs to refuse to provide professional services to those whose values and practices conflicted with their own interpretation of the Scriptures--which Tristan thought seemed to always unnecessarily concentrate on the more virulent passages of the Old Testament.

At the GSA they were working themselves up into a lather of righteous indignation, giving imaginary instances of accountants in small towns refusing to do the books for gay florists or realtors denying their dubious services to same-sex couples. More pertinent were the questions around abortion and IVF for lesbian women.

A small proxy war was being fought around the campus, with GSA posters and handbills being torn down or daubed with swastikas and stencilled assault rifles. A group called The Family Defence Militia had formed a secret branch within the College and was busy putting up its own advertising adorned with quotes from the Bible, Confederate flags and cryptic references to a sinister, Jewish `world government' and its reputed stranglehold on distant Washington DC.

Tristan thought it all silly in the extreme and that the ends to which FDM's nemesis was supposedly plotting, were so vague as to reveal its own deep paranoia. He also thought that some members of the GSA enjoyed the trill of the conflict, fighting, as they believed, with the advantage of the moral high ground.

"They've never got over the Civil War," opined Iain Macpherson. He poured more wine for Colton and Tristan. "This Shiraz is nice, Colt," he said in gratitude. "In the big cities like Atlanta and Dallas, of course, they don't think like that, but in the smaller cities and towns, the ones that have been left behind, their economies have never really recovered from slavery times, and they never really enjoyed the widespread prosperity that the industrial north did--although that old economy has been left behind by this post-industrial economy which is concentrated even more in the big cities. But it's more that, over the years, the question of states' rights has been sidestepped rather than resolved."

"What about during the New Deal?" asked Tristan.

"Things were so bad then that desperate people accepted a measure of central control. During the War too."

"But FDR had his enemies, didn't he?" asked Colton.

"He did, but it tended to be among the wealthy Republicans, not the poor farmers. I'm not sure that that is the case now."

"So this Family Defence Militia is all about states rights and a backward economy?" asked Tristan.

"Seems like it. Of course religious adherence is stronger in these areas. Now, is that a result of economic forces or just isolation? Or both? The tyranny of distance. We're a long way from the Northeast."

"Yes, Iain, but the people in Boston used to be very religious--all those pious puritans--and they were maybe more religious than people in the Old South in the 1800s. More fundamentalist."

"It's where Joseph Smith came from," put in Colton.

"Well, what changed that?" posited Iain Macpherson.

"Slavery?" asked Tristan. "Those in Boston used religion to oppose slavery and maybe religion in the South was used to defend it--and then they were forced to give it up."

"That's true, Tristan. The spread of revivalist religions in the so-called Second Great Awakening was more pronounced in the south than in the northeast where Calvinist religions like the Congregationalism still held sway--not withstanding that your Joseph Smith was from Vermont, Colt, but his movement caught hold in the mid-west."

"And religion for African-Americans in the South is still kind of separate--the Civil Rights Movement showed that--Dr King an' all. The slaves had secret religions too, didn't they?" said Colton.

There was a pause while these thoughts were digested. Mrs Macpherson, despite her refusal to play the nineteen-fifties housewife, brought in a platter of cheese and crackers.

"I heard that the FDM were firing off guns in the Robert E. Lee Forest," Colton said, naming a forest preserve not far from the University. "Reckon some of the Cadets have joined them, though they are not allowed to do that."

"Do you mean they are using the Corps' rifles or their own?" asked Tristan in alarm.

"Dunno. Plen'y of students have their own guns--handguns too--although y'not supposed to carry them on campus."

"What a fucking country!" said Tristan, rolling his eyes, and not for the first time.

Thus it was, when returning from one of the GSA meetings, that Tristan was attacked.

"Yo, there's one!" was the first cry that Tristan heard. He didn't even think they were referring to him at first, but when he heard, "Get the Jew faggot!" he thought he'd better run.

It was only 9:00 pm, but the clock tower area of the campus was almost deserted. Tristan cursed this fact as he ran, thankful that he'd been training with Colt. The sound of his own feet and those of his pursuers echoed on the paving. There seemed to be five of them. He sensed dark clothing and faces masked by scarves. He wondered if they were armed.

He decided to double back with the hope that the GSA's meeting room might still be open and prove a refuge. He paused in a doorway of the Geology Building. He was breathing hard. The door was locked. He flattened himself into the brickwork.

Then three figures ran past. They were masked. They were young--students clearly. Tristan processed all this in his racing brain.

"Look over there, dog!" he heard one command. Tristan didn't know where that was, but he felt hopefully that it was not where he was. He waited. Then he made a break for it and ran back in the direction from whence he had come. This was a mistake because he ran straight into two of them, almost knocking the slighter one flat on his back. However, the wretch quickly recovered and now helped by the other threw Tristan to the ground. From somewhere the others appeared.

"Fuck off!" screamed Tristan. He was going to add `leave me alone' but even then he felt that was pointless.

"He's not American," said one.

"All the sweeter," said another as he delivered the first kick with a robust cowboy boot. Tristan felt his ribs give and screamed in pain. Then they all took turns in kicking him, delivering an insult with each blow.

Tristan tried to protect himself, but one of his attackers knelt on his arms to prevent it. Tristan got a look at his eyes and nose as his scarf had slipped down. He must have sensed this and moved slightly as pulled it tighter giving Tristan a moments reprieve, but it was only fleeting.

Some punches with fists were delivered to Tristan's face and he feared that he would black out.

"No, Braid!" he heard an agonized voice shout. This shock caused Tristan to look, although it was difficult as he felt his eyes were swollen. He glimpsed a flash of steel in the streetlight "No, we just wanna teach the faggot scum a lesson, man."

"Shut the fuck up, fuck head!" he heard `Braid' reply.

Just then there were screams--female voices behind him and when Tristan opened his eyes again his attackers were gone and two girls were standing over him. "Are you all right?" asked one. Tristan wanted to laugh, but felt he was losing consciousness.

"Ambulance," he croaked. He found his voice wasn't working properly. "Tell Colton"

"Colton Stone?"

Tristan gave a sort of nod and closed his eyes. He remembered very little after that.

When Tristan awoke, he thought for a moment he was at is old home in Wimbledon, although there was nothing in the hospital room to suggest that. He tried to speak, but found that he couldn't.

"Can I give him some water?"

It was Colton's voice and Tristan suddenly felt relief.

"Just a piece of ice," replied the nurse.

Colton leaned over the bed and Tristan saw him for the first time. He looked worried. Tristan tried to reassure him by smiling, but found he couldn't use his muscles properly. Then he wondered if he indeed was all right. His mouth wasn't working correctly and getting the ice in was difficult. It was like coming from the dentist before the anaesthetic had worn off.

The ice was good. "What happened?" he croaked.

"You were beat up, Tris. Couple of girls found you--Trisha and Soula--you remember them?"

Tristan wanted to laugh. Of course those girls knew the quarterback. "How long..."

Colton looked at his phone. "They found you about 9:00 last night. It's just after 6:30."

"Morning?"

"Yeah, in the mornin'. Police were here an' will come back later."

"Those guys..."

"Ran off. Musta known Soula does Judo."

"Let him sleep now, Colton," Tristan heard the nurse say. "Come back this afternoon--any time is okay for you."

Colton squeezed Tristan's hand--perhaps the only part of him that didn't hurt.

Tristan dozed. He was roused by the nurse--a young black woman. "Doctor's here, Tristan."

Dr Gomez introduced himself. He poked and prodded. He looked at the saline drip in Tristan's arm.

"You have some cracked ribs and a lot of bruising, Mr Isley. We are waiting for scan results to see how your spleen is."

"Will I live?" rasped Tristan.

"I'm afraid so, but you will be sore. We will want to keep you in one or two nights. You have concussion and a slight fever and we have you on some pretty powerful pain medications in your drip, so you probably feel out of it."

Tristan felt alarmed. "Dr Gomez, I don't want to be on that stuff. I had problems with prescription drugs last year and..."

