Dancing To The Music of Their Hearts: The Scott Saga

by Nick Turner

Chapter 3 Chris: Metamorphosis

Early in December John sat in his flat in Chichester, feeling rather flat. Christmas was approaching, but as usual there was nobody to spend it with. It was at times like this that he became maudlin, remembering that all-too-brief happy time at the Henrys. He wrote to them, as always, giving them such news as would not betray his whereabouts, but it was very unsatisfactory since they could never reply.

Tony had been down to visit him on a few occasions, and the two of them had had a wonderful time, going to the cinema or theatre, horsing about, getting drunk and cooking extravagant meals together. They had grown very close, despite the fact that there had never been any repeat of their sexual experience in Southern Italy, but Tony had recently found a new lover; a man this time, called Mike, and so apologetically he cried off their planned Christmas celebration in Chichester.

John poured himself a generous glass of Irish whiskey and, dressed as usual in nothing but shorts and t-shirt, settled himself down to watch the television.

His telephone rang. It was Chris Sanders.

‘Hi, Chris! How are you, soldier?’

‘Er, great, thanks, John. Er… I need a favour. I know this is a bit cheeky, but do you think I could come and stay with you for a few days?’

‘Yeah, sure, of course. It’d be great to have you! When do you want to come?’

‘Erm…would today be all right?’

John gulped. It was already evening. ‘Yeah, of course. Come. Do you need picking up anywhere?’

‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you soon. Thanks very much indeed, John’

‘You’re welcome, soldier. See you soon.’

John got up from his sofa and switched the television off. Nothing to watch anyway. He was excited at Chris’ coming, but there was nothing ready. There was only one bed, to start with. Tony had shared that with him, but he could hardly expect the lad, hugely overweight as he was, to do so. There wouldn’t be room! One of them would have to have the couch.

He went into the kitchen and started to clean it up. It wouldn’t do to have dirty plates in the sink if he was going to have to play hero for the next few days.

But just as he got his hands into the suds, the doorbell rang.

‘Damn! Who’s that now?’

He threw the door open and surveyed his visitor.

It was Chris, swaddled in a huge coat and scarf with a hood pulled up over his head. How had he got here so soon?

‘Chris; come in! Fantastic to see you!’ and the lad came in.

Chris smiled tiredly, and put his bags on the floor.

‘I’ve got something to show you, John.’

He pushed back the hood, undid his coat and slipped it off.

John’s mouth dropped open. The mountain of flesh had disappeared; instead, there was a vast Whitefriars uniform looking ridiculous as it hang in huge drapes on the slim frame of a handsome young man. Chris had grown taller, too, and John could look him directly in his striking blue eyes, the counterparts to John’s own, though still trapped behind ugly spectacles. Because Chris had grown, the sleeves of the uniform jacket and the legs of the trousers were now far too short, and Chris’ hands and feet stuck out comically beyond both. But John was overcome. He hugged the lad hard;

‘Oh Chris! Congratulations! You look fantastic! I’m so, so, happy for you. You must feel tons better.’

And Chris just smiled happily.

‘Listen, soldier, I’m just cleaning up in the kitchen. Why don’t you find your way around, and make yourself comfortable. The bedroom’s through there and the bathroom’s just opposite; dump your stuff, and have a shower; I’m sure you’ll be needing it after your journey. Then come and find me, and we’ll have a blast!’

He looked at Chris, and his absurdly oversized school uniform, and a thought struck him.

‘Actually, Chris, do you actually have any clothes at all that fit you now?’

Chris shook his head. ‘I’d have worn them if I had.’

‘Well, after your shower, just wrap a towel around yourself, and we’ll see what we can find. You ought to be able to get into my clothes now without any difficulty.’

While Chris showered, John, shaking his head with admiration, quickly cleared the kitchen and began to prepare some spaghetti carbonara and salad for dinner with a bottle of Chianti Classico; he put a bottle of sparkling prosecco into the freezer to chill rapidly; they both deserved a treat. He was still very excited for Chris, and his melancholy mood of earlier had entirely lifted. After a little while, Chris reappeared, with a towel round his waist; there was no shyness any longer about having a bare torso. John turned to him, and took him by the shoulders.

‘Let me look at you. Oh Chris, you’ve done really well! Don’t lose any more weight now; you’re just right; if anything, a tad underweight. But we need to put some muscle on you now; your shoulders and torso in particular need building up. We’ll make a start tomorrow!’

They drank a couple of glasses of prosecco, and then ate together companionably while Chris, still in his towel, filled John in on how the term had gone, and how he had taken John’s advice about carbohydrates.

‘The fat just fell off; I didn’t even need to exercise—that’s still a problem, by the way; I still have no stamina—In fact, this is about the first carbohydrate I have eaten since we were on the boat. And definitely the first glass of wine. It tastes fantastic. Everything tastes fantastic!’

The conversation came round to what Chris was doing in Chichester.

‘Mum’s got a new groin-prod. She wrote to me, telling me to stay at Whitefriars for Christmas because, quote, she doesn’t want me to fuck it up for her again! The school said they couldn’t keep me, though, and were going to threaten my Mum with the child protection agency until I remembered you, and said I would go to a friend. Before Matron could ask awkward questions, I hopped it quickly and came straight here.’

‘So neither Whitefriars nor your mother have any idea where you are?’

‘That’s about it. Good, isn’t it?’

‘No, not very good really. If the school are at all responsible, and they sound as if they are, they’ll be reporting you to the police as a missing person. I’d better ring them and tell them where you are. You can send your mother a postcard.’

And John rang the school; there was nobody in the office at that time of night, of course, but he was able to leave a message that Chris had arrived safely, and a few details about himself. He hoped that this would satisfy them.

Back at the table, Chris said, somewhat shamefacedly,

‘I also want to apologize for using you. I really should have phoned and asked before leaving whether it was convenient for me to come. It only occurred to me when I was walking down this road where you live, so I went to a phone box and called you then, without telling you that I was already on your doorstep. It was a bit irresponsible, because I had no money to go back to Whitefriars or go to my Mother’s if you had been away, or didn’t want to have me.’

‘There’s no question, soldier. I do want you to stay. And I guess from your comments that this means you want to stay the whole holiday with me?’

Chris nodded vigorously.

‘Consider it done. That’s what friends are for.’

After they had cleared away the meal, Chris and John went into the bedroom and as at that time on the boat at Brindisi, John picked up Chris’ bag and emptied it onto the bed.

‘Do you have more stuff at home or at school?’

‘Only some books. This is everything else I own.’

It was pretty pitiful. There was the school uniform, with a spare shirt and trousers, the pair of cut-off jeans that John had made in Brindisi and their replacements that John had bought Chris in Nice, a sports kit, a couple of shirts, a couple of tatty t-shirts and a few pairs of socks and white briefs. Finally, a scruffy pair of black shoes and gym plimsolls. All the clothes were pinned up with safety pins, to keep them from falling off Chris’s diminishing body, and they were old and worn. There was nothing that would do. John grimly went to the kitchen and returned with a large black plastic sack. As Chris watched, horrified, John threw all his clothes into the black sack, absolutely everything.

‘Tomorrow, Chris, we go shopping!’

‘John: I’ve got absolutely no money. I couldn’t possibly afford new clothes, nor could I pay you back even if you bought them for now.’ Chris was nearly in tears.

John put his arm around Chris’ bare shoulder.

‘Chris, there’s something you don’t know about me. I don’t sail the Saucy Mrs Trusspot for a living, but because it’s what I like to do. I don’t need to make a living, because I am very wealthy indeed. My liquid capital alone is many million pounds. I have more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime. Chris, I could buy you a house and not even notice it—perhaps I will one day—so a few clothes are neither here nor there. And if you put on some muscle and the clothes don’t fit any more, we’ll go and buy you some more. Okay?’

‘But…but…?’

‘But what?’

‘You can’t be that rich! You’ve a one-bedroom flat, and a boat and that’s about it. You’re having me on!’

‘No, honestly, Chris. I live like this because I like to live simply. If I wanted a big house, I could buy a big house. But this flat suits me for the few months that I’m not on the boat. It’s small enough so that I can take care of it myself without having to employ anyone, and that suits me too. But that’s enough about me; we need to think what to do about fitting you out. I don’t care what you wear here, but you can’t go shopping in a towel tomorrow, so let’s see if some of my stuff will fit you for now.’

It didn’t really, though it was incomparably better than Chris’ own stuff. Chris before had had a waist of 40 or 42 inches, and John’s was 31. He estimated that now Chris’s must be about 28. No wonder his own clothes were hanging off him. Even John’s clothes were too big for him now.

It’ll have to be my shorts for now, soldier; the elastic ought to contract enough, and there’s a drawstring to tie, if not. I don’t have any underwear, I’m afraid, since I never use it. Do you mind?’

Chris wouldn’t have minded if he’d been given a tutu to wear; he was wearing something belonging to his hero, and that was enough for him. He quickly pulled off the towel; nudity was not a problem for him, since he was at a boarding school, and pulled on the shorts. They would do fine.

Bed posed another problem.

‘Er, Chris, I’ve only the one bed, and your sudden arrival didn’t give me any chance to get another. But it’s a big bed; if you’re not shy, you can take half of it, like Tony usually does. If you’d rather not, there’s the sofa.’

‘The bed’s fine, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’ Chris could not believe his luck.

‘’Course I don’t mind. I wouldn’t have offered if I minded! Though if Whitefriars were to hear about it, they might mind!’

John pulled off his t-shirt and got into bed; Chris shyly got into the other side.

As they lay in the bed, John switched off the light. Chris heard a strange rattling noise.

‘What’s that?’

‘Only my rosary. I like to say the rosary before I go to sleep.’

‘What’s a rosary?’

‘A sort of prayer. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Good night.’

So that night they lay shyly at the extremes of the bed and slept heavily until morning.

John woke first, as usual, and pulled the covers off the sleeping Chris.

‘Come on; rise and shine. This is Day One of your new fitness programme, and it starts right now.’

‘Go away!’ groaned Chris, and turned over.

But John was relentless, and pulled Chris off the bed and onto the floor, then tickled him into wakefulness.

Fortunately, the two men had the same shoe size, and so John found Chris some trainers, and threw him a football shirt to wear with the shorts he had worn in bed. He then took Chris through some gentle stretching exercises, and they headed out of the door at a gentle jog to warm up. They had not even got to the end of the street when John noticed that Chris was in trouble.

‘What’s up, soldier?’

Chris’ face was deep red and he was gasping; every breath was a struggle. John stopped and looked, concerned, into Chris’s face. He had a sudden idea; something was familiar here…

‘Chris, take your shirt off!’

Chris had no breath to question this strange order; the air was chilly that December morning. But he obeyed, and was surprised when John put his ear to his bare chest. John could hear Chris’ heart beating frantically in a way that simply was not natural, given the tiny amount of exercise they had taken. But most of all, John heard the wheezing and gasping of Chris’s lungs as they tried to take in air.

‘Is this what happens every time you take exercise?’

Chris still had no breath, but he nodded dumbly.

