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Mark's car was perpetually off the road with some problem or other and against my better judgment I had schlepped into St. Leonards to pick him up and chauffeur him to rehearsals. As we pulled out onto the main road he coughed in his annoying 'Umm, I've got a good idea' sort of way. I sighed.

"What?" I murmured.

"Well, you know we don't have to be there for an hour," he grinned at me and waggled his eyebrows. "So ... do ya wanna check out a couple of the charity shops?"

The charity shops in St. Leonards were both legion and legendary. Legion because the economy was on its uppers and landlords generally thought it better to have charities looking after their buildings than having them boarded up. Legendary because on the odd occasion you could stumble across amazing bargains for next to nothing. Mark was always on the lookout for designer and retro clothes, whereas I jonesed after hardback first editions. With the budget we had it was as near as we could come to big game hunting, and we loved it.

I knew I'd been suckered, but I didn't care. "Okay, I'll admit that's a good idea," I grinned back at him, "But whatever happens we mustn't be late."

"So come on then, buckety-buck and we won't be."

"Oh, alright," I said, downshifting. I floored the accelerator like an idiot, and consequently nearly hit an old man who pulled out of a side road without indicating. Mark was still laughing at my shocked expression and trying to get me to chill out as we pulled up and stopped outside Guide Dogs for the Blind. I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Could do," he said, pulling at his lower lip and checking the time, "but they didn't have anything yesterday, so no," he added, waving me on. Oh so carefully I checked my mirrors, indicated, and pulled out into the traffic.

Oxfam was next on our usual route, but quite recently they'd had a facelift and along with it had employed a new manager. She, in her wisdom, had decided to check through their entire stock and had found a classic Versace jacket on a rail for a couple of quid. After going ballistic and sacking the old dear who'd had the misfortune to write the label and was unpaid anyway, she'd persuaded someone at the head office to invest in a few pots of paint and had then proceeded to price all their stock out of the market. Mark and I both knew her reign wouldn't last long and were confident Oxfam would soon be seeing us back as the loyal customers we were, and the old dear—who happened to be my landlord's mother—re-ensconced as manager once more. I slowed down as we approached and, as there was no traffic behind me, stopped. Although the street was bustling and the shop had quite an attractive window display, it was empty except for mademoiselle tyrant who was sitting with her head in her hands at the till. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Finally, en route, was a place that called itself 'The Charity Shop.' It was highly dubious, or so we both thought. At least with the official charity shops you knew where your money was going, and who it was going to help. With Oxfam or the Red Cross, once their expenses had come out, your money was going to far off climes to help those who needed it. With The Sussex Donkey Sanctuary it would be helping some dear old donkeys, and so on and so forth. Consequently, we played fair with them: if there were several good first editions, I'd buy a couple and then point out to the manager that they had a few valuable books and should charge for them accordingly. If Mark spotted an original Lois Vuitton bag he'd nab it, sell it, and then give them a large donation. It helped us, it helped them. Some even went as far as to hold back all the books and old clothes until we'd had a chance to look through them and advise.

We considered it was morally fair, too. After all, it was our expertise that made us money, and if it helped them to make money as well, then all was good and proper. However, with 'The Charity Shop' we had no such qualms. It had, at one stage, been a pet shop and still smelt like it. It was situated in an old decrepit building right down the far end of the street opposite the railway station and next to The Nags Head—a seedy pub that had the reputation of being the place, locally, to buy drugs.

'The Charity Shop' was run by a man who went by the name Sykes who, we'd both decided ages ago, personified the soubriqet 'miserable old git.' He always, always charged top prices, and it was generally a rainy day in hell before you found a real bargain. Even so it occasionally proved a goody so we checked it out on a regular basis. I parked up and once the car had decided to stop pinking, locked up, and traipsed around the corner towards The Charity Shop. Typically, I wasn't paying attention and ended up slamming into the back of Mark, who had come to a sudden stop.

"What the hell!?" I sputtered, pushing myself away from him. He turned, his blue eyes wide with I wasn't quite sure what, though lust and excitement were obvious. With one finger he pointed. The shop's window had been completely re-designed. Instead of its usual clutter of bits and bobs it was now freshly painted in a pale salmon pink and entirely empty except for a young male mannequin who was utterly beautiful. I can say that because I'm gay and know these things. So's Mark if you hadn't already guessed, and at that point he was my partner, too. Slowly, we walked across the pavement and stopped some five feet away from the manikin, the shop's window between us and him.

He stood somewhere between five feet six and five feet ten inches tall. It was difficult to tell ex actly as he was posed standing on a box and seemed much taller—almost as if he was towering over us. He was made in a flesh-coloured plastic, all his body parts perfect except his genitalia which were absent, replaced by a smooth dome that flowed into his stomach. I heard myself groan and knew I was gawping at him like a love lorn idiot. I was about to apologise to him when I heard Mark utter the words.

"Mine. He's mine. I invoke rule number one. Okay?"