"Well, I think just for a day or so, with your permission. We can just put you on paracetamol when you go home if you think you can manage."

"The spleen thing...?"

"A ruptured spleen can be serious, especially for loss of blood, but you can live without one. I'll be back tomorrow."

Tristan dozed then had to use the bedpan. It was embarrassing. Then came lunch, but he wasn't hungry. The nurse kept coming to take his blood pressure and temperature. Then there was the occupational therapist, who was dismissed, and then the girl to take his tray away. Tristan was just thinking that hospitals were no place for a rest when Colton walked in with Officer Collins.

Tristan said he was feeling a little better. They quickly got down to business. Tristan recounted what he could remember. A couple of times he backtracked when he had remembered something.

"So one called out dog' and the other was called Braid'?"

"It might have been Brad', but I think it was Braid' and he was told to shut up."

"Could that blade have been a bayonet?"

"I've never really seen one, but I guess so."

"I know what dog' means,' said Colton. They looked at him expectantly. "It's what freshman cadets call each other: dog Iseley, dog Collins' and so on."

"So they were from the Corps?" asked Tristan. "Could `Braid' be something? Officer maybe? He seemed to call the shots."

"This does seem like a gay hate crime from what you say,' said Collins. "My report goes to CID and they'll want to follow it up."

"I've just remembered. One let his mask slip. He had one blue eye and one brown."

"Could these bastards have something to do with the Family Defence Militia?" asked Colton.

Officer Collins just shrugged and left.

Tristan wanted to talk to Colton alone, but barely had the time. He felt that he was not quite right in the head and, although he knew it was probably the drugs causing, him not to think clearly. There was the parade of hospital staff and then came his anxious friends from Charles C. Selecman, all concerned for Tristan.

President Barlow came and vowed that gay hate crime would be stamped out. When Tristan dared to suggest that it might have been cadets, Barlow was quick to jump on him and ask for proof of such a slander. Tristan didn't feel like bothering and was glad when he left--possibly the feeling was mutual. Daryl from the GSA came and expressed outrage and said that the GSA were going to do some serious street theatre that very night at the Student Union to highlight Tristan's martyrdom. Tristan tried to grin and thanked him for coming, reassuring him that he'd be fine in a few days.

Tristan was just having his lunch on the second day when his father and Cylvah appeared. "Dad!" cried Tristan in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Tristan, I'll ignore that implied insult. How are you?"

"We heard, Tristan," said Cylvah with feeling and trying to find an un-bandaged place to plant a kiss. "Colton rang."

Tristan recovered himself and was compelled to tell his story once again.

"And these hate crimes, are they common this university?" asked his father.

"Not unknown, Dad. It's a fear gay people have to live with."

"Do you want to go back to England? This is a violent country--the people are violent. I could set you up there--you wouldn't have to live with your mother."

"No, but thanks. I've made my bed here--even if it's only a hospital one. I've made good friends for the first time in my life. I won't be leaving.

His father nodded. "This group..."

"The Family Defence Militia."

"Yes. They were involved in that standoff with the police--Federal Agents--last year. Do you know about that?"

Tristan didn't.

"There was a group of ranchers north of Dalhart. They grazed their cattle under licence in a State Park in the summer months. The State of Texas turned the park over to the Federal Lands Department so it could become part of a larger grassland preserve across three states. These ranchers refused to recognize that event and refused to move their cattle. There was some violence and a Federal officer was shot dead. The County Sherriff refused to take any action against the ranchers. The ranchers started refusing to pay Federal Taxes and this widened into not recognizing Federal authority and any legislation they didn't like."

"Such as equal rights and same-sex marriage?"

"Exactly."

"How do you know this?"

"Well, it was big news last year had you been..."

"I know."

"And there's a possibility of oil and gas in the park. If it's Federal, they can't touch it. If it belongs to the State of Texas, then Austin can, and probably will, issue licences to explore and extract."

"I see," said Tristan. "Dad, I'm not sure that the police or the University will take any action here. If the Corps of Cadets is involved in gay-bashing or teaming up with FDM it will be a great scandal. They're second only to football. I guess the cops don't have much to go on either."

"That's pathetic!" chimed in Cylvah. "You get half killed and they get away with it!"

"Yeah, I know. Policing is all very localized here. It has its disadvantages."

"David, surely you can do somethin'? What about Colton?"

"I'll go to the police before we head back."

Tristan wanted to change the subject.

"Dad, you and Cylvah have go to go and have a look at the house. The loft is finished except for the solar panels. Get the key off Colt. I'll text him. And thanks for coming all this way. They said I can go home soon--just waiting on a second lot of tests."

"I know. I spoke to Dr Gomez myself before coming in." Tristan was not surprised. "Maybe you need to take it easy till you're mended, Tristan. Do you want to come up to the apartment or perhaps have a few days at the cabin? You can go if you like--but get someone else to drive. Colton?"

"I'll think about it, Dad. I've got a lot of work and the house seems to require all my attention at present."

"It'd be a good idea, Tris," said Cylvh. "Give your face a chance to clear up."

Tristan hadn't considered his appearance and hadn't looked in a mirror. Cylvah had one in her bag, of course, and handed it to Tristan. He angled the small glass to get all his face in.

"Oh my God! I frighten myself! Gee, no wonder everyone has been looking at me strangely."

"Your still beautiful, Tristan," said Cylvah. "Even if it's only on the inside at the moment."

Tristan was allowed to go home the following day, although not to Charles C. Selecman House as there was no one there to be with him. Tristan would not allow Colton or anyone else to ditch classes and this impasse was solved by Iona Macpherson offering her spare room and motherly attentions for the rest of the week.

Tristan really enjoyed his few days with the Macphersons. He had his homework to do--extensions being given in view of what had happened--and some time each day was spent with Mrs Macpherson who was busy writing a new work of fiction.

"Oh my God, those footballers are going to force themselves on the theatre arts student right there on the school bus!" Tristan was reading from Iona's latest erotic novel, Hey, Let's Put on a Show!

"Wait for it, Tristan," called Mrs Macpherson. She turned from her computer and looked at Tristan on the sofa over the top of her half spectacles.

Tristan's eyes grew wider. "You expect readers to believe that the coloured school bus driver joins in and he had a penis that long!"

"Don't you know any African-Americans?"

"I do, but that's ridiculous. That poor Timmy, he's not going to be able to walk, let alone dance the Mickey Rooney role."

"He can in fiction." She laughed. "Tristan, do you think the footballers at San Fernando Valley High School would use marijuana or amphetamines or something else at parties?"

"No idea. Some of each?"

"Right," said Mrs Macpherson who returned to her keyboard after taking a sip from her teacup.

Tristan read on and was just at the part where the guileless Timmy was being trussed up in the fly tower above the stage by the School Board's Superintendant when Iona interrupted again. "Cummed or Came?"

"Came', I think and spelt with a u' for simple present tense of the verb as well as for the noun, of course."

"Yes. Agree. And for, `I like cumming in class'?"

"That's a gerund--the noun form of the verb, so with a `u' too."

They started to laugh and could not stop. They were still laughing when Iain and Colton entered the room. Fortunately they were carrying bottles of wine, so work was finished for the afternoon and poor Timmy was left dangling like Pearl White.

Tristan and Colton both wanted a weekend at Tristan's father's cabin and so Tristan delegated more tasks to Ben and Ivy. The roof was being put on the screened porch that weekend and Tristan had been anxious to see it. Originally this roof was just going to be made of sort of rubber sheeting that was commonly used in the United States, but when Tristan was told that this laudably cheap material might only last five years he said `no' and all sorts of other materials were considered, only then to be rejected. Annoyingly only copper now seemed suitable and that was expensive at more than two thousand dollars. Like home-builders before him, Tristan sighed and parted with the money.

"Just your camouflage briefs and your guitar, Colt. You won't need anything else."