‘Chris, lad, I’ve got news for you. I think this problem is going to be easily solved. You’re asthmatic! Easy now; we’re going to walk gently back to the flat.’

Once home, John went to his bathroom and took out a Ventolin inhaler. Giving somebody else your own medicine is not usually a good idea, but John was absolutely sure now what the problem was. Pat Henry had spotted that John had very slight asthma himself, and very occasionally needed a puff of Ventolin, so he in turn recognized the much severer attack that Chris was having.

‘Now, Chris, in a moment I want you to suck on this gently, but as deeply as you can, and hold your breath as long as you can. On my count of three.’

John held the inhaler to Chris’ lips and counted. On ‘three’, Chris sucked in feebly, and John activated the mechanism. Chris held his breath, though he couldn’t manage more than three or four seconds, and exhaled with a gasp.

‘Now try and breathe normally, Chris.’

It was magical. Almost instantly, Chris’s breath rate steadied and deepened. His face returned to its normal colour, and he could feel his heart relaxing.

‘John; what is that stuff? It’s fantastic! I can breathe now!’

This, Chris, is Ventolin. It’s one of the simplest and cheapest drugs on the market, and I am shocked, deeply shocked, that somebody before now has not spotted that you needed it. I know what torture asthma is, and I’m horrified that you have been put through all this, when so very little was needed to put it right. This little device, Chris, is going to change your life almost as much as the weight loss has. We’ll go to the doctor later and get you one of your own.’

Then John held the device up to Chris’ lips again and repeated the administration. This time Chris could take the medicine deeply into his lungs and managed to hold it for much longer. When he exhaled, it was with a depth that he had never before experienced, even when not exercising. It felt wonderful!

‘Now back out for our run!’ said John.

Chris immediately looked very apprehensive, but John reassured him;

‘It’s okay, Chris. I think you’re going to get a nice surprise. You’ll be able to do something you’ve never been able to do before. Stamina was never your problem; it was simply breathing.’

And so it proved. Chris was ecstatic with joy; he ran and ran, and his breath worked absolutely normally; which was to say normal for any rather unfit lad of his age. John jogged along effortlessly beside him, he could almost feel the waves of pleasure radiating from Chris, and he was very moved to have been able to make such a difference so easily.

On the lawn by the ancient cathedral they did press-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups on the branches of a tree, did some stretches, then jogged back gently to the flat. Chris was exhausted but jubilant.

‘Now, I hope you don’t mind if I take the first shower,’ said John, ‘but I usually go to Mass now, and I don’t want to be late. You have a leisurely shower or a bath, and lie down for a while; you’ll need to recuperate a bit. When I come back, we’ll have a big breakfast.’

John showered briskly, shaved and then walked into the bedroom naked. If Chris had no problem with it, then neither had he. He pulled on a shirt and pair of trousers, then pushed his feet into some boat shoes. Taking a short warm jacket from the hook in the hall, he went off to St Richard’s Church, the ugly one on the ring road that everyone mistook for a fire station.

Chris then took his shower, every muscle in his body tingling from the unexpected exercise. But he felt as though he was walking on air; his body felt elastic, and he found he could move all his limbs further than ever before. What have I been missing all these years? he thought.

On the edge of the bath were the wet shorts that John had discarded and washed earlier in the shower, and Chris looked at them thoughtfully. He picked them up and lifted them to his nose, to see if there was any of his hero’s special odour left. Not much, but his cock hardened. Then he slid the shorts on, shivering as the wet clammy cold nylon clung to his legs and his erect penis, got into the shower and wanked himself off, being careful not to splash the shorts themselves. He washed himself, cleaned the shower out, and placed the shorts back where he found them. He rinsed out the shorts he had been wearing himself, and put them next to John’s to dry. Then he took a towel, wrapped it round his waist, and went to lie down on the bed.

He did a lot of thinking. He had hero-worshipped John as long as he had known him, but what had happened in the shower implied something else. He was beginning to suspect that he might be in love. This was new. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. As if to confirm this, his cock hardened and pushed out the towel.

‘And what was wrong with being in love with John?’ he asked himself. He knew that homosexuality in the past had been frowned upon, but these were new, enlightened, days, and he was not in the least worried about thinking that he might be gay himself. He couldn’t really care what people at Whitefriars thought; he had no friends there to lose, so ‘poof’ would only be another insult to add to ‘fatso’ and other names that he was called constantly.

But what would John think? That was a poser. What if John hated poofs? Chris was terrified of losing John’s esteem, not to say his hospitality. He wanted to make this his home now, and if that was going to happen, he was going to have to go extremely carefully.

His mind returned to thinking about John and the fact that he had spent last night lying next to him, almost naked. He thought about that muscular body which he knew now he adored, and the sight of John completely naked a short while ago.

Meanwhile, John quietly came back into the flat and walked into the bedroom. Chris didn’t hear him until John said, in an amused voice

‘Hi, Chris.’

Chris nearly jumped out of his skin.

‘Sorry to wake you, soldier! By the looks of it, you were having a really good dream’. John grinned at the lad.

Chris, puzzled, followed John’s eyes to where his own erection was tenting out the towel.

‘Oh shit! O God! How embarrassing!’ But John just laughed.

‘I hope she was a beauty!’

‘Er… who?’

‘Whoever you were dreaming about.’

‘Oh, yeah, great tits!’ Chris laughed nervously.

John crossed the room, pulling off his clothes and hanging them on a chair. Then, naked again, he went over to the cupboard, ignorant of the effect he was having on Chris, and pulled out a couple of pairs of clean soccer shorts. He threw one pair to Chris and pulled the other pair on himself.

‘I’m just going to cook us some breakfast. Ten minutes, soldier. Grab a t-shirt if you want: I usually don’t bother till the evening, or when I’m going out.’

Chris had a job to pull the shorts on over his erection, but once it was managed, he scooted into the bathroom to wank again, this time into some toilet tissue. This was going to become really difficult, he thought. Perhaps he should try and get himself a jock strap to save him embarrassing himself every time he saw John. But if they were in the same bedroom, how could he explain the jock strap to John? It would seem really weird, and perhaps be seen as a criticism of his beloved for not wearing underwear, and in fact Chris thought that it was really cool to do without. Oh shit! He would just have to go commando and hope for the best.

Over breakfast, John asked Chris about his mother, and how she was. This naturally moved the conversation to talk about Tony. To John’s surprise, Chris revealed that Tony had continued to keep in contact, phoning and writing to him at Whitefriars; he was touched that the big man took the trouble.

‘Yeah; he even remembered my birthday in November. He sent me a card with £50 in it; that was how I managed to afford to come down here.’

‘And that was more than I did: I didn’t even know it was your birthday. Still, we’ll make up for it today. So you’re seventeen now?’

‘Yep!’

‘So you can start to drive. Have you got your provisional driving licence?’

‘No, not yet. But I’ve been driving jeeps and things in the Army corps at school. We all have to do it.’

‘Well, we’ll send off for your licence today!’

‘Wicked!’

A little while later, John and Chris, the latter wearing shorts under a pair of John’s tracksuit trousers and a sweatshirt, went out to the shops. John had explained that since they would be trying on clothes and getting measured, it would be better not to go totally commando; it might startle the shop assistants!

The first stop was the doctor. John managed to register Chris as living for the time being at his address, and he was seen almost straight away. Chris was told to take his shirt off again, and the doctor listened with his cold stethescope to his chest.

‘There’s no doubt that you’re right, John,’ said the doctor, a friend from St Richard’s Church. ‘Chris has got asthma. It isn’t so bad that it will trouble him much in ordinary life, but he should have an inhaler for when he wants to take exercise.’ And the doctor instructed Chris in how to administer it to himself, and gave him a prescription, which John and Chris took to the pharmacy next door.

Contact lenses came next. Chris was still wearing the awful heavy glasses mended with tape, and he was keen to get rid of them. John had told him about the laser treatment that he had undergone, and said that if Chris wanted, he could have that done sometime, too. It only took a short time for Chris to be tested and issued with his daily disposable lenses, with a smart new pair of glasses for when his eyes got tired, and he was surprised how much better he was seeing immediately.

The next trip was to the barber. Chris’ hair was a real mess, and he admitted to John that he had always cut it himself. It looked like it, too. But after the barber had spent half an hour on it, the difference was considerable.

‘And now for some real shopping!’ said John.

Other than on the Saucy Mrs Truspott, Chris had never had so much fun. While in the Gap, trying on some khaki chino trousers and a stylish shirt, he surprised himself. He looked at himself in the mirror, taking in the figure before him with a smart haircut, contact lenses and good, well-fitting clothes, and with a shock realised that he was good looking. The ugly duckling had turned into a swan. It had never occurred to him before, even to ask the question of beauty of himself; he had grown so accustomed to his fat and hateful bulk. But the young man who looked back at him from the mirror was more than conventionally handsome; he was unquestionably beautiful. There was no doubt. And when he came out to show the clothes to John, he could see in his friend’s startled eyes that he thought so too.

John spent more than a thousand pounds on Chris’ wardrobe that day. And it was all topped off by a visit to an old bespoke tailor, who measured Chris for two smart handmade suits, which came to more than another thousand. Since he had to remove the tracksuit trousers, it was as well that John had persuaded Chris to wear shorts as well. Then they ordered a new school uniform. Looking later at other trousers, John quietly warned Chris of a possible pitfall;

‘Chris, if you’re planning on going commando regularly, look carefully to see whether the zip of the trousers is covered with cloth on the inside. If not, you’re in for a nasty surprise!’

Chris took the point, as it were, and put back the black jeans he had been looking at.

The cobblers was next, and Chris was measured for three pairs of handmade shoes, black, brown and formal. In the shoe shop down the street, some casual boat shoes.

Then to the sports shop for trainers, shorts, shirts and a tracksuit.

Then on to the post office, where Chris applied for his provisional driving licence.

Finally, there was a trip to the bank. Over Chris’s tearful protests, John opened a bank account for him, and put in a thousand pounds. He made a standing order for his own account to transfer two hundred pounds each month to Chris’s account, and all was settled.

When they got out onto the street, Chris was crying in earnest. He was simply overwhelmed. When he had asked John for refuge this Christmas holiday, he had had no idea at all that his life would be changed so dramatically. Never before had he had his own money, or beautiful clothes that fitted and suited him. Still less somebody who loved him enough to do all this for him. There on the street, by the Chichester market cross, he broke down and wept like a baby. John held him and comforted him while the passers-by looked on curiously.

‘Oh Chris, don’t cry! Really, this is nothing; for me, honestly, this is small change, and it probably gives me even more pleasure than it gives you. Ssh, don’t cry!’

Later in the afternoon, John took Chris to the gym and enrolled him. The fitness instructor took charge—the same one who had initiated John himself—and introduced him to the various machines giving him a good workout, and then drawing up an exercise plan to be followed over the next month. Afterwards, John and Chris went for a swim, relaxed naked in the sauna, showered, and finally sat in the whirlpool, talking about nothing in particular. Chris had never been so happy. And nor, since he left the Henrys, had John.