Mark and I have strict ground rules when we're out and about charity shopping. Originally, when they were suggested to us by Sally, we thought she was mad. Neither of us conceived that we'd ever come to blows over anything, let alone some stupid thing we wanted to buy. But we had, and more than once blood and tears were spilt. It was when Sally had us write out an agreement and—and here I kid you not—had us sign it with an old antique dip pen in a mixture of our blood. It was then I began to think that true love might not be so all-encompassing as I'd thought it was.

The first of the ground rules, and the one that had the most import, said: 'if an item is verbally claimed then that item belongs to the claimant, no matter what.'

"No." I said under my breath, shaking my head.

"Oh yes!" Mark swung me around to face him. His eyes were alight with fervour, with desire, and with panic that I might not play fair. "Admit it. Say it, or ... or ...."

"Or what?" I sneered. I could feel my lip curl up, feel my fists clench. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hit him so badly that I could imagine the pedestrians walking by cheering me on as I pummeled the bastard into the ground. I was off in a reverie when he hit me hard with a jab to my stomach. At the same instant as my breath flew away so did my desire and lust to see him hurt. The manikin was his if he wanted it, of course it was. He'd claimed it. What on earth was I thinking?

I opened my eyes. He was looking at me, puzzled, all the violence and fervour gone. He brought his fist up and looked at it as if he'd never seen if before in his life. "What did I...?"

"Yours," I wheezed, "it's yours." It was the correct response according to our ritual, though normally I wasn't winded and close to collapsing when I said it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he said and truly sounded it. "I don't know what came over me." He was holding me up as I recovered and so he didn't see the manikin wink at me. I froze in his arms and he misconstrued it. "No really, Brian, I'm sorry. Honestly."

"I know," I said as I stood on my own two feet again. "I know. It's just... he winked at me."

Mark gave me a cold smile in response. "Yeah. Right, of course he did. What? As if to say 'you're mine, human, you're mine.' Nice try, Brian. But wink at you or not it doesn't matter. He's mine." His smile slid off his face. "And to think I once thought I loved you. You duplicitous bastard." He turned on his heel and walked back to the shop. Opening the door he disappeared inside. I heard the shop's bell tinkle as its door closed and I was left on my own looking at the manikin. It seemed to me to be looking very smug. And then—and I don't care if you think I'm lying because it's the gods honest truth— the manikin blew me a kiss: it raised its fucking arm, pouted at me, and then blew me a kiss.

"Dear god, what's happening?" I muttered to myself. I'd walked over and was standing where we'd been when we first saw the manikin. Now it was dressed in a very come-hither sort of way with skin hugging teal tee over the tightest pair of Levis I'd seen since the last summer party the church’s teens’ social committee had thrown. The manikin was now in its late teens and hot as hell.

"Fuck me, but she's gorgeous!" I turned slowly, wondering how blind a person had to be to make such a fundamental error, and saw a drooling Herbert Pocket. Herbert, whose mother was obsessed with Dickens, was as straight as straight could be and had damn good sight to boot. I knew this for a fact as I was on the pubs darts team with him.

"Sorry Herb, it's a he," I said in a kindly fashion. Then added, because I couldn't resist, "Perhaps you should go to Spec Savers. I hear there's a sale on."

"Naff off, Brian. Though I do admire your wishful thinking." He guffawed, re-arranged himself surreptitiously, and sauntered off after giving me a friendly thump on the arm. I watched him walk away for a moment then turned back to the window and nearly screamed in shock. Mark was deep in conversation with Mr. Sykes over by the bookshelves whilst the manikin, who was now wearing a suave three piece suit, was looking at me balefully.

"How?" I managed, before I turned, pushed open the shop's door and slammed and locked it behind me, turning the 'open' sign to 'closed' in the process.

"He's mine!" Mark and I said in unison. Then, "How much?" We stood glowering at each other, ignoring Sykes who sidled swiftly out of the firing line and back behind the counter over to where the till was, along with a display of collection tins for little known charities mostly based off-shore.

"He's mine, Brian," Mark blazed. "He's mine and you know it. You agreed if you remember."

"Oh yes, I remember." I spat back. "But that was under duress as well you know. He's mine because he wants to be."

"He wants to be? He wants to be, does he?" Mark sneered. "Tell you then, did he? Talk to dummies now, do you?"

"Yes!" I snapped back. "So what if I do!"

"Please don't lie, Brian." A mellifluous young voice said behind me.

“Dear god,” Mr. Sykes said, voice trembling.

Slowly I turned in time to see the manikin step down from the shop window. I backed away from it in terror only to come to a stop against Mark. He grabbed me by my shoulder and spun me around. I almost didn't recognise his face it was so twisted in a mask of hatred. He said "I told you, Brian. He's mine!"

A surge of agony ripped through my stomach as tendrils of pain forced their way up and began to flower by my heart. I looked down to see Mark's blood-covered hand twist the kitchen knife he'd plunged into my gut. Blackness seemed to bubble up from nowhere in particular and with it the screams of Mr. Sykes, the giggles of Mark's madness and finally, as I succumbed, a satisfied young voice saying "An easy decision, then...."

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