They piled into Tristan's Chevrolet truck--or more correctly Colton piled in, whilst Tristan was positioned more carefully with some pillows from his bed behind his back, as he was still terribly sore and his strapped ribs complained every time the truck struck a pothole. Yet Tristan felt happier that he was now off the Endone and with a clearer conscience could enjoy alcohol, but he had to admit that it had been effective in masking the pain he had been in from the beating and that the paracetamol was not quite cutting it. His father had been right; he could not have driven his truck in his present state.

The route to Louisiana was now a familiar drive of about four hours and some remembered features along the way made it seem all the shorter. They bypassed Groveton, which seemed too depressing, and stopped at Lufkin, a prosperous timber town. A well-executed mural attracted them to a corner coffee shop. Colton said that CoJo, a favourite C&W singer, was from here and that he'd been practicing one of his simpler tunes on his guitar.

Of course, in the truck they had talked a great deal about the attack. Until Colton was forthcoming, Tristan hadn't realised how upset he had been.

"I'm so sorry, man, I shoulda been there for y'Tris."

"Thanks, Roomy, but don't go beating up on yourself. You were not to know that this would happen."

"I still shoulda bin there--at the meetin' I mean. I was out at Jake's Bar with Becky n' Kirsten from the Clinic. I mean they're just friends--colleagues--an' I wasn't thinkin' of fuckin' them or nothin'."

"Not even thinking."

"Oh, all right, I was thinkin' of fuckin' Becky--have been ever since I met her--but it ain't never goin' t'happen. She's got a boyfriend anyhow. I can have friends who is girls, Tris. Anyways, we was just havin' a few drinks an' a laugh. That's where I was instead of the GSA, n' I'm right sorry."

"That's okay. It was good that you knew the two girls who found me. Those cunts might have finished me off with that bayonet."

"Seems t'me," said Colt as he thumped his palm on the wheel, "Seems that the cops ain't going t'do shit. An' it seems to me that those guys were likely from the Corps."

"That's probably why Barlow and the cops won't act--to protect the reputation of the College and the Corps."

"Yeah, but we should act."

"No, Colt, I don't what you to go beating people up. I expressly forbid it!"

Colton turned and grinned at him. "You `expressly forbid it' do you?" He had imitated Tristan's accent. "Well, that's not the way we settle things in Texas."

"Yeah, I know that. It's what happened in Texan Freshman Tramp. Do you remember? At the house I told you that one day I'd get beaten up and end up in hospital and that you'd sit by my side all night hoping and praying that I'd come out of a coma."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't do that--sure, I got there early, but you weren't in no coma or on life support."

"Oh, that's not how it's supposed to happen. But, of course, I still could have had amnesia like in Starting Over, Roll Me Over and not remembered you at all."

"But you didn't."

"Yes, but in those stories, the boyfriend--that's you--beats the attackers near to death and gets himself in trouble with the law--except in Paddy Hurst where the boyfriend is actually the kidnapper all along.

Colton looked confused. "I'm the boyfriend?"

"Just for the purposes of plot development." Colton still looked confused. "Look, we've got to settle this some other way, but not with fists. We have to settle it before someone else becomes a victim--that's more important than me. They will grow stronger thinking they have got away with it."

"So, `boyfriend', what stuff do we know?"

"Well, there were five of them. Of course, they may have more in their posse, but it was five who set upon me. One called the other dog' and the one in charge was called Braid'.

"So that suggests the Cadets?"

"Yes, but is `Braid' a real name or a rank?"

"We need to search a list of Corps members and their ranks. But how?"

"Could you look in the Clinic's files?"

"I'd hate to break Dr Baddeley's trust in me, Tris, besides, the records would not have a list of cadets, only individual patients."

"That's true."

"The other piece of evidence is the bayonet--if it was one-- and I'm pretty sure it was and that `Braid' was going to use it. This also suggests Braid is crazy, so he might be known elsewhere."

"What else?"

"Well, they were all free on Monday night and in mufti."

"What's that mean? Were they Muslims?"

"No, it's slang for civilian clothes. They were not in their uniforms on Monday night."

"Okay, so there might be a roster or timetable or somethin'."

"One was of a lighter frame than the others who were all pretty built." Colton looked at him. "No, not as built as you, Atlas. Nearly knocked him flying when I ran into him." Tristan racked his brains as they continued through the darkening countryside. "Oh, there was the one with the blue left eye--no right eye--and a brown left one. That's got to be pretty unusual. He was the skinny one.

"We've got to toughen you up, Tris."

"There were five of them, Colt, so I don't think I couldn't have fought them off like Jackie Chan. It was `Braid' who kicked me first. I remember his brown-and-yellow cowboy boots."

"You didn't tell that to the police!"

"I just remembered. Possibly he got rid of them."

"Doubt it. Know how expensive those things are? What about the FDM?"

"Yeah. I should ask Dad some more about them or do some research. If they have a membership list..."

"Doubt that too."

"Well, if we can find a link between them and the Corp of Cadets, we might have some luck."

"But what'll we do even if y'all get the names of the five cunts? Go to the cops? This should be their job."

"Don't know. Have to think on that."

"Now, what is it that I have to do?" asked Colton. Tristan was set up on one of the over-scaled couches in the living room his father's cabin. It was pitch black outside, but there was a fire burning in the stone fireplace even though it was not particularly cold. Colton had made sure that Tristan had taken his medication and that his temperature was still normal and that he was comfortable with rugs and cushions.

"I want you down to just your camo briefs and your Stetson. I want you to play something on the guitar and do a little dance. At the same time preferably."

"Stripping, dancing and singing. Does that make me a triple threat?"

"I didn't say you could sing, but yeah, sing too."

Colton disappeared and came back with his hat and guitar. He set the guitar down and made a theatrically dramatic grab for his tee-shirt in order to take it off. It got tangled up with his hat and the routine dissolved into laughter. Tristan's ribs ached.

A second attempt was better coordinated and Colton did a dance as his clothes came off, gyrating his hips and lifting his arms to expose his attractive young pits. He was down to his camouflage-patterned bikini briefs. Tristan applauded. Colton made sure to spin around so that Tristan `got the good' of his arse. It filled the seat in a manly and meaty manner, thought Tristan, and the pouch at the front sagged dramatically under the weight of its generous contents, straining the narrow sides. Tristan applauded again and managed a whistle.

Colton stopped. "I think y'all getting too excited, Tris. I've probably caused y'temperature to go up."

"No, you've done me a power of good."

"I can't dance and play m' guit-ar." He sat down on Tristan's sofa and put Tristan outstretched legs over his own. He reached for his guitar. "I was practicing this one for y'all as a surprise, but I never thought I'd need it for this occasion."

He tuned the instrument for a couple of minutes and then coughed to clear his throat. Tristan saw him silently counting.

Would you know my name

If I saw you in heaven?

"Eric Clapton," said Tristan quickly and Colton nodded as he continued to sing. I was very slow and beautiful and wonderfully unadorned, with just Colton's Texan voice and the guitar.

"Hey, don't cry, Roomy, my singin' ain't that bad!"

"No, just the reverse, Colt." Tristan gave a sniff then a stifled gulp and grinned at Colton guiltily for his lack of composure.

"Here's one by Cody Johnson. It's modern, but sill kinda traditional C&W.

Never been a Cool Hand Luke

Quarterback on a winnin' team...

"That was really nice, Colt," said Tristan when the song drew to a close. "But you have been a quarterback on a winning team. Who was it again?

"Cody Johnson. I'll send some of his songs to you. They're great t'chill to."

They were silent on the couch.

"Do you sing to your girlfriends, Colt, or just to me?"

"Back in High School I used t'sing an' play to chicks sometimes, but now, well, college girls might think it's a tad unsophisticated--you know--hokey. Maybe if I stayed with 'em longer an' got more serious...so, I suppose, it is jus' to y'all, Tris. See, y'are special to me!" He grinned.

"Thanks, Roomy, you're the best medicine. I can hardly feel the stiches in m'face."

"Speaking of that, do you think you could wrap those swollen lips around Colty's meat an' give me some luvvin'?"