As they sat there in the comforting warm water, neither now saying a word, but companionably soaking and thinking, it occurred to John that he had, to all intents and purposes, now adopted Chris in all but name. He had family again, and the thought made him very happy.

Later, John took Chris to his car.

‘There’s no time like the present, and nobody’s going to ask for your licence, I hope, so we may as well get started.’

John fixed on some ‘Learner’ plates to his father’s old Volkswagen Golf, and Chris cooly got into the driver’s seat, wearing a well-fitting new pair of jeans and a polo shirt. As John had seen on the boat in the summer, Chris was very well co-ordinated, and quickly learnt to manoeuvre the car. Within a week he was driving confidently, and John observed that the lad was as least as good a driver as he was himself. So once the licence arrived, Chris straightaway applied for a driving test; there had been a vacancy, and on the 23rd December, he took both parts of his test and passed with flying colours.

3.2

John had given some thought to getting another bed for the flat. But Chris didn’t seem to mind sharing his bed, and John rather liked having him there. As Chris pointed out, rather too eagerly, there really wasn’t room for another bed, and it would be wasteful to get rid of the one that was already there.

One day, when Chris was out on some mysterious errand, probably to do with Christmas, John lay down on the bed and thought hard.

Privately, he had to acknowledge that he was finding the new Chris more than a little attractive and, remembering Conor, he worried about it. He felt rather as if he were in loco parentis and so was concerned that his motives were not entirely of the purest, nor really in Chris’ best interests. He thought some more about the young man, and he was not surprised to find his cock hardening. No, there was not the slightest doubt that he was falling a little in love with Chris. Was this going to be a problem?

Well, not with the law. Now consensual homosexual sex was permitted to those of 16 and over, and since Chris was 17 and not related to him in any way, there was no problem at all. It was not, to be precise, like Conor, who really was a child, and with the memory, John blushed and felt guilty. John himself was only in his very early twenties; not much of a gap between him and Chris at all. But what about Chris himself? John suspected he might be gay, but was not at all sure. He’d intercepted some pervy glances from the lad when he himself had been naked, but John was wise enough not to try and pigeonhole a lad at seventeen. Most healthy teenagers only needed to see a sausage or a melon to get an erection! He himself had been most confused at that age. So, what? He wished he had Tony to bounce a few ideas off, but Tony was infatuated with Mike, his new lover, and never returned phone calls or emails these days.

In their shared bed, John and Chris had relaxed somewhat from their earlier mutual nervousness, and now happily lay against each other without embarrassment, though not without erotic thoughts. Neither, however, could bring themselves to speak of it to the other.

Chris had been thinking, too, but not only about John’s attractiveness. That was beyond question. He admired everything about his friend and protector, but his religion was still a closed book. John never asked Chris to accompany him to his daily Mass, and never volunteered any information at all about his beliefs. Chris’s questions were answered only with the greatest reluctance, and with frustrating brevity. This piqued Chris’s curiosity, all the more so because he was aware that John was afraid of the accusation of pushing his faith down Chris’s throat, something that Christians were always being accused of doing. So John erred in the other direction, and never mentioned it at all.

One day, Chris decided to take the bull by the horns.

‘John, can I come with you to St Richard’s at Christmas?’

John was taken aback.

‘Er… sure, if you really want to. Are you sure you want to? You’ll probably find it really boring. Why not stay home and watch T.V.? There’s that new Bond film on.’

As if Chris would ever find anything his beloved did boring!

‘No, John, I really would like to come. I don’t want to be shut out!’

John immediately felt guilty. Had he been shutting Chris out?

‘Of course you can come, Chris. But I warn you, the first Mass, which I go to, is at Midnight. And I never go to Mass on important occasions at St Richard’s. We’ll be going to London, to the Brompton Oratory, where they do things properly. So it’ll be a late night. You up for that?’

‘Cool!’

So on Christmas Eve, at about 9pm, the two set out, both in very smart new suits. John was struck again just how beautiful Chris was, especially now that the work in the gym was beginning to pay off.

‘You’ve got a new car!’ noted Chris. ‘Another Golf; but new, with all the latest bits and pieces! Even a CD player’. He was thrilled, and fascinated. ‘Wicked!’

Having just passed his test the day before, Chris insisted on driving. It was a long way to London, though, about two hours, and John knew he would be tired, but he let him drive. It wasn’t that long ago that he was seventeen himself.

They managed to park near the Oratory, and before they got out, John leaned across and took the keys out of the ignition. Chris looked at him, puzzled. He knew he hadn’t driven badly. John asked him

‘So do you like the new car?’

‘Yeah, like I said, it’s fantastic. Really good holding, handles well, and goes like a bomb. I like everything about it.’

‘Good, because it’s not mine, it’s yours! Happy Christmas, Christopher!’ And John put the keys into Chris’s hand, closing the fingers around them.

There were floods of tears again.

And John leant across and gave Chris a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Chris was completely overwhelmed by the whole experience of Midnight Mass. For a start, they had to stand in a long queue before the doors opened.

‘I thought nobody went to church any more’ he said.

The interior of the vast building of the Brompton Oratory took his breath away; all the colours and statues and burning candles were almost more than he could cope with. His eyes goggled as they tried to take it all in, but it was just too much; nothing in his life before had prepared him for it. They managed to get a seat, but had to give it up to a grateful elderly couple who came in late, so they stood under the pulpit, opposite the choir gallery, a very handsome pair in their suits and ties, who drew many sets of eyes to them.

When the music started, Chris gasped;

‘An orchestra?’

‘Yes’ whispered John, ‘they have it here once or twice a year, on special occasions like this. The choir is really wonderful, too.’

And so it proved. There was half an hour of carols and readings before Mass began, then a bell rang and the procession entered while everyone stood and sang O Come all ye Faithful. John was suprised to hear Chris singing, unembarrassed, in a lovely tenor voice—but then Chris wouldn’t have needed to be a chuchgoer to recognize that tune, played in every shopping centre since October! When the procession came in sight, Chris gasped again at the gorgeous display of the shimmering gold and white vestments. The Mass began, all in Latin, and Chris looked puzzled, but still clearly utterly fascinated.

When the consecration came, though still bewildered, Chris clearly had caught the solemnity of the moment and, on his knees like everyone else, tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked up at the elevated Host through the clouds of incense. John slipped his hand into Chris’s.

‘Oh John,’ Chris whispered, ‘I want to belong to all this. I want it so badly.’

John just gave his hand a squeeze.

Coming back from Communion, John spotted a familiar face in the crowd; it was Tony. What on earth was he doing here? John remembered vaguely that he had said he was a Catholic, but didn’t think that he ever went to Mass, even at Christmas. They exchanged lifts of the eyebrows, and after Mass the three of them met in the Church forecourt.

John and Tony hugged, and then Tony said, looking at the handsome young man in front of him,

‘Well, John, aren’t you going to introduce us?’

John just smiled and said

‘No need; you two already know each other quite well.’

Tony looked baffled, and then light suddenly dawned.

‘F.B.? … er… Chris? Is it you? It is! Where’s all the fat gone? Bloody hell, lad; you look absolutely fantastic. How did you do it?’

Chris just gave Tony a hug. ‘It’s really good to see you, Tony. And thanks for the compliment; I feel tons better. It’s all down to John, really.’

John had to ask Tony ‘So how come you got all pious all of a sudden, you old heathen?’

Tony’s face clouded over. ‘Well, it was really to take my mind off things. Mike dumped me yesterday, and I’m feeling absolutely wretched.’

‘So now what?’

‘Back to my lonely house, I suppose.’

John noticed the not-too-subtle hint, but didn’t mind; he was very fond of Tony.

‘Come with us back to Chichester. We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Chris?’

Chris nodded vigorously; he too was genuinely fond of Tony.

‘I’d really love to come guys. Thanks so much. I haven’t got any stuff, though, and Willesden’s a long way away.’

‘Don’t worry: we’ll find you some of my stuff. You’re a bit bigger than me, but we’ll manage.’

They got into the car.

‘Nice wheels, John!’

‘Not mine, Chris’s.’

And Chris glowed proudly and started the engine.

It was four in the morning when they got home, and everyone was more than ready for bed. In the bedroom the three men took off their suits and shirts and hung them up carefully. Tony noted how neither John nor Chris were wearing underwear. Strange, with a suit, he thought. Chris was spectacularly beautiful, standing young, naked and slim, with a muscled torso just beginning to appear. And looking at them both Tony detected himself growing hard so he muttered ‘dead puppies, dead puppies’ to distract himself.

John noted Tony’s interest, grinned, and broke his gaze by flinging him a pair of shorts.

‘I’m not making the couch up for you at this time of night, so you can sleep here in the bed with us. Okay?’

‘With you two hunks? Torturer! You really think that either of you are going to escape a good rogering? I won’t be able to help myself, lying next to you nearly naked.’

Chris looked startled. But he saw John’s grin and realised that Tony had been joking. About the sex, anyway. There was only one person that Chris wanted to have sex with.

The three of them got into the bed; it was a little cramped, but all of them took pleasure in the feel of the others’ skin and hard muscle, and in the darkness they all sported erections as they tried to get comfortable, wriggling against each other.

Despite the erotic sensations coursing through their bodies, all were tired, and so all three quickly fell asleep.

In the morning, even John woke late, though he was still the first. He gently got out of bed, so as not to wake the others, then padded out into the kitchen and began to prepare the Christmas lunch. As he did so, he felt a strange sensation, and wondered what it was. When he realised, he squatted down on the floor suddenly with shock.

It was happiness!

Had he really never felt this before? Had he really been so unhappy all these years? It didn’t seem so at the time, but looking back on it, most of it looked pretty grim. But now, now…

Now he had two people in his life; in fact in his home, even in his bed, whom he loved deeply. He still didn’t fully understand his feelings for them, but he knew that those two men meant more to him than anyone else in the world ever had, even the Henrys, and he could not bear the idea of being parted from either of them. For entirely different reasons, of course. Tony brought out the lighter side of him, and Chris the protective. Tony was like a brother, whereas Chris was like a son, and perhaps more than a son, he was beginning to realise. And perhaps it was the brotherliness that accounted for the fact that John felt uneasy about having sex with Tony, quite apart from any other considerations.

But with those two in his life, John felt warm and full; he felt more himself than he had ever felt before. He hugged himself in his joy, and couldn’t resist going into the bedroom again to look at his two loves. They lay on the bed, still asleep, and with Tony’s arm over Chris’s bare back it looked so entirely natural.

John went back into the kitchen, and, singing Christmas carols under his breath, worked hard at preparing the lunch. Never had domestic work seemed so sweet to him.

When the turkey had gone into the oven, he was free for a bit. The others were still not awake, and he hadn’t the heart to disturb them on Christmas morning, so he took off his apron, pulled on a sweatshirt and trainers, and headed out alone for his morning run. The day was crisp and beautiful; the sun shone through the empty branches of the trees, and there were still very few people abroad. John did his usual exercises and went home, pulling off his sweatshirt and trainers as he came through the door.

The others were up by now, and were sitting in their shorts in the warm kitchen, sipping mugs of coffee and talking. Suddenly moved with affection, John kissed them both on the top of their heads, sentimentally treasuring the moment. Like lightning, Tony grabbed John’s balls through his shorts; John let out a yelp of shock and grabbed Tony’s ears. In a moment, the two of them were wrestling on the ground while Chris looked on, alarmed. He had no idea at all what was going on. The men slammed each other with all their considerable strength into the floor, into the cupboards and even, for one scary moment into the cooker where their lunch was roasting. A mug fell to the floor and broke, but still the men tried to violently wrestle the other into submission. Finally, John played dirty and started to tickle Tony. Tony was hopelessly ticklish, as John knew, and gave up immediately, rolling into a little ball to protect himself. By this time Chris had gathered that the whole thing had just been horsing around and was grinning broadly.

John said, aggrieved:

‘Tony! You bloody well hurt my balls. What had they done to you that you had to grab ’em like that?’

‘Not played with mine, that’s what, you blushing virgin!’

‘Your balls get far too much action. I’m doing them a favour!’

‘Oh, stop whining, kid. You stink of sweat, by the way. Isn’t it about time for your annual shower?’

‘Bloody charming!’

But John went and got into the shower anyway, turning it on and luxuriating under the warm flow.

Tony followed him into the bathroom. He called

‘Yeah, but the problem is that now I stink too, after you rubbing your manky old carcase all over me.’

‘You should consider yourself honoured!’

‘Yeah, right! In your dreams! Anyway, I need a shower now, so I’m coming in there with you.’

‘You are not! Fuck off!’

‘Is that a challenge?’

‘Don’t you dare! You bastard! Get out! Help!’

And they fought again in the shower, which was quite capacious, yelling occasionally as an elbow or back knocked the hot or cold tap, causing the water to fluctuate wildly in temperature. Then as one would try to adjust the temperature to prevent them from being scalded or frozen, the other would grab the soap and try to push it into the other’s various orifices. They were fighting and laughing so hard that they didn’t hear Chris coming into the bathroom. The first they knew was when he joined them in the shower too, grabbing them both hard by the balls. Tony and John screamed in unison, and the three-way fight was on. It only finished when Chris stepped on the soap and slipped, falling against the door of the shower, which gave way and fell out into the bathroom, landing on the sink and shattering into a thousand glass fragments. Chris only saved himself by grabbing onto the two others, who held him tightly.

They all looked out of the shower, appalled, and suddenly sobered.

There was an awkward silence.

It was John who broke it.

‘Wow! Well done, Chris. I’ve been wanting to do that for years; I hate this shower cabinet!’

The momentary tension was shattered like the door, and the three shouted with laughter, clinging together until they wept.

‘Guys’, said Chris. ‘We’ve got another problem.’

The others looked at him, still giggling.

‘What problem?’

‘We’re all stark bollock naked—and, more to the point, bare-footed—and the floor is covered in shards of glass!’

‘Ah; good point, Professor! Now what?’

The three stood in the shower for a good few minutes arguing about how one of the others was the one logically best suited to walking on glass to get a broom, or shoes or something for them all to pass over the glass safely. Then they got back to tickling, but that solved nothing.

It was Chris who came up with the solution. The others held him by the left arm and left leg while he leaned right out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the rail. He shook a few loose glass shards from its folds, then they hauled him back in. He deftly threw the towel down on the floor, and sprang onto it with one bound. Another bound took him out of the bathroom door, and soon he returned, dressed in his shorts, rugby shirt and training shoes, with a strip of carpet from the hall, which he laid down with a flourish.

‘Sir Walter Raleigh only laid down his cloak for one queen, whereas I……’

‘You cheeky sod!’ Both men made a grab for him, but stuck together in the shower doorway. Meanwhile, Chris, shouting with laughter, had escaped out of the flat, and had headed off for his morning run, which he was determined now never to omit.

It was only much later that the implications of what he had said sunk into John’s mind. Chris had worked out that he, John, was gay!

Tony had done the noble deed, and cleared up the glass. He felt a little guilty for having initiated the rough-housing, and he wanted to expiate it. He even managed to rig up a temporary shower curtain across the door so that Chris could shower when he came back from his run. And John returned to the kitchen.

At twelve, the three of them changed into their suits, then drank champagne cocktails which made Chris very talkative. They sat down to a wonderful lunch; for all three of them it was the best Christmas they could remember; the first time that Chris and Tony, at any rate, had spent it with somebody they really cared about. John loved it too, but thought guiltily about the Henrys again.

When the meal was over, they all changed back into their shorts, and Chris and Tony did the clearing away. They all sat down in the sitting room to watch the Queen’s Christmas broadcast. Finally it was time for opening presents.

Chris was trembling, because he knew that there would be another expensive present from John, and he was not sure that he could handle the emotion of it all. And he was not wrong in either suspicion; John gave him a beautiful Apple Macintosh laptop computer and plenty of good software to go with it. It was tears time again, and John sat next to him and held him until the storm abated.

‘Chris, don’t cry! You deserve all this; you should have had all this for years. It’s just coming all in a rush now!’

Chris also received some more clothes and shoes, and a mobile phone.

For John, Chris had managed to find some Abercrombie and Fitch shirts and a very beautiful rare A&F poster which he had bought on Ebay, and which he had had framed. John was genuinely touched, and Tony said banteringly

‘My God, Chris, fast work. You’re discovering all his little fetishes already!’

But the main present from Chris was an antique ship’s compass, an exquisite thing, all of brass and glass. John was lost for words, but found tears coming out of his eyes. When he could speak, he said

‘Oh Chris, this must have cost at least five hundred pounds! That money was meant for you.’

‘But do you like the compass?’

‘Like it? Chris, I’m telling the truth when I say that never, ever, has anyone given me something which I love more. I am so deeply touched that you went to all that trouble and expense.’

‘John, if I could, I would tear out my heart and give it to you, for what you have given to me. And I don’t mean the money and the presents. You gave me my life; you found me a foul mess, and you made a human being out of me. You have shown me the love that my own mother denied me. You have made me see myself as worth something. For this, I would do anything, absolutely anything at all for you. I owe you everything, and you deserve nothing less than everything.’

John and Chris were now in tears and hugging. For John, what the lad had said was particularly resonant; he himself had said something similar to Pat Henry once, and his stomach turned over with guilt once more. But then he remembered how Pat had quoted the parable of the Good Samaritan to him, saying that the way he could thank Pat was to ‘go and do likewise’. Perhaps it was all right after all. His care of Chris repaid in some way Pat’s love.

The hug continued. Finally Tony said

‘It seems a bit of an anticlimax, Chris, and I didn’t know we were going to meet, so I didn’t get you a present, but I was going to send you some money; you may as well have it now! Happy Christmas, Chris!’

John gave Tony some new shirts that he had bought for himself but hadn’t yet opened; it seemed a good idea, he being anxious that Tony wouldn’t feel left out. And Chris apologized that he hadn’t anything for Tony, so he gave him a hug instead, keeping his balls carefully out of Tony’s reach.

And they all subsided before the television and drank wine, and talked until it was time for bed.

The following day, Boxing day, or St Stephen’s Day as John insisted on calling it, remembering his Irish mother, Chris was anxious to try out his new car, and wanted to take it for a really long spin on his own. So he drove off after breakfast, leaving Tony and John together. John got his own car out, and drove Tony to London to pick up some clothes.

‘Though I have to say that seeing you in my clothes makes me quite horny!’

‘Not half so horny as seeing me out of them!’

John had been wanting to ask Tony something, but had not liked to raise the subject on Christmas Day.

‘Tony, what happened on Christmas Eve? Why did Mike dump you?’

‘Oh, the oldest story, I’m afraid. He found someone else.’

‘A bit of a shitty thing to do to you on Christmas Eve, though.’

‘You could say that. It came like a bolt from the blue. There we were, getting it hot every night, and all of a sudden he ups and tells me that he’s off. I got rather angry—you know what I’m like when I’m in a rage, like with Linda—and I told him to piss off out of my house. We both said things that we probably both regret, but which will make it impossible, really, to be friends again. He made some nasty threats, which I hope he doesn’t mean, but it’s really over, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m sorry for your hurt, but you know, Mike sounds rather a shit.’

‘Yeah, I suppose so. But it didn’t seem like that at the time. I’m beginning to think that your philosophy is right. Wait for love before sexual committment.’

‘You won’t manage it in a million years! I know you too well, you randy old goat!’

‘Don’t be so sure of yourself. You never know!’

John pulled up outside Tony’s house. He had been a few times before, and liked his friend’s rather minimalist taste. The door was swinging open, however, and Tony ran inside, horror on his face.

‘Oh God! I’ve been done!’

The house was completely trashed. Whatever hadn’t been stolen had been broken to pieces. Excrement and urine were smeared everywhere. Vile language was sprayed on the walls. Tony was shocked into quiet rage when he saw even photographs of his dead parents defaced. This had not been done by some random burglar; this was the work of somebody with a grudge. Both John and Tony thought ‘Mike’, who still had a key, but no doubt nothing could be proven.

They called the police on the mobile, and two constables came around. Shortly afterwards the place was swarming with detectives, but there was not a fingerprint to be found.

‘Sir, if it was this bloke Mike, he’s been very careful. Other than catching him red handed with some of the stuff he nicked, there’s really no way that we can finger him for this. But he did a real professional job; perhaps he had mates who know something about burglary. We’ll watch him, and we’ll appeal for witnesses, but don’t hold out much hope, I’m afraid. Are you insured?’

Tony nodded dumbly. That was one mercy. But he couldn’t replace all those precious things that had meant so much to him for their sentimental value rather than their monetary worth. And those were the things singled out for specially vicious destruction. Tony had no doubt that the vandal knew him very well, and knew just where to strike. It had to have been Mike. What a busy Christmas Day he must have spent! But Tony felt weary now, and disinclined to take vengeance. It would only go on and on. He just wanted to get out of there. He wanted Mike out of his life utterly.

‘What really pisses me off is that he must have spent most of Christmas Day doing this. That’s real hate. Why couldn’t I have seen it? Was I that infatuated? I thought we were in love!’

He and John went to a pub and sat quietly in a corner. He made some decisions quickly; asking the barman for a copy of Yellow Pages, with his mobile phone, after some trials he engaged a firm of houseclearers—amazingly open for business on St Stephen’s Day— to completely gut the house the following week. If they found anything that was not destroyed, they were to put it aside for him. He also decided to put the house on the market. He would never be able to live there any more.

‘Come and live with me for the time being’ urged John. ‘We can consider all our options at leisure. Don’t rush into anything. You work from home, don’t you?’

‘Yes; I do it all from the computer, so it doesn’t matter where I live. I suppose I’ll need a new computer, though. But as for Chichester or London; it’s all the same to me.’

‘Well, not quite the same, I hope’ said John, fluttering his eyelashes, and was rewarded with a wan smile.

But as Tony and John returned to Chichester, strangely Tony began to feel a weird elation.

‘You know, John, in a funny way that’s all been quite cathartic. I’m sitting in your car, and all I own is the clothes I’m wearing.’

‘And quite a lot of money in the bank, when the insurance comes through and you sell your house. Oh, and the clothes are mine, by the way!’