"Haven't you jacked since Monday?"

"Nah, haven't felt like it without y' skilled n'enthusiastic help, Tris. Do y'all thank I might have forgot how to do it?"

"I doubt it, but that's a long time for you."

"Yeah, p'haps the longest dry spell since I was twelve."

"Well, I'd better set to work then, before you burst like a boiler."

"Much obliged."

Colton swung around on the sofa into a sitting position. He spread his meaty legs akimbo. Tristan got up and knelt on the floor. "Does that hurt y'ribs, Tris?"

"No, just don't grab me. Put your hands behind your head; it looks hot and I can do my job."

Colton thrust his groin forward, the camo briefs now visibly under strain. Tristan planted a light kiss on the bulge and then caressed it with his swollen lip, the Lycra snagging slightly on his stiches. Colton moaned.

Tristan then struggled to pull the garment from Colton's body and when it was at last free, there was Colton's erection standing proud, the foreskin just drawn back slightly and all moist and glistening with singing-cowboy gargle. Tristan extended his tongue and gently licked. It tasted of Colton. Then he more forcefully drove his pointed tongue right in, causing Colton to jump. "Ow, fuck!" he cried. Tristan wanted to smile to himself for having caused this reaction.

Tristan got to work quickly and had to time it skilfully, allowing for his roommate's urgent need of relief and his own aches and pains from the posture he was required to adopt. Colton came and Tristan didn't drown, but he did choke and the coughing caused his strapped ribs to jab him with pain.

"Oh, that was good, Tris," panted the quarterback. "That thang y'all with y'tongue and when you grab m' sack..."

They went up to the mezzanine floor where there were the bedrooms. They had placed their things in the room they had occupied before, with its morning view over the lake. "Leave those sexy camo briefs on, Colty."

"No, Tris. M'junk needs to breathe free, I feel strangled in these--I just wore 'em for your benefit. Y'like y'Colty in the raw, don't ya?"

"Of course, and I wish you could fuck me, but Dr Gonsalves said I mustn't get buggered by any footballers for three weeks."

"Did he now. I was hopin' that was just what the doctor had ordered. Darn pity. We coulda made a whole heap o'noise here. Just have to cuddle y'real careful then."

"Thanks, Colt," said Tristan with a guilty smile.

And Colton was as good as his word, for he did cuddle Tristan carefully--or more precisely, he made Tristan rest in bed and take his medications, only allowing him to rise in the afternoon when he was allowed to sit outside for an hour or so and then had to come in by the fire. Colton kept a professional eye on the cuts and abrasions that now formed purpley-yellow bruise down his left side of his body and the right side of his face. The swelling had largely gone down around his eyes and upper lip.

Colton kept Tristan entertained with music on his phone and when this palled, he would do a little dance in his camo briefs or chop wood in his jeans and boots.

"No, let me warsh y'all," he said as Tristan attempted to shower.

"I'll be okay, Colt, don't fuss."

"I like to fuss, you're m'buddy." Colton slid off his briefs (now rather ripe with body odour) and picked up the soap. He gently massaged Tristan and then proceeded to wash his hair, as Tristan complained that raising his arms made his ribs hurt.

"When you're better, Tris, y'gonna have t'go back to wearing the butt plug," said Colton sternly. "You'll have tightened up an' I want to be able to fuck you with no fuss." Colton's erection was throbbing, perhaps from the thought.

"Oh, I don't know..."

"No, Tris," said Colton putting his arms on his shoulders. "I want you plugged at all times. I think it's real hot and it sure makes slidin' in a heap easier."

"So no dinner and no dancing?" asked Tristan sarcastically.

"Hey, I've just made your dinner and I've been your own Magic Mike!"

"Yes, I have to admit..."

Colton now had the handheld spray and was rinsing Tristan off. "Besides, you get off on it. What do you call the number three?"

"The Hindenburg."

"Yeah, and you like bein' stretched n'all and that thing excitin' your gay prostate as y'walk around."

"You have one too. You know, I could shove The Hindenburg up your shitter--or maybe Océane's butt hook. After all, you said it made you cum harder."

"Not really fittin' for the College Quarterback, Tris, is it? The team has t'thank of m'ass as in-violate."

Tristan grabbed the spray and squirted Colton who laughed and spluttered. "You are so fucking conceited, Colton Stone. My arse might just be off limits."

"Aw, don't shut up shop on me, Roomy. I can't go back to using m'hand." Colton seized the spray. "Let's see if I can make you cum." He played the needles of water on Tristan's erection. Tristan thrust out. Then Colton discovered the `pulse' button. He sat down on the tiled seat and continued the torment with the stinging needles of warm water. He occasionally moved the spray to Tristan's balls, making him jump. He grinned at Tristan.

"I'm getting close, Colt."

Colton held the nozzle closer and concentrated on the sensitive underside of Tristan's prick. All of a sudden, Tristan erupted. His cum flew a little way into the air before falling to the wet floor of the shower stall where it gurgled down the drain. Tristan's penis was flexing and pulsing on its own accord. They both watched it, fascinated.

"That looks amazin'," said Colt. "You've done really well there, Roomy."

Tristan wasn't quite sure what he had done to earn Colton's praise, but he accepted it. "Yeah, it felt great. You know, we have one of these in the new house."

"Well, we'll give it a lot of use." Colton grabbed his own cock and gave it a few tugs. He came all over Tristan.

"Sorry, Tris," he said insincerely. "I'll have to wash it off."

Just like in Freshman Sports at Clemson, he let loose a stream of piss and hosed Tristan down. Tristan was gasping and laughing at the same time. "You fucking bastard!" he managed to get out.

After a couple of shakes, Colton took some body wash and the spray and made amends to Tristan, all the while saying he would not be getting any more `special treats' like this unless he went back to docking The Hindenburg.

Back at Charles C. Selecman House, Tristan resumed his life as a freshman. Rachel and Leesha volunteered themselves to make-up Tristan's face with concealer to mask the worst of the bruising. By the end of the week it had diminished greatly. Tristan had the stiches in removed and Dr Baddeley, who had taken over from the Hospital, pronounced him `better'.

Tristan was anxious to see the progress made on the house in his absence. While Colton was at the gym he walked over. The tradespeople were still working and so he tried to keep out of their way.

The copper-roofed porch was quite startling; the sun was just catching the metal as Tristan arrived. "It'll dull, then start t'go green soon enough," said Wilcox, the head builder, who was looking over the plans to check some detail or other. "Never done a roof like this before, Tristan. It was a bit tricky, but your architects are real creative and my men did a pretty fine job, I reckon."

Tristan said he thought so too and made a note to pass on this unsolicited praise to Ben and Ivy. He pointed up at the wide eaves, which flattened out like the brim of a hat around the copper pyramid, forming an open grid of timbers. "I'll plant a grape vine over that." He stood there for a moment trying to imagine a fringe of soft green leaves in summer and then the fire of autumn colour in the `fall'.

The porch opened off the kitchen and was entered from the back yard by a pair of glass doors with traditional screen doors over them--sliding ones having being dismissed as `too suburban'. The long bank of narrow windows could be folded right back for maximum fresh air. There was only a half wall below them and this was sheeted only on the inside; the framing was left visible on the outside and the timber had been treated with some dark stain--perhaps creosote, thought Tristan. It made an effective contrast to the copper above it and the whole looked like some oriental temple, perhaps from Korea or Japan, and Tristan wondered if he should hang bells from the corners.

The porch floor was hardwood rather than cheaper composite board. It would make a good room for parties, Tristan concluded. A pair of the expensive oriental lanterns had been fitted and, as elsewhere in Texas, there was a ceiling fan to disturb the hot, humid air in summer. A door to one side led to the narrow stairs up to the loft where his own bed would one day sit. He went up and looked around. Nothing had changed.