‘Yeah, but it means I can start my life again. I can be who I want to be without any baggage…’

‘…baggages like Linda and Mike, you mean?’

‘Yeah, exactly, but also anything else that ties me to the past. I feel weirdly free.’

‘Stay with me, won’t you. At least for a while. I love you, man—no, not like that! Get your hand off my groin, you sod—but you are my closest friend, and I’d love to have you around, permanently if possible. You’re so good for me; you draw me out, you make me laugh at myself and just about everything else.’

Tony was quiet for a minute, thinking.

‘John, I’d seriously love to. But your flat is too small. I work from home, remember, and that takes up space. And you forget that my sexual habits are not the same as yours. Do you really want to also share your bed with whomever I’m shagging at any particular moment, bearing in mind it might be another Linda. Though mind you, having got my fingers badly burnt with Linda and Mike, I think that a little celibacy for a while mightn’t be that unwelcome! Perhaps I can stay with you while I look for something in the Chichester area, and when I’ve found somewhere, we’ll still see loads of each other. Anyway, I think somehow that you are going to be providing a permanent home for Chris now, and your flat really is too small for two, unless they’re really intimate, let alone three.’

That distracted John nicely.

‘Do you really think Chris wants that? To live with me permanently?’

‘Is the Pope a Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods? Don’t be stupid! From the day we met, the boy has adored you, and probably fantasized about you being his father or his big brother or whatever. He and Linda are sick of the sight of each other, and she would probably agree to letting him spend the holidays with you—though don’t rule out her doing something spiteful just to hurt Chris again, like insisting he goes somewhere else. But if that were to happen, she would have to pay, and I don’t think she’d want to do that. No, I’d say that if it were a matter of Chris’ choice it’s a certainty, and a probability in the case of Linda. All that remains is your decision. Do you actually want Chris to make his home with you?

‘Do bears shit in the woods? Is the Pope a Catholic?’

They both laughed and felt better.

A few days later, after their evening visit to the gym, John took Chris out for a pizza; he was nervous, and Chris picked up on it.

‘What’s up, John? You’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof for days! Have I done something you don’t like?’

‘Oh no, not at all! O God, I hope you haven’t been thinking that! No, Chris, I simply want to ask you something, and I’ve been trying to find the right moment. I suppose that now the subject has been brought up, now will do at least as well as any other time.’

‘Oh; what? I told you I’d do anything for you.’

‘Well, this isn’t so much anything you’d do for me, but rather what I could do for you. Though I’d be really thrilled if you did want this, so it would please me anyway. But I know how you feel about accepting gifts, and how it kind of upsets you……’

‘Oh God, not upsets, John. It moves me, incredibly, to know that there is someone in the world who cares enough about what I think and what I need and even what I’d like. And I’ve already told you that I want to do anything that pleases you, so the answer’s yes, whatever you want. I’ll chop my arm off if you like!’

‘No, we’d never get the stains off your clothes! Besides, I’ve already got two arms, and they’re bigger and better than yours.’

‘Not for much longer!’

‘Probably true, the way you’re going.’ If that had been Tony, John reflected, he would probably have started a joke quarrel and an arm wrestle now.

‘Look, John, what’s this all about? The suspense is killing me.’

‘Chris; if your mother is agreeable, I was wondering if you would care to make your home permanently with me.’

‘Of course.’

John had expected tears again, but there were none at all. Just a firmly determined, happy face. John was a little disconcerted.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, absolutely. I told you the answer was yes to whatever you want, and yes, I want this too, more than anything.’

‘Settled, then. Now, how do we tackle your mother?’

‘That won’t be difficult. We simply won’t tell her! She’ll be thrilled that I’ll be spending the Easter holidays ‘with a friend’—that’s all she need know—we can leave your address with Whitefriars again—and she already knows we’re going sailing for the whole summer. She bitches about it, but hasn’t said no. Next November, I’ll be eighteen and can live wherever I want!’

‘What about free weekends from the school in term time?’

‘I’ve always had to spend those at Whitefriars, so she wouldn’t expect me home anyway.’

‘And now you’ve got your car, you can easily come home to me for those breaks. I know the school will let you keep the car there, because I phoned and asked before buying it for you.’

‘Wicked! You know, John, I always wanted a big brother.’

‘Funny, so did I. And now I’ve got a little brother.’

John went on. ‘There’s something else we need to talk about, and this is really difficult for me. After we’ve had this conversation, you must feel free to change your mind about living with me, though I hope you won’t. Chris, there’s no easy way to say this, except for the fact that I think you’ve guessed it. Erm…’

John floundered, trying to find a way to put what he had to say. Chris took pity on him.

‘John, are you trying to tell me you’re gay? That’s not a problem at all!’

John went bright red, lost for words. Eventually he got out

‘Er…ah…yeah. That’s what I meant. How did you know, by the way?’

‘Apart from the Abercrombie and Fitch posters of beautiful young men everywhere, you mean? Or the tastefully decorated flat? Or your taste in clothes? Or the way you stare at handsome men and then pull your gaze away when their eyes look up? Or the way that women seem to do nothing for you in that way? Or the way you enjoy talking with women…? Shall I go on?’

‘Good God, am I that un-self-aware?’

‘But actually, what really gave it away was the fact that I saw you and Tony romping on the beach in Italy that morning. That’s how I knew that he goes both ways. It took me a while to work it out, but once I had lived with you a couple of weeks, well, let’s just say it wasn’t rocket science.’

John went all red. ‘Look, Chris, that time with Tony was really the one and only occasion. I’m not a promiscuous slut, I promise you. That was my absolute only time with another man. Or with another person at all, actually.’

‘Oh John, I didn’t mean that! And I don’t care what you do. I think I’m probably gay myself, anyway.’

‘You are? I wondered.’

‘As far as I can tell. Guys are the only ones who have done it for me so far. And I think that Tony is more gay than straight.’

‘Really?’ John was taken aback at the extent to which Chris had kept his eyes open and his mouth shut.

‘Oh yes. And he adores you!’ And so do I, Chris thought, but did not say. He went on; ‘He wrote to me that that Mike bloke looked just like you, and since I’ve seen you together I’m certain he loves you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not watching; he’s far more observant than you are, and never lets you catch him. He forgot about me watching, though.’

‘Oh hell. Oh, poor Tony. I had really not the slightest idea.’

Chris replied sadly ‘No. I told you that you weren’t observant. I don’t think you’d notice that somebody loved you even if they took all their clothes off and did a rhumba in front of your face.’

Over the next few days, John did a lot of thinking. The January sales were a lot of fun, outfitting Tony from square one. As usual, Tony turned it into a rumbustuous farce, mannequin-walking up and down the main aisles of Marks and Spencers with one hand on his hip; then screaming loudly and lying on the floor in French Connection, beating with his fists, when John wouldn’t let him buy a loud Hawaiian shirt. Needless to say, Tony won that round.

Unquestionably, John loved Tony. But he wasn’t sure if he ‘Loved’ him. Was it fair to Tony to try and persuade him to stay, if Tony was hopelessly in love with him? He even asked Chris’ advice. And Chris, thinking about himself and his own hopeless love, said that Tony would probably settle for whatever John was prepared to offer, and think himself lucky.

And so, the day before Chris was due to go back to Whitefriars, John called the other two into the sitting room.

‘Listen, guys, I’ve made a decision. You two mean more to me than anyone else on earth, and it seems to me that we love each other very much. Lets say no more than that. But, frankly, it would break my heart to be parted from either of you longer than is necessary, and I’m not prepared to go down that road. Can I assume that you both feel the same way?’

There were two cautious nods. Where was all this going?

‘Well, I’ve decided to sell the flat’. Now there were two gasps.

‘It’s been really fun living cheek by jowl, but we can’t go on like this. Chris, you came here with nothing, and Tony, you tragically lost everything, but neither of you are going to stay that way. You both need your own space, to have your own stuff and your own friends around, and all that kind of thing. It’s been a hoot sharing a bed between three, but we all need some breathing space, and Chris, you’re not going to get any smaller; you’re getting really big around the shoulders.

‘So, I’m going to start looking for something larger for the three of us.’

Tony immediately said ‘I think that’s a great idea! As soon as the sale of my house goes through, I’ll put that money into the kitty.’

‘Tony, I appreciate it, but there’s really no need. Chris knows this, but I suspect you don’t. I’ve really got more money than I know what to do with, and frankly, buying a house for me is almost small change. I’d far rather you invested your money to provide an income for you, and enable you to come sailing with us more than you would be able to if you had to work all the time.’

‘Oh John, I’m not stupid, you know. I knew perfectly well you couldn’t buy Chris cars and computers on the money you earn sailing for a few months in the summer!’

‘No, Tony, obviously you’re not stupid. But I suppose I am. The two of you have me worked out more than I have about myself.’

‘John, my dearest friend, it’s what we both love about you so much!’

And the three hugged.

Chris and John had had a number of serious talks about Catholicism. Chris had come for a couple of Sundays to St Richard’s, and had liked it, but it hadn’t entranced him the way Midnight Mass at the Oratory had done. John explained that if Chris really wanted to go through with this, and become a Catholic, he would need to make contact with a priest near his school and go to see him regularly to take instruction. And he thought that the headmaster would need to give permission, too, and perhaps his mother, though he thought that probably sixteen was the age of consent on this matter. And perhaps for their free weekends, they could meet in London and go to Mass at the Oratory. Chris looked thoughtful, and said that he would try and sort it out. But he loved the idea of London and the Oratory.

One day John came in and found Chris working intently on the computer.

‘Whatcher doing, Chris?’

‘It’s time you had a website. I’m setting one up.’

‘What for?’

‘Der! The business, of course. The yacht. It’t the up-and-coming way to attract custom these days.’

‘I don’t understand any of that stuff.’

‘That’s why you’ve got me, John!’

John watched for a little while, but then grew bored and went away to cook supper.

3.3

There were lots of tears, and not just from Chris, on the day that he had to return to school. But what a different return it was! He drove himself there in his own car, loaded to the gunwales with his new clothes and computer. The indifference or hostility of the other pupils held no fears for him now; he had a loving home, and that was all that mattered. The world no longer seemed so hostile.

But as is the way with teenagers, things had substantially changed at Whitefriars. At first, Chris was not even recognized. This slim handsome muscular youth with the well-fitting beautiful clothes and haircut, with his own car and computer, was a very far cry from the bedraggled, obese and shy impecunious lump they had known in the past. Chris was no fool; he knew perfectly well that the overtures of friendship they began to make to him were just a sign of their empty-headedness, but it was a great deal nicer than what had happened before, so he allowed some of them to come close to him and even came to like them.

The staff were genuinely delighted for him. They had always worried on his behalf, knowing a little of his home background, and they had never known what to do about it. They had guessed about his asthma, but school regulations forbade their administering a drug without the consent of a parent, and Linda consistently and spitefully refused her permission. Naturally, they told none of this to Chris, but simply excused him from sports. They had conceived an infinite contempt for Linda, though, which was why they were so ready to report her to the Child Protection Agency the moment they had a legitimate excuse.