The downstairs bathroom was now complete and the workmen were concentrating on the rooms in the attic. In the basement, the correction made by Professor Troost was in evidence and, with its double doors--proper wooden ones, not made of PVC-- the bedroom was actually quite attractive and now only required paint and carpet. He took pictures on his phone and sent them to Colton and the others as he walked back to Charles C. Selecman House.

Colton came bouncing in from the gym. "Pictures look great, Tris," he said as he shed his workout clothes. "You want to have a jack-off session? I'm practically bustin'."

"Well, sounds more appealing than this essay on Kingsley Amis." He pressed `save' and turned to Colton.

"Up here. I wanna show you how to edge."

"I know how to edge."

"Nah, you probably ain't doin' it right. You're probably doin' some sort of British edgin', not Texas standoff edgin'."

Tristan snorted with laughter.

"Now, we start with a little visual stimulation. He fiddled with his phone and was quiet for some minute. "I've got Sorority Vixens, but I've seen that, so I'm switchin' (one handed) t'Helga Visits the Fire Station. What y'got?"

"Flat Tire in Compton. There's a guy that looks like De."

Colton snorted with contempt. "Now, kneed y'piece through y'shorts."

"Colt, I know how to jack off!"

"Just tryin' to help you, Roomy."

Tristan sighed and concentrated on his video. Periodically Colton snapped instructions. When they were hard, their underwear came off. Eventually, Colton said to put their phones aside. They masturbated in the open.

"Stop now, Tris. Time to do your balls."

Tristan wasn't ready but did as he was told. So on went the instructions until, "I'm getting close, Colt."

"Too early! Stop and cool off!"

Presently Colt said, "I've been close twice now. Look how much I'm juicin'." Tristan looked across and saw that Colton's abs were awash."

They resumed.

"Oh God, Colt, I want to cum and my cock is getting sore."

"Fifteeen more minutes, Tris. It'll be worth it. Freestyle now, no more coaching."

Again it went on, both boys masturbating on the bed. Then Colton started to lift his hips and grunt. Tristan was distracted, by the beauty of Colton's straining body.

"I'm cummin'!" gasped Colton.

"On me!" snapped Tristan.

Colton quickly rolled on top of Tristan, missionary style, knocking the breath out of him. He frotted Tristan, with his big, hard cock sliding up and down Tristan's abdominals next to his own erection.

"Fuck, I'm losin' it."

"Keep going, Stud!"

Colton writhed on top of the prone Tristan, grinding his cock into his flesh. Just when Tristan thought he could breathe again, Colton smashed his face into Tristan's in a fierce kiss, sucking the wind out of his roommate.

Then he came.

Some period of time elapsed before Colton gasped "Fuck!" and raised himself sufficiently to survey the damage. There was cum everywhere. Tristan had cum too, but he was unsure when. "You okay?"

"Yeah, that was good."

"Well, that's Texas standoff edgin' for ya."

The impasse over the crime committed against Tristan was breached from two directions. Tristan's father had sent him articles on the Family Defence Militia and the near rebellion at Dalhart, with some suggestions on trying to find a link to the attackers. Tristan read the material with interest and became outraged that the FBI investigation had been hampered by lack of local cooperation and felt that he was in a similar position. He shared this material with Iain Macpherson after their History tutorial.

The next day Dr Macpherson asked to see Tristan and Colton. "At home, not here in my office," he said.

Colton skipped the gym and met Tristan there on his bike. "What does he want, Tris?" asked Colton as he locked his bike to the mailbox. Tristan didn't know.

Then it became clear. "You read about the standoff in Dalhart last year?" They both had or course. "Well, look at the names of the ringleaders."

Tristan read aloud: "Harold Rhodes; Dwayne Rhodes; Wilbert Meigs; Sarah-Jane Lausche."

"The Rhodes are ranchers--father and son. It was the son who probably shot the Federal Agent, but the sheriff claimed there was insufficient evidence to make an arrest. His name is Clive Lausche and Sarah-Jane is his wife. That leaves Meigs. He's a rancher too and an ex-Marine. He's the one who publishes their newsletter and is possibly the brains behind the organization."

"I see," said Tristan, who didn't see at all.

"You haven't heard it from me, but there is a Bradley Meigs listed as a senior student doing Economic History--not in the Arts Faculty, but I came across the name just today by accident. Could he also be a Cadet?"

"It's an unusual name," said Tristan.

"And if his father was in the Services..." put in Colton.

"But I have no access to a list of students who are Corps members, Tristan, but I suggest you do a little stalking to find if he is. I don't know how we'd find out who his father is."

Back in their dorm room it only took half an hour for Tristan to strike pay dirt. Bradley Meigs was in the Marksman Unit and had won an award the previous year that was widely publicized. There was even a picture, but Tristan could tell little from the formal image of the young man in a stiff uniform.

Colton was on the bed searching for Meigs' Facebook page. There he was, in various shots with other cadets and images of him with girls who may or may not have been fellow cadets. "Bingo!" cried Colton. He turned his screen to Tristan who was sitting at the desk. There was Bradley Meigs in jeans and a tee-shirt. On his feet were cowboy boots fitting Tristan's description.

To celebrate, pizza was ordered and coffee was made. Tristan and Colton worked late into the night stalking Bradley Meigs. More pictures were unearthed. He was a senior. He posed with guns--he was a hunting enthusiast as well as a marksman.

"Why was he mentioned almost every month last year, but not a single time this year?" asked Tristan as he scrolled through the Unit's newsletter. "He was one of their two star skeet and practical shooting champions. He won competitions in Savannah, in Charlotte, in Montgomery and a whole lot of other places, but this year, zilch." Colton didn't know. "He even won a scholarship last year, but this year the Budd Scholarship for Marksmanship has gone to someone called Kathy Connors. He is not even listed as holding it."

"Perhaps they took it off of him after Dalhart. Maybe they heard what his daddy done."

"I don't think they could punish him just for what his father did."

"The Corps is really strict, Tris. You should read the rules about what they can do to you just for not making y'bed army style or for walking out with a girl and having y'arm anywhere else but her waist. A lot of those rules are really dumb." He was reading down further and then said, "They have strict rules on hazing, equal opportunity and bringing the Corps into disrepute, but I wonder if they're just strict on paper."

Tristan had given up on finding a freshman with blue and brown eyes. He did discover that braid' was a term of respect used by dogs' to seniors and that Braid and Bradley' was probably a coincidence.

Then he turned his attention to Dalhart and Dellham County. In the conveniently digitized County newspaper there was plenty of news about the Meigs Senior, but it took another half an hour of following up various fruitless leads to find the link: At the death of Grandma Meigs two years previously, Bradley Meigs was mentioned as a mourner along with some brothers and sisters.

"So," said Tristan, stretching. "Bradley Meigs is the son of Wilbert Meigs who is a member of the Family Defence Militia. The FDM is anti-gay and more than slightly lunatic. Bradley Meigs is a third year `braid' in the Corps of Cadets. He has cowboy boots like the ones I saw."

"Don't forget, somethin' happened 'tween last year and this. He lost his scholarship--perhaps for bad behaviour."

"Maybe he was just missing the targets. Let's turn in."

The next day, between classes, Tristan consulted two people he trusted. Dr Baddeley was having a sandwich at her desk when Tristan was admitted.

"Hullo, Tris. How's my boy doing?" she said cheerfully.

Tristan reported that he was healing well and even his ribs were not so painful now, although there was still strapping about his chest.

"Dr Baddeley," he said, settling into the chair, "I think I've found the ringleader of the gang who bashed me. I don't know what to do with the information--especially as I can't prove it beyond reasonable doubt."

"What do you know?"

"Well, this guy is in the Corps of Cadets--he's a senior--a `braid'. That's what I heard him called. I also saw his boots and I know this guy has a pair."

"Good sleuthing, but not much to hang y'hat on."

"Well, I know he is the son of the leader in an anti-gay group. You remember that standoff with the Federal Lands Department up north last year? Well, that's his father."

"That FDM has been hassling the Clinic workers. You think they were involved in attacking you?"

"I do. Of course, I can't prove it. The police seemed to have dropped it. I don't think President Barlow wants to hear anything that besmirches the Corps either."

"So, it's really only the boots?"

"I guess so."

"I still think the police are your best option. Even if they don't do anything this time, they will have this guy's name in their files for the next time. Maybe he already has a record."

"You can't be in the Corps if you have a police record. I do wonder if this Bradley has a mental health record. Like, he seemed crazy when he attacked me and the others had to stop him from knifing me with a bayonet."

There was a pause for quite a long time before Dr Baddeley spoke. "Well, I can't tell you if this Bradley Meigs has a medical history here or not, Tristan. That would be unprofessional."

"Thank you, Dr Baddeley. I wouldn't want to place you in an awkward position."

Next Tristan went to the Macphersons. He laid out what he had discovered (with the exception that Bradley Meigs had some sort of medical history).

"It's a pity that only the Corps could tell you if Meigs and four others were free on Monday night," said Iain.

"And probably only they would know if they had a cadet with odd eyes."

"They guard their reputation jealously, Tristan. I wonder if it's worth letting them deal with it, seeing you don't have sufficient evidence for a reluctant County Sheriff."

"But wouldn't they just cover it up?"

"Probably, but they may kick them out of the Corps. Would that satisfy you?"

"I want justice, not revenge."

"There's an element of revenge in all justice. If you don't see any results, you can still take your evidence to the police."

"That's true. Who's the Commander?"

"A senior named Wilmer. You would have seen him when Senator Rusk was here."

Tristan nodded, trying to imagine himself confronting the rigid student cadet who was two years older than himself.

The Macphersons asked him to stay to dinner. It was roast beef and Tristan could not help but think of home--or what used to be his home-- and this made him feel better about everything.

That night, Tristan told Colton that he had resolved to confront Wilmer, the Corps Commander. "I'm comin' with y'all--no arguments!"

Tristan didn't have to consider it. "Thanks, Colt," he said.

Some more searching on the Corps' website showed that Monday nights involved a parade at 6:00 which was followed by a dinner. There were lectures and meetings after this. Whether there were some students who had none of these was not clear. However, Tristan figured that if the Commander was serious in the quest for the truth, he could narrow the group of suspects down considerably. Lastly, Tristan reread the rules of the Corps. They were indeed strict and this gave him hope that he would be taken seriously.

It took two days before Tristan could get to see the Cadet Lieutenant Colonel, although Tristan said that his business related to an alleged assault. He thought that this did not bode well. Eventually he received an email saying that he could have a fifteen-minute interview at 7:45 in the morning before the Corps went for their breakfast. Again, Tristan took this as a bad sign.

Colton had worked out exactly where they had to go the day before. The Corps has a separate part of the campus and their housing was concentrated in a quadrangle of very plain-looking dormitories. Not all freshmen (and women)--dogs for both sexes--where housed here, another facility for the Mounted Unit being in Sunset.

Nevertheless it was quite intimidating entering this strange military world--a parallel universe--and Tristan had to keep reminding himself that they were only students like himself.

Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Emmett P. Wilmer was nothing if not punctual and he sat stiffly behind a grey metal desk adorned with some regalia of the Corps that looked interesting, but Tristan was not encouraged to inspect it more closely. There was the flag of the United States in one corner and the Corps' own flag in the other. On the wall was a picture of the well-known General of the Corps--an 80lb Chacma baboon otherwise known as Teddy. This much honoured, although notoriously bad-tempered, ape was a feature of home football games and passing out parades for the Corps. The other picture was of the President of the United States, which had been autographed during a visit to the campus only the previous year.

"Mr Isley" said Wilmer without warmth. There was no handshake. "Mr Stone," he said in a higher key, "I wasn't expecting you this morning. I had assumed that Mr Isley was asking to see me alone."

"He's my roommate," said Colton curtly.

"Now, this is about an allegation of assault, I believe? I presume it is you, Mr Isley who is making the allegation. Not many would be foolish enough to tackle our quarterback."

"I am, and you may call me Tristan if you'd like to make things less formal."

"In the Corps, Mr Isley, we like to keep relationships on a formal level."

"It's just that calling each other `mister' when we're about the same age seems ridiculous."

"To you maybe, but we have our traditions. We guard them jealously."

"Well then, I was walking back to my dorm last Monday week at a little after nine in the evening."

"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr Isley, but where had you been?"

"Does that matter?"

"I think it does."

"I'd been to a meeting of the GSA"

"I see. You are a homosexual then, I gather."

"It is The Gay-Straight Alliance, Colonel Wilmer," said Tristan, conveniently skipping the longer alphabet soup of its full name, "and you can't assume anything."

"I'm a member of the GSA, Wilmer, and so are seven other footballers. You'd better not be trying to make something of this," said Colton in a threatening voice that Tristan had rarely heard before.

"It's just that if Mr Isely had been involved in provocative political activities, especially if they were an affront to American Values and this was some sort of protest gathering..."

"That would still not make it right, Colonel," said Tristan in anger. "In fact it was an ordinary meeting and I was walking home alone when I was attacked."

"Go on," he said, leaning back slightly and twiddling with a pencil.

"Five people wearing scarves over their faces vilified me and then chased me across Clock Tower Square. Two caught me and the other three joined them. They continued to call out insults while they kicked and punched me. One held me down so they other four could take turns. One--the leader-- produced a bayonet and was only restrained from using it on by the other four. They only stopped their attack when they were disturbed by two passersby. I was in hospital for three days. My spleen was bleeding, I had cracked ribs, stiches were required and lots more."

"I'm very sorry you had such an unpleasant incident. I hope the Campus Police were informed."

"Yes and the Sheriff."

"And you believe the attackers were connected somehow to the Corps?"

"I do. They called each other by Corps names: dog' and braid'. The bayonet was a Service type one..."

"Very common."

"Not at a University except in the Cadets, I would think, and they were all young--the age of students here--indeed Cadets here."

"Well, I could say that the Cadets here uphold the law and would be the least likely to attack fellow students, even if they were gay activists."

"Listen, Wilmer," growled Colton. "Cut the trash talk."

"I can identify two of the attackers."

"Can you?"

"Yes, one is of slight build and has one blue eye and one brown eye. He is a `dog'."

"Not much to go on."

"Do any of your freshmen have eyes like that? If the police asked you for the records..."

"They might not have the power."

"I think they would, especially if it was known that it was he assault on a prominent citizen's son."

"You're not even American."

"I'm a permanent resident and my father is vice-president of Globoco."

Wilmer still looked dismissive so Tristan went on.

"The ringleader is Bradley Meigs--a third year `braid' who is in your Marksman Unit, although I notice that he is now in disgrace," said Tristan acting on a hunch and then, "and that he has serious mental health issues."

"What a farrago of lies. What evidence do you have for this accusation?"

"I recognised his distinctive cowboy boots--Nocona--in yellow and black. They're only made in north Texas and there wouldn't be many pairs here in those colours and not out in Clock Tower Square at nine on a Monday night."

"That's a slanderous allegation."

"Maybe, but where were Meigs and the four freshmen on Monday night?"

Wilmer said nothing and then Colton spoke up. "Maybe I should ask about the College for a freshman cadet with one blue eye and one brown one," he said. "I bet if I asked, someone would know."

"Look, it is after eight and I think this interview is over, gentlemen."

"Colonel Wilmer," said Tristan, not being so readily dismissed, "Is it true that Cadets are not allowed to join organizations like the Family Defence Militia?"

"It is, and they're not allowed to join Gay Liberation either."

"Did you know that Bradley Meigs is the son of Wilbert Meigs, one of the founders of FDM? They shot and killed a Federal Lands Officer and are defying the government of the United States--the same United States you are supposed to be defending."

"That is an impertinent remark, Mr Isley, coming from someone who is not an American, unlike Bradley Meigs."

"Looks like we'll have to go to the law, Tris," said Colton, standing.

"You've already been to the Sheriff--you said so," said Wilmer smugly, standing also.