When Chris had begun to lose weight, they all cheered and encouraged him. But, not knowing about the efforts the staff had been making in the background, he had developed a universal lack of regard for everyone at the school, and refused even to accept the better-fitting second-hand clothes they tried to give him. And so he had looked even more ridiculous, until now.

The female members of staff (and the one or two gay men) redid their secret list of the ten most handsome boys in the school and Chris came out easily in the top five. Partially, perhaps, out of guilt and relief, but there was no doubt that this ugly duckling was now a most beautiful swan.

And Chris discovered a whole new set of interests. He had never suspected even in his wildest dreams that games like football or rugby would actually be enjoyable to him one day. He didn’t make the school teams, however, simply because, as John could have told him, things like catching or kicking a ball have to be learnt from earliest childhood, or slowly and painfully acquired later, and there was not time to catch up now. But rowing and swimming were a different matter; he represented Whitefriars in both these sports, and did very well. John, and Tony when he could, did their best to attend all the competitions and races, and cheered themselves hoarse at every success. Chris continued to work out hard every day; the school had a well-equipped gym, and he was putting on muscle at a satisfyingly rapid rate. And there was music, too. Chris had always loved classical music and had longed to play an instrument. That, also, was too late, but he was thrilled to find on return to Whitefriars that John had paid for singing lessons for his lovely tenor voice. Yes, life was definitely looking up!

There was one fly in the ointment. Chris had gone, with the permission of the school, and in the company of ten or so Catholic boys, to Mass in the nearby town, driven by one of the Catholic staff. But he could not endure the ugly modern church, and the horrible game-show style in which the priest conducted the liturgy. This was not what had moved him at Christmas. Still, he was determined to persevere, and he asked the priest whether he could receive instruction to become a Catholic. He was bitterly disappointed when the priest told him to come back the following September, when he could join something called the R.C.I.A. group.

‘September? So I can’t even begin for another nine months?’

Talking to John that night on the phone, Chris was deeply upset, and John was moved. He was now convinced that Chris really wanted this, and it was not only a part of his hero-worship for John himself. So he had a quiet word with his old friend Fr Smith at the Oratory, the same man who had helped him on the day his father died, and it was agreed that each free weekend, Chris and he would stay at a nearby hotel, and then Chris would have a number of one-to-one instruction sessions. On top of that, Chris would be set essays, and could study at school, corresponding with the priest. Chris was delighted, and very prepared to do all the work that was necessary.

‘But don’t forget, Chris, that this is really putting Father Smith out; be grateful, and don’t let him down!’

So on each of the free weekends, John and Chris would share a room at the Rembrandt Hotel opposite the Oratory and have a hugely fun few days in town. One weekend, Tony joined them, and they were lucky not to be thrown out of a restuarant when he stood on a chair to do what he said was his famous impression of an ostrich laying an egg. At the Oratory, Chris and Fr Smith hit it off straight away, and after a few sessions, it was announced that Chris would be ready to be baptized at Easter.

Chris Sanders was, however, lucky to be still alive at Easter.

Justin Horner, a few months older, and in the year above Chris, had been among those whom Chris had hated the most in the past. They saw a lot of each other, for they lived in the same house. Justin had teased Chris unceasingly about his weight, his appearance and his inability to do sports. Had Chris known it, Justin was in his own immature way trying to encourage Chris to do something about the situation, and his intentions were not malicious at all. But Chris, already feeling bad about himself, felt each comment strike him as though it were a barbed arrow, and so even when he returned to Whitefriars, transformed, after Christmas, he would have nothing to do with Justin. Justin himself was something of a loner, with few friends, and though he was sorry that his overtures of friendship to Chris were coldly refused, he was not surprised. He simply went back to his football and his rugby, at both of which he excelled, though his mind remained a little troubled.

In truth, also, Chris had used to look with longing eyes on Justin. Justin was everything that Chris had wanted to be, and so his teasing seemed to rub salt into the wounds that Chris felt so deeply. For Justin had always been tall, very handsome, blond, athletic, quite intelligent and very charming and personable; his close friends were few only because Justin preferred it that way; his admirers, on the other hand, were many. And Chris, besides longing to be just like Justin, also longed for affectionate attention from him, and misunderstood his encouragement as cruel and humiliating rejection. So Chris’s passionate crush on the older boy turned to something very like hate.

That winter, Whitefriars had engaged a new rowing coach in a hurry, due to the sudden death of the old coach in a car accident. Consequently, not a great deal of care was made over the appointment. The boys didn’t like Mr Simpson, the new man; in some way he made their skin creep, but they could not put their finger on quite what was wrong. Nothing ever happened that they were aware of, but they noticed the way he would sit in the changing room and watch them change, going suddenly silent when a boy would drop his trousers. So they called him the Perv.

The boys had always rowed in singlets and shorts, with track suits or sweatshirts for colder weather. The Perv was having none of this and for the rowing team had persuaded the school to invest in some fashionable one-piece lycra body suits.

‘Now don’t forget, boys’ said the Perv ‘you don’t wear anything at all under these!’

‘Fuck!’ said one of the lads when he brought them around to the others later. ‘Look: they’re white! Completely white!’

And so they were, with the Whitefriars crest on the breast.

‘So what?’ said another.

‘So you wait until we have to put them on! Even when coloured, these fucking lycra things are obscene! But white’s the worst. My brother had some white speedo swimming trunks, and he didn’t realize that everyone could see everything when they got wet. He was thrown out of our local swimming pool. And the Perv says we’re not allowed to wear even a jock strap under these things! Typical fucking Perv!’

And so it proved. Chris and three other muscular and very good-looking lads were duly given the privilege of taking the new body suits for their first spin. In the changing rooms, while the Perv looked on approvingly, they stripped (Chris was a particular favourite of the Perv, because he never wore underwear) and as quickly as they could pulled on the new costume. They looked at each other in horror. Not only was every muscle on their chest and legs defined and emphasized by the shiny white lycra, but especially so were their most intimate parts. Their cocks and balls were all on the most obvious display; there was not a thing left to the imagination. They all blushed deeply; they had all seen each other naked countless times before, but somehow this was much, much, worse, and in future they were going to have to appear in public like this; in front of their families and the whole school. It was almost pornographic.

Looking at the others, Chris’s cock immediately began to harden, and the others, seeing it, followed suit. Suddenly, humiliated, they all turned to their kitbags to pull out their tracksuits. The Perv intervened quickly.

‘No, no, darlings, no tracksuits, you look wonderful just as you are!’

He looked straight at their enlarged cocks;

‘Very wonderful, in fact! Wilks, you are a big boy! And you, Sanders. All of you are big boys, really. And still sweet seventeen! No, no track suits today. It would be philistinism of the worst kind to deprive our neighbourhood of such beauty!’

‘But Sir, it’s really cold outside’.

And it was. March in England can be very cold indeed sometimes. And there was a nasty wind from the north.

‘Well, you’ll just have to row harder, that’s all. I want these new beautiful costumes to be seen!’

‘Unfortunately, that’s not all they’ll see!’ muttered Chris under his breath, and the others murmured their agreement. But there was no arguing with the Perv, and so they pulled on their light rowing shoes and went outside, taking a breath as they pushed open the door.

The wind blasted round the corner.

‘Fuuuuuck!’ they all said together, chilled immediately to the marrow, and huddled together, quickly holding their hands over their groins in embarrassment as Justin Horner and a party of older lads went past on their way to class, wolf-whistling the rowers’ new costumes.’

‘We can see everything you’ve got, lads!’

‘And it’s not very much!’

‘Mind the cold doesn’t shrivel them away altogether!’

The rowers got the boat into the water, then quickly got in themselves. The sooner they got rowing, the sooner they would get warm.

‘Where’s the Cox, Sir? Shouldn’t we wait?’

‘No, no Cox today, my dears. He’s not coming; he’s got horrible, terminal acne, and it would be bad for my nerves. You can look over your shoulders, and I’ll tell you to pull left or right. Today is all about stamina; we’re going for a good long row straight up the river.’

This was irregular; the boat was rowed by four men with their backs to the prow; they were directed usually by a Coxwain, a lightweight junior boy who sat in the stern and could see ahead. But the rowers had experience that arguing with the Perv got nowhere, for he had a nasty and vindictive streak towards those who crossed him. So they pushed off the boat from the bank and began to row.

The Perv, well wrapped up in coat and scarves, rode his bicycle along the bank, forcing old ladies off the path into the undergrowth as he went, and shouting the occasional encouragement or ‘pull left, girls,’ to the rowers as they got into stride.

Tim Johnson, a lad with whom Chris had become friendly recently, muttered

‘Wearing this stupid get-up, I should have thought it should be fucking obvious to everybody that ‘girls’ is exactly what we are not!’ The others chuckled.

The boys were glad to get up speed, and they began to warm up. And facing each others’ backs, they were not confronted quite so crudely with each others’ enhanced and shiny cocks and balls. They just watched the silvery play of muscles on the back and shoulders of the man in front of them, which Chris, at least, enjoyed, and pulled on. But the Perv was making them row a very long way, and they began to tire. It was only the thought that the return would be easier going downstream that kept them from mutiny.

But slowly it began to dawn on them that he was taking them on to where this river joined another river that flowed from the far side of town. They would then have to row up that river, upstream again, and then carry the boat back to the school through the town. They would have to walk down the High Street, wearing nothing but their obscene lycra, without even their hands free to cover themselves!

‘Sir!’ shouted Tim, ‘The River Torrent isn’t safe. We’re not allowed to take the boats up there since some vandals dumped a couple of cars into the water.’

The others blessed Tim for his quick thinking. He was right. But the Perv wasn’t having any of it.

‘Nonsense; That was last week. I’m sure it’ll have been cleared by now. Keep going!’

By the time the boat turned into the stiffer current of the Torrent, the four lads were near exhaustion, and beginning to suffer badly from the cold. Their pace and strength began to slacken, and they made poor headway up the river; yet they still had at least another couple of miles to cover before their humiliating walk through the town.

They grew still slower, and the Perv called out

‘Stroke, stroke, stroke, come on! I’m getting cold here, and I don’t intend to be made late by you lazy blighters. Row, girls, pull, pull!’

The boys did not even have the energy to swear at him, but pulled as hard as they could, as the boat tried to pass through the rapids where the white-flecked water flowed through the narrow space between the piers of a bridge. They strained and strained; the veins on their necks stood out, their muscles bulged in the shining white lycra, and they stood half up in their seats as they tried to propel the boat with their whole weight against the powerful current. It was only a little slacker on the other side, and the lads were near the point of collapse.

The Perv did not notice the boys’ exhaustion, nor did he notice the wrecked cars just under the surface of the water a little further on. The rowers, straining with all they had left, all had their backs to the front of the boat, so they did not see them either.

The boat hit the cars with a sickening crunch, and the rowers were thrown out of their seats onto the man in front in a tangle of muscled skin and shiny lycra. The Perv yelled from the bank

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you idiots do anything right? Push the boat off, you fools!’

The rowers did their best to sort themselves out and comply, but there came a sickening tearing sound from the hull of the boat. Jon Wilkes panicked

‘Sir, there’s water coming in.’

‘Oh bloody hell! Stick your foot in the hole, Wilkes!’

But it was too late. Suddenly, the boat broke free and was caught by the current. Before the boys could grab and sort out their oars, the boat was carried, whirling round in the current, back to the bridge where, with the full force of the rushing water and the weight of four muscular seventeen-year-olds, it crashed into one of the piers sideways on and broke in two, instantly sinking to the bottom.

All four lads were pitched into the freezing water, shocked and frightened. The current carried two of them down a little way past the bridge, but they were all strong swimmers and hauled themselves out onto the riverbank. They collapsed onto the grass, shaking and rather bruised. The Perv, however, was purple and incandescent with rage.

‘You stupid, stupid fools! Through your incompetence, you’ve damaged very expensive Whitefriars property, and I’ll see that you pay back every bloody penny! Why do I concern myself with such bloody stupidity? Where was the point in all my training? Why couldn’t you look where you were going? Why didn’t you see what was under the water? Get up! Get up, you bloody lazy hounds!’

The lads got up slowly and painfully, but they were too stupefied with cold and shock to make any coherent response. The water had turned their white lycra body suits completely transparent, and they stood there as though naked, hugging themselves, their teeth chattering. Every detail of their bodies could be clearly seen.

Seeing these beautiful seventeen year old young men wet, helpless, and practically naked outdoors in front of him, the Perv’s anger disappeared; another, more intimate, emotion taking over. He perved them for a minute, and then said, reluctantly,

‘I’d better go and get my car to get you back. Don’t move from this spot, any of you, or you’ll be in even worse trouble! Just get the remains of the boat you wrecked out of the water, and we’ll get it back to the school!’

And with that, he wrapped his coats and scarves around him, and wobbled off slowly on his bicycle.

The young men sighed and shivered. Julian Hopkins said

‘We’d better get the boat now. He’ll go ballistic if it isn’t out of the water when he comes back, and we’re already wet now. There’s no point waiting until we’re dry before getting wet all over again.’

So, shivering, they let themselves down into the water, and, fighting against the strong current, managed between them to dive down for the wreck and bring the two halves to the bank. It was far from easy; the job took a good half-hour in the strong, icy current; they were already exhausted, and had very little energy left. When they finally finished, they stood on the bank, leaning against each other, and tried to stand in the lee of the bridge to get out of the icy wind, but if anything, it grew colder.

The young men were astute enough to realise that they had to get dry somehow. They tried rubbing the water out of their bodysuits, but it didn’t have much effect. They even went as far as to strip off their suits altogether and wring them out, but even that seemed to make little difference, and the cold wind made them pull them on again quickly. The wind on their wet clothing continued to chill them even further, and they were long past the point of worrying about their virtual nudity. They then began to force themselves to run a little way up and down the bank, and do various exercises. Chris went through the exercise routine he had learnt from John, and the others followed him. But they had so little energy—all their blood sugar was spent—and they could not do much at all.

The Perv returned with his car about an hour later. They crowded to it.

‘No, no. Boat first. A good sailor always thinks of his boat first. I see you got it out; dear, dear, you did make a mess of it. You really are most careless. I’ve already spoken to the headmaster at tea—which you’ve missed, of course—and I can tell you that you all are in deadly trouble, my dears, but you have only yourselves to blame! Now, see if we can get it into the car.’

By leaving the boot open, it was just possible for the remains of the boat to fit into his car.

‘But now there’s no room for any of you! So stay here and continue to expose yourselves for the entertainment of the passers-by until I come back, you rude boys. I shall have to unload this all by myself, thanks to you. I’m not feeling at all well, either! And I have to get to the shops before they close! I’ll see you afterwards. Don’t look at me like that; I told you, this is all your own fault!’

Chris glared savagely at him.

‘Sanders, I don’t like your attitude. You can take a detention, too’. For some reason, Chris and the other boys found this funny; that he should think of punishing them over and above their present misery was comic, and they laughed at the Perv as he drove off, furious. They didn’t laugh long.

The Perv was away another hour. The four boys tried to keep moving, but were beyond exhaustion. At times, they sat on the riverbank, hugging each other to preserve and share whatever warmth there was. They were past embarrassment at what they would otherwise have described as ‘poofy’ behaviour. Then when they couldn’t bear it any more, they feebly tottered up and down the bank of the river, their arms and legs turning blue with the cold, unable to say much to each other, even to curse the Perv. Their energy would soon give out, and they would return to the bank to sit together until they stood up to totter again. It began to rain hard and to grow dark.

Time and again they saw the lights of cars approaching the bridge, and their hearts leapt up with hope, only to be dashed when they drove past. It never occured to them to try and stop a stranger; they believed themselves to be in trouble enough over the shipwreck, and they wanted to keep the Perv from losing his temper again; they knew that they needed to do some serious damage limitation. Besides, their thinking was of anything but the strongest kind under those circumstances.

When the Perv returned, his car was full of shopping. ‘I was just in time, dears! No, for the shops, silly! No, there’s only room for two of you. You others, Johnson and Sanders, will have to stay a little longer, and you can spend the time thinking about how not to cheek teachers! Oh, damn, I suppose you two are going to get my seats wet. You’ll both have to sit on the floor. No, Hopkins, on the floor, I said! Don’t squash my shopping, Wilks.

‘Johnson, Sanders, you’ll have to do something to cover yourselves up. I can see everything you’ve got, you little tarts! We mustn’t give Whitefriars a bad name.’ And the car roared off.

And so Tim and Chris were left on the river bank. They could not go another step, and sank down onto the wet grass, clinging tightly onto each other to try and preserve what little warmth there was between their bodies.

Tim was crying with the cold and with fright; he murmured;

‘I’m scared, Chris. I don’t think this is a good situation for us.’

He had never used Chris’ Christian name before; as was common in the school, he had only used Chris’ surname, Sanders, before. Somehow Chris noticed through his misery and was touched.

‘We’ll just have to hang on, Tim. He’ll be back. He’ll have to come back soon. He’ll have to! Put your hands over your cock and balls; it’s a bit warmer there. And you can’t exactly miss where they are in this stupid gear!’

Tim smiled through his panic, but he was getting sleepy. He laid his head on Chris’ shoulder and closed his eyes. Chris held him tight and tried to wrap them both into a ball. That was a bit better.

Chris tried to pray, but somehow he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t even remember the Our Father, so he tried to ask Tim to see if he remembered it, but somehow even the question would not come out right. Tim opened his eyes, but looked vague and confused, and went back to sleep.

After about fifteen minutes, Chris began to feel suddenly very hot; he sharply felt as if he were on fire, and he struggled to get free of Tim’s desperate unconscious clutch, and to take off his body suit. He felt that he couldn’t breathe for the heat; he struggled against the constricting elastic lycra, only dimly aware of the movements he needed to free himself. He succeded only in getting his chest free and bared to the elements when he passed out and knew no more.

And the North wind and the rain continued to beat upon the two bodies as they lay against each other on the riverbank.

3.4

Back in Chichester, John was spending an evening alone; Tony was away for the week at some conference or other. As usual, wearing only his football shorts, John was flicking from one channel to the other on the television, bored, when there was a ring at the door. Tony had tried to impress on John that he really ought not to answer the door barechested, especially when it was only early spring, so he kept a t-shirt in the hallway which he pulled on, then cheerfully flung the door open to see who it was.

Pat Henry stood there on the mat, dressed formally in a suit.

John’s eyes filled with tears and he ran to embrace the man at the door.

Pat simply said ‘Hello, John,’ but his arms stayed at their side and did not lift to embrace John back.

‘May I come in?’

‘Of…of course! Do you have bags and things?’

‘They’re at the hotel.’

‘Hotel? Won’t you stay here with me?’

‘I don’t know. That rather depends on how this conversation goes.’

‘What conversation?’

‘The one we’re about to have.’

John had never seen Pat like this; cold, distant and formal. That, more than anything impressed on him the seriousness of what was taking place. He led the way into the flat’s small sitting room and the two men sat down opposite each other. Pat began:

‘First, the money.’

He took out of his pocket a large bundle in a clear plastic bag. It contained a substantial wad of high-denomination banknotes. These he handed to John.

‘It’s all there, every penny, everything you put into our account. Four hundred and fifty two thousand, three hundred and twenty pounds sterling. You can count it.’

‘…I wouldn’t dream…No, Pat; this money is yours, I don’t want it back.’

‘Unless you take it back, this conversation is at an end and I will leave. I will then throw the money in a dustbin. Do you want me to leave?’

‘No: I want you to stay. But why won’t you take the money? I want you all to have it: I owe you all so much.’

‘I won’t be insulted, nor will I let my family be insulted.’

‘Insulted?’

‘Yes, John, insulted. Buying us off, buying us out of your life. It’s all about making your conscience clear. You taking back the money will put things in their proper perspective.’

John took the money and set it beside him on the seat. He was growing angry and profoundly hurt.

‘All right Pat, I’ll take this for now. Now will you tell me what’s this all about?’

‘You don’t know? Are you stupid?’

‘Not exactly. I left your home for… for good reasons. I explained myself as well as I could. I thought you might feel a bit sorry for me, but I never expected this anger.’

‘What’s wrong with you, John? You really have no ability to read a situation, have you?’

Pat seemed to expect an answer. John shrugged.

‘What do I say?’

‘Sorry, perhaps?’

John looked puzzled still, so Pat jumped up and went to the central light switch and threw it on. Then he went back and sat opposite John.

‘Look at me, John.’

Puzzled, John raised his eyes to that familiar beloved face that he had so longed to see. How horribly different the prayed-for reunion was all turning out to be.

‘How do I look?’

‘Okay.’

‘Do I look the same to you?’

‘Pretty much.’ Bit older, thought John, but didn’t like to say.

‘Did I have grey hair when we last spoke, more than two and a half years ago?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘No, I didn’t. Nor the wrinkles on my forehead, either. How do you think they got there, John? I’m not even thirty-five yet.’

‘Stress?’

‘Too bloody right, mate. Stress. What was I stressed by, John? I’ll give you a clue; it wasn’t my job.’

‘Me?’ John whispered.

‘No, you arrogant prick! Why is it always about you, you, you? Sure, I was dis-stressed, very very distressed, by your leaving, but I knew you were all right. At least you had the decency to write from time to time. No, it’s mostly Conor, though Seán has been pretty problematic too, though in a different way.’

‘Conor? What’s wrong?’ Did I turn him gay? thought John, his stomach turning over.

‘Have you any fucking idea how sensitive kids between eight and fourteen are? When their parents break up it has the most terrible effect on them; they think it’s all their fault, and all their security begins to shake.’

‘You and Bernie aren’t breaking up?’

‘I can tell you we have had our moments in the last couple of years, but no. Our love goes too deep, and anyway, we both swore that we would remain together for the sake of the children until they all left home, whatever happened. No, it’s not that, but Conor and Seán hero-worship you; you are—or were—their beloved big brother whom they had come to love and rely on. And one thing you’ll have noticed about our family; we don’t do things by halves. And then, without warning, you walked out on them.’