"Yes, I have, but now I'll get my father to have the FBI take up the case. They're looking into all matters connected to the standoff in Delhart and the murder of the Federal Official--and into the FDM in particular--they're a terror threat."

"Wilmer," said Colton, "Don't be a fuckin' idiot with the Corps' reputation, if you really care about it. The FDM has infiltrated your Corps, Bradley Meigs is a dangerous fanatic and everyone knows that the FDM is secretly training out in the woods--probably with your equipment. Y'better do somethin'."

Wilmer ushered them out without a word, and they left unsure if they had got through to him.

Nothing was heard over the next week. Tristan was excited about the house and wondered if he was boring everyone with his enthusiasm. However, it was Leesha who suggested, when they were all gathered at Nonno's for pizza on the following Sunday night, that they should have a `sleepover' in the loft--the most complete part of the house to date. "We could take booze and music and snacks," she said. " Just us."

"Yeah, that would be fun," said Alexinia "Work's been a bitch these last weeks and this girl needs to blow off some steam."

"Will it be a pyjama party?" asked Carlos. They all turned to him and burst out laughing.

"Sure will will be," said Colton. "Well need sleepin' bags-- an' coolers for the beer."

Thus armed, on the following Saturday evening they trooped across to the deserted building site. There was the inevitable tour of the house, each paying particular attention to the portion that they would one day be occupying. Tristan was pleased that the porch was a universal success. It really was a very beautiful structure and, like the loft bathroom, could almost qualify as an art object.

In the loft they turned on the little lights and the room glowed. All their chattels were dumped and immediately the pool table, with its eccentric mechanism, was the centre of attention and quite quickly a fierce competition was created.

Tristan felt obliged to act as some sort of host and so set about providing everybody with drinks until it was his turn to play. Little notice was taken of him when he broke, but quite quickly he proved himself to be a very good player. Parker was dismissed and then Rachel was whipped. Colton, who had fancied himself as a Minnesota Fats, was also punishingly defeated. "My real game is billiards, not Kelly Pool," said Tristan as he chalked the cue to take on Carlos. He won that game too.

"Shit, man," said Colton, "I would never have shelled out for that fuckin' table if I knew it was only goin' to be used to humiliate me!"

"Well, we had a full size table in the Senior Common Room at School and I got plenty of practice."

"Must have been a fancy school," said Deshawn.

"It was rather," admitted Tristan as he put his cue in the rack and turned the switch to lower the tabletop. Everyone watched, fascinated, even more so than by the marvels of modern technology that were only as far away as their cell phones and the Bluetooth speaker that was pumping out music.

"Hey, Colt, how about you go back to the dorm and get your guitar?" There was a general clamour of approval and the quarterback graciously gave in to the demands of his public. He stepped out the door and the others resumed their chatter, only to have it cut short by Colton's sudden return.

"Guys! Quick, follow me!" he cried urgently. The men all leapt to their feet and the girls, assuming that `guys' included them, came right behind them. At the top of the staircase, with its view over the neighbourhood, Colton held his finger to his lips and shushed them. They descended the stairs quietly until they formed a group in the back yard.

"There's suspicious-lookin' dudes over behind the Jewish Centre. Call the cops, Rache," he said, for Rachel had her phone out already. "You wanna go get them?" The group didn't even hesitate and prepared to go into battle behind their natural leader. "Right, round the front and then down to the alley quietly! When I give the signal pick one, run and tackle him!"

Tristan thought they might well be armed but said nothing as they moved silently out of the back yard and crossed the little side street and then the lawn of the single house that separated the back alley that serviced the buildings on William H. Taft Drive.

They gathered at the corner. At first Tristan could see nothing, but then he detected movement in the gloom. It was definitely vandals doing something nefarious to the back wall of the Centre. He thought he could make out a ladder leaning against the wall.

"Go!" snapped the quarterback.

The six young men and the three young women charged over the intervening gap. The figure up the ladder was the first to come to grief as he fell off in panic and hit the ground hard. Deshawn was closest to the impact and grabbed him and held him down. A few blows subdued the fallen and then De sat on him, rendering him quite helpless. Leesha came to his assistance and searched him for weapons.

Tristan saw none of this however, for he had set his sights on another figure. He pursued him down the alley and at last got close enough to clutch at his hoody. The fugitive spun around and hit Tristan with his fist. It was not a very powerful blow and he was just winding up for a second when Tristan struck him with bare knuckles, causing him to fall to the ground. Tristan, from where he could not afterwards recall, summoned up great anger and delivered repeated vicious blows to his face. It was not until Carlos caught up to him breathlessly that he said. "Enough, Tris!" that Tristan, panting hard, ceased to fight.

Meanwhile Parker and Alexinia were pursuing another one who made a break for the Episcopal Church grounds. Alex was fast and caught him first, but seemed unable to hold him. A few of his punches connected and, just as Alex was losing her grip, Parker arrived and felled him with a left and then a right. The miscreant lay on the ground swearing and yelling. "Shut y'face!" cried Parker, and punched him again.

Hollis and Colton were on the tail of another two who dodged and weaved. One split off and disappeared in the direction of the Latter Day Saints. "Lost him!" shouted Hollis in despair.

"Keep after this one!" directed Colton. "Play 64."

They were in hot pursuit, now on William H. Taft Drive. There was little traffic at this time of night, but the fellow stuck to the sidewalk nevertheless. Hollis drifted out wide onto the roadway, losing some ground but getting in the guy's peripheral vision. He could see him casting sideway glances in fear and alarm as he ran, but he could not move any further to the right for the trees and bushes along the property lines. Meanwhile Colton was running at full tilt and had gained ground. He continued to close the distance until he was able to execute a perfect flying tackle. He brought the fit fellow down with a great crash and in an instant Hollis had closed the other arm of the pincer. The guy struggled and so Colton jabbed him with short blows to knock the fight out of him. Then he saw his boots. With one mighty blow he broke the guy's nose and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Turn him on his side, Holly, so he don't choke on his own blood. Where the fuck are the cops?"

"Where the fuck are the cops?" said Carlos as they continued to hold their prisoner. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than they heard as distant wail. However, still they didn't come. Tristan wondered how the others had fared. He'd left his phone back at the house. He asked to borrow Carlos'. The prisoner squirmed a bit and Tristan warned him to behave or he'd get another beating. Then he had an idea. He turned the phone's light onto him. He was young and with a gingery complexion. He was bloodied and looked terrified. And he had one blue eye and one brown eye.

"Well, the tables have turned," he said to him. "Remember me?"

"Is he one of 'em?" asked Carlos in surprise.

"Yeah, the one who held me down so that the others could kick the shit outta me. He's a Cadet and a member of the Family Defence Militia." The prisoner did not deny any of this.

At last a police car rolled up and two officers got out.

"Get back!" they ordered and Carlos and Tristan reluctantly got off their prisoner, but he made no attempt to run as the police had their guns trained on him.

"That's my house over there," said Tristan, pointing and feeling that he should establish some sort of hierarchy. "We saw him and some others vandalizing the Jewish Centre. There were a few of them and we chased them. Did you catch any others?"

"Three others. One got away. Colton Stone says he has their ringleader."

"Yes!" hissed Tristan in triumph. "Is Colt all right?"

"Sure, son, our quarterback's no pansy."

"The ringleader's name will be Bradley Meigs. He's in the Corps of Cadets and his father is a member of the Family Defence Militia."

"That so?" said one officer. He then asked for Tristan and Carlos' particulars.

"This is the group that attacked me on Campus three weeks ago. I recognise this one because of his eyes."

"Yeah?"

"One blue and one brown."

The police were busy emptying out the guy's backpack. There were spray cans and stencils for images of rifles and swastikas. There was one that read DFM' with the elongated upright of the f' fashioned with a second cross. Tristan was glad of this confirmation of the link.

"Found accelerant up by the ladder," volunteered the other policemen as he continued to rummage.

"What's accelerant?"

"Police talk for gasoline."

"You mean they were going to torch the Centre!" cried Carlos.

"Looks like it."

They got the fellow to his feet. He was still mute. "Looks like you beat him up pretty bad, Mr Isley."

"I'm not used to fighting and...and...I didn't quite know when to stop."

They had moved back towards the intersection of Baxter and Taft and there they found the others. There was some excitement, but it was kept from full flight by the seriousness of the incident and by the police presence. The Solomon Waxman Centre had indeed been daubed with hate slogans and, surprisingly, the Latter Day Saints had also been targeted with wild allegations scrawled on its formerly immaculate brickwork. "I didn't know Brigham Young did that!" said Tristan to Colton in amusement as he read one particular slander writ so large that all the drivers in William H. Taft Drive would know it in the morning.

When they returned to the main group, the culprits were being loaded into a police van. All the neighbours had come out to watch from their lawns.

"Did you get their names?" asked Triatan.

"Sorry, can't tell you that."

"What about the fifth one--the one that got away."

"We'll follow that up."

"You will link my assault to them, won't you?" said Tristan with just a slight pang that the cops might suddenly go soft after all their effort.

"Not up to me."

"The FBI will be informed by my father--the Vice President of Globoco," said Tristan, pulling rank. "They're investigating the Family Defence Militia over the Delhart standoff, you know. Also you might like to know that Lieutenant Colonel Wilmer has already been told about Meigs and my bashing, but it seems like he didn't take it any further that you have."

"If you've got a complaint, Mr Isley, don't tell me, go through the proper channels. All I know is what I found tonight."

Tristan said a few words to the neighbours, explaining that they were just trying out their new loft when the vandals had been spotted and that several of the football team' had performed a citizens' arrest'. "Seems they were going to torch the Solomon Waxman Centre," volunteered Tristan to emphasise the gravity of the situation. He introduced himself to some more neighbours whom he hadn't met before and they inevitably asked when the house would be finished. "Hopefully the builders will be gone by summer," was Tristan's answer and his hope was that the neighbours would not unfairly associate his group with this night's rumpus.

"You don't think we'll get into trouble for what we did?" asked Tristan when they were back in the loft and he was more conscious of the beating that he had dished out.

"Not in Texas," was Hollis' rather unconvincing answer.

They talked for a long time, each giving an account of his or her part in the proceeding. Alexinia's face was checked--she would have an ugly bruise in the morning. Tristan looked down it his knuckles. They were bloody and he went to the new bathroom to wash it off.

Rachel followed him. "Hey! What's this shit! Everyone will be able to see me when I use the commode."

"You mean the toilet--a commode is a cupboard."

"I'm just tryin' to be polite. Anyway, you'll be able to see me."

"I'll go up the other end so I won't. When Colt and I are living here, we decided that we don't care. I guess it comes from living in the dorm."

"God, boys are disgusting! Stand guard over there with your back to me."

"There's no paper."

"I've got some tissues in my bag. Ugh!"

Tristan wanted to laugh, but behaved like a gentleman until Rachel swept past, her ablutions completed and the new `commode' christened.

They had more drinks from the cooler, getting rowdier, and then Rachel said, "Girls--and that includes you Alex--we're sleeping down that end,' she said pointing to Tristan's bedroom. "These disgusting, farting and belching boys can have this end."

"You, goin' off boys?" asked Leesha.

"No, it's just that sometimes..." Hollis took that moment to let out a loud belch and Rachel said, "See?"

The sleeping bags were unrolled, Tristan having a single. The girls departed in a monstrous regiment to the other end and slid the shoji screen across. The boys were laughing and making fun of them. Then Parker said quietly, "Look!" The silhouettes of feminine forms could be seen through the paper as they bent and straightened and performed the movements of undressing. It made a rather gracious and beautiful pattern but they tittered like schoolboys at the naughtiness of it.

"No boxers!" commanded Colton.

"I don't want to see your junk, Stone," said Parker as he pulled of his clothes.

"Don't be embarrassed about your lack of equipment."

"I ain't embarrassed. At least mine isn't a gross anteater like yours."

"Whose junk is nicer, Tris?" asked Colton.

"In terms of size, weight, taste or productivity?" quipped Tristan.

"You sick fucks," laughed Parker, but he dropped his shorts nevertheless.

They got into their sleeping bags and with a few more farts and grunts settled.

"Hey!" called a voice from the other end. It was Alexinia. "Will you turn that fan thing off? It's freezing."

"De, you designed it, please throw the switch."

Deshawn grumbled but slid out of his sack. Tristan got a good view of his big bobbing hardon and grinned to himself in the dark before finally falling off to sleep.

Four days later Doule knocked at the door of the dorm room. "There's a guy downstairs want to see you, Isley."

Tristan thanked him and went down in the lift wondering whom it could be--someone who obviously didn't know his number.

Tristan was taken aback. "Rabbi! Hello, I'm Tristan Isley."

"David Hirch, Mr Isley. I'm warden of the Waxman Centre, your builder told me where to find you."

"Tristan, please. Yes, as you probably know, I am renovating the old house so that I can live it in it next year. Several of my friends will share."

"Yes, that is very fine. I was afraid that it was going to be demolished for condominiums."

"Are you here about what happened the other night?"

"Yes. We were shocked but not surprised by the vandalism. We have security on the Sabbath, but now we will have it twenty-four-seven. What was unexpected was the attempt at arson, Tristan. We have students staying there and a janitor sleeps in the apartment. They could have been burnt to death if it wasn't for you and your friends."

"Well, it was Colton Stone's sharp eye that spotted them from the loft above the old stable--that's being converted into a bedroom, you see."

"Colton Stone, our quarterback?"

"Yes, he's my roommate and will be living in the loft with me."

"Well, I am grateful--we are grateful--from the bottom of our hearts. Todah rabah, as we say in Yiddish."

"Well, the guys and the girls are all fit jocks. Of course, they were fit Cadets. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes, and members of a far-right group."

"It was only a coincidence, but they were the same group that beat me up three weeks ago, so it was very sweet to have got them."

"You recognised them?"

"Yes, after we caught them."

"Well, that is double justice then, Tristan."

"I suppose so. The police will prosecute, won't they? They wouldn't for me."

"Oh yes, and they will go to jail. It is a Federal crime."

"That's a relief."

"Tristan, I would like you to accept a little gift from the Centre."

"Oh no, Rabbi Hirsch, there's no need for that!"

"Come, come, Tristan. Open it." It was a parcel that felt like a cricket bat minus the handle. Tristan could not imagine what it was. He looked up at the Rabbi. He was not as old as Tristan had initially thought he was and there was an expectant smile on his face.

"Oh my God! Sorry, Rabbi, I mean, goodness!" It was a wooden plaque beautifully carved. There was the image of a sailing ship and it read in bold script, HMS BEAGLE.

"How did you know?"

"You builder told me and I had our carpenter make it. He is a very skilled fellow and made our pulpit and bimah."

"Wow! It's beautiful! Thank you and thank him from me. I must tell you, that Colton picked the name. He's an atheist and great supporter of Darwin and, well, there are an awful lot of places of divine worship along William H. Taft and so this house..."

The Rabbi laughed. "Well, I think I can cope with that. Evolution is all part of God's plan. Look closely at the ship."

Tristan studied it. There were tiny images of animals ascending a gangplank in twos. "It's also Noah's ark?"

"See, I am being subversive too. I hope Colton Stone appreciates the joke."

"Oh he will. I hope we will be good neighbours--and won't cause you problems with noisy parties and stuff."

"As long as I get an invitation."

"A kosher barbecue for the students, perhaps?"

"Nice idea, I'll need to supervise and test the beer."

They stood there grinning.

"Thank you, Tristan, you were very brave taking on those beyz mentshn."

"Well, I didn't have much of a choice or time to think. We all followed Colton."

The Rabbi nodded, shook hands and left. Tristan looked down at the nameplate and smiled at the thought of what Colton's reaction would be.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.