‘I never knew they felt like that. I love them both to bits. What the hell did they find to admire in me?’

‘Sometimes I wonder myself, now. Though at the time I agreed with them. You should know that Conor has spent the last two and half years constantly in counselling and therapies of one sort or another. He’s spent most of that time on anti-depressants. He was nearly twelve when he started them. Let me repeat, a happy, loving, active little boy of eleven had, all of a sudden, to go on Prozac. About the same time, the twins and Seán grew very fractious, bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Then, at nearly ten years old, Seán began wetting the bed again. That all went on for about six months; the twins seem better now, but Seán has started some pretty strange behaviour, though the bedwetting has stopped, thank God; He couldn’t bear the humiliation of that. The grades at school for all four of them dropped sharply. The only ones who seem relatively unaffected are Rory and Brendan.’

‘What about Bernadette?’

Tears began to trickle down Pat’s face. ‘In some ways, that’s the hardest of all to bear. Oh, she’s stronger than I am, so she hasn’t let all this faze her, the way I have. But inside… John, she was carrying our child, and miscarried at seven months. It was a beautiful little girl. We call her Roisín.’

John was openly crying now. He went across the room and put his arm round Pat’s shoulders. Pat, however, shrugged him off angrily, and went across to the chair which John had just vacated and sat down. Again, they were opposite one another. Pat saw the money on the seat next to him. He picked it up and looked at it.

‘Thirty pieces of silver,’ he said bitterly, and hurled it across at John, who caught it neatly.

‘At least you can still remember something I taught you. You can catch. What about the rest? What about honesty, decency, truthfulness, love? It’s your turn to speak now, and I want to see whether you can remember those.’

John took a shuddering breath. He felt like he was sixteen again, at school. ‘Where do I start?’

‘Well, it isn’t rocket science to work out that everything went sour on the day you left. They have to be connected. You were a happy bunny on your eighteenth birthday; you went up to bed, and from then things changed. Start from there.’

John jumped up and switched off the central light again; the room was now dimly lit by a single table lamp. It would be easier if he could not see Pat’s face too clearly. He sat down again and sighed.

‘You may remember that in my letter I wrote that I was like Jekyll and Hyde. If I tell you the whole truth, you are going to hate me.’

‘John, hate is love turned sour. They are the opposite sides of the same thing. I think I already hate you because of what you have done to my family and because I loved you so much. After all we had done for you…’ Pat struggled for self-control. ‘Only what you say now can possibly change my hatred back to love. Nothing you say can make things worse, but it might just make things better. But only if you tell me the unvarnished truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. No excuses, no false shame……’

John was crying in earnest now. ‘Okay, okay, Pat. I would do anything to make you stop hating me, because I love you as much as I ever have. More, in a way, because of what has happened to you.’ He paused until he felt he could trust his voice. ‘Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you the rest.

‘Well, it doesn’t take a genius to see that Conor had something to do with your running away from us. Something freaked you out. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I know you and he had some sort of sex play. It took us a whole year to drag that out of him; he said he had made some sort of promise to you never to mention it. That was a terrible thing to do to him, John, and one of the main things that’s screwed him up, pardon the pun. He’s always been a frank, truthful lad, and he was horribly torn between his promise to you and his longing to tell us. He blames himself bitterly for the fact that you left us. He loved you so much and still misses his big brother; every night for ages he cried himself to sleep. We tried putting Seán into what had been your bed, just a few months ago, thinking it would be company for Conor, but Conor went apeshit; he keeps your side of the room as a sort of shrine, with your posters and those fucking Arthur Ransome books…

‘But as to exactly what went on between you that night, we still don’t know, but we’re imagining the worst. So tell me. I want to know why my family is fucked up, and what you had to do with it.’

John drew another deep breath.

‘Pat, you remember that on the night of my birthday you and I sat up after the others had gone to bed, drinking brandy?’

‘Yes. You got quite tipsy.’

‘Yeah. Well, you’ll also remember that when we went to bed, there was a huge thunderstorm. Conor was under the bedclothes, terrified.’

‘He hates thunderstorms. He used to come and get into bed with us.’

‘Well, he wanted to get into my bed with me, and I wouldn’t let him.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit harsh? The lad was scared. He was only eleven.’

‘That was the point. You see, Pat… Oh fuck it! Pat, I’m gay.’

There was a silence.

‘So?’ said Pat.

‘You aren’t shocked?’

‘No. Should I be?’

‘Most people would be horrified at the thought of their young son getting into bed with a gay man.’

‘John, I have a gay brother and a gay uncle. So I think that there is a very good probability that one or more of my children will turn out to be gay, too. Perhaps it’s Conor. I told Bernadette that before I ever married her, so she is happy with it as well. So does that explain why I’m not shocked? Besides, I’d guessed you were gay anyway, even when I only knew you at school. I suppose it’s partly why you were no good at contact sports… oh, we’re getting off the point here. Right; you refused to let Conor get into bed with you. You were afraid of your own reaction to him, then?

‘Yes, exactly. But then he jumped in anyway. And it was lovely having him there, so when the storm was over, and he didn’t go back to his bed, I let him stay. Bad idea.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I had this… er, massive erection which I’d tucked under the waistband of my shorts.’

‘So you weren’t actually naked together?’

‘No, we both had shorts on.’

‘Go on.’

John was scarlet now; he could feel the heat in his face, and so was grateful for the dim light. He continued:

‘Well, Conor got to asking me questions about sex and things, and I got harder, so my cock got loose and poked at Conor. Then he grabbed it, and pulled it out of the leg of my shorts and rubbed it. The inevitable happened. I came all over him.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘I cleaned him up and we both went back to our own beds.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yeah. That’s all that happened between us, anyway. It doesn’t seem much now, but it seemed very terrible to me then. And it got worse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, at the time I was pretty drunk on brandy, so I wasn’t able to reason well. But the next day, I got to thinking, and as I remembered what had gone on, I got hard again. I realised just how much I had enjoyed the whole experience, and I wanted more of it. I’m just so ashamed.’

‘Why? It all sounds pretty natural to me. My brothers and I fooled around all the time.’

‘You did?’

‘Sure. Conor’s very like me, in every way; very frank and physical. I’m not surprised he took the lead. Look, I’ve got seven children, if you count Roisín, and you don’t get those by reading novels at night.’

‘Yes, Pat, but you’re missing the point. I was eighteen, and Conor was eleven. That makes…’ John began to cry again. ‘…That makes me a p…pædophile!’

Pat suddenly understood at last. It all dawned on him, the whole sorry mess. John wasn’t a pædophile! The idea was ridiculous. The silly boy knew bugger all about sex, about love, about relationships… Even Conor now at almost fifteen knew more than John at twenty one. And that had to be at least partly Pat’s own fault; why did it never occur to him that John had never had anybody to talk to about these issues? The whole situation could have so easily been avoided if he himself had taken the trouble to talk about sex to John. The whole thing wasn’t really John’s fault at all; it was just one of those things. The boy’s first sexual encounter just happened to have been with a very inquisitive, physical and loving eleven-year old; it could have been anyone at all, and John would have had the same reaction.

In Pat’s large and generous heart there was a sudden upwelling of affection, of paternal protectiveness; his love for John ressurected from its shallow grave transformed, glorious, better than ever.

He got up and crossed the room and sat next to John on the sofa. Finally he put his arm around John’s shoulders and pulled the sobbing younger man to his chest.

‘Ssh, John, my son, don’t cry. It’ll all be fine. Don’t cry, soldier. I love you, my son, my son John, my son. Sshh.’

And he wept too.

Ten minutes later, the telephone rang.

3.5

The staff at the hospital were unanimous that it was only the quick thinking and action of Justin Horning and his friend Tom Phillips that had saved Chris’ and Tim’s lives. They had been out running along the bank of the river—even horrible weather conditions like that night would not put those two off their rigorous fitness regime—and had come across the two bodies lying together unconscious on the grass, the white lycra almost glowing in the darkness, one of them barechested, half out of a soaking wet bodysuit, and the other still dressed—if you could call that dressed. Justin had done mountaineering, and recognized hypothermia immediately. Shouting for Tom to do the same with Chris, he tore off Tim’s wet bodysuit, and then stripped off his own warm tracksuit and rather sweaty rugby shirt. The two, now themselves barechested, dressed only in nylon shorts and running shoes, dressed Chris and Tim in their own clothes, and then Justin told Tom, the faster runner, to sprint as hard as he could for help.

‘To the school?’

‘No, we need an ambulance, and really quickly! Find a phone!’

Up on the road, Tom met a woman walking a dog a short distance away, who was somewhat surprised to see a good-looking barechested young man in this weather. Almost incoherent with panic, he asked if she had a mobile phone he could use. Quickly understanding that this was a serious emergency, she agreed readily; an ambulance was summoned, and Tom returned to find Justin massaging frantically at the bodies of the young men. Tom got the idea quickly, and set to work on Tim, while Justin rubbed and rubbed at Chris.

‘Tom’ said Justin. ‘Weren’t there two more?’

‘What?’

‘This is Sanders and Johnson. Didn’t we see four of them set off earlier with the Perv in these ridiculous clothes?’

‘Yeah, Hopkins and Wilks were the others, but that was hours ago! Surely they can’t have been out here all this time. And where’s the Perv?’

They didn’t stop rubbing until the ambulance arrived, and the professionals took over. It was a close thing; the boys’ hearts had slowed down to a crawl, and the paramedic had to inject them straight into the heart with adrenaline.

Justin and Tom had explained to the emergency people that there were two more young men missing, and said that they wanted to stay and see if they could find them. The ambulance drivers said that they would radio for a car to come and pick them up, but to hurry, because if the others were in any state like Chris and Tim, delay would be critical. They wanted to get these two off to the hospital immediately for the same reason. So Chris and Tim were wrapped in blankets that looked like aluminium foil, and taken straight to the hospital, with sirens blaring and lights flashing; if they had been conscious, they would have loved the crazy ride.

For an hour or more, Justin and Tom, still wearing only shorts and trainers, sprinted up and down the riverbank, even swimming over to the other side of the freezing river from time to time, and into the fields surrounding, looking for the eerie glow of white lycra in the dark. They found nothing, and returned periodically to the ambulance car which had arrived within five minutes. The ambulance men had gladly left the exploring to the two very fit young men, and had lent them waterproof torches to help their search. But eventually they gave up.

‘They’re simply not here. There’s nothing more we can do!’ said Justin.

The ambulance car drove the lads back to Whitefriars; their first call was to the houses where the two missing boys lived. They ran in to each house, causing quite a stir, the skin on their bare chests and legs wet and red from the cold. They found out quickly where the boys lived, and went straight to the dormitories. There they found Jon and Julian in their respective beds. Their relief was considerable, until they discovered that the boys could not be wakened; they were both still in their soaked lycra suits.

They ran back to the waiting ambulance car, and the driver radioed for another ambulance to come for the boys.

Tom and Justin were exhausted, but thought they ought to find out what had happened to the Perv. Perhaps he was lost, too. But they found him unloading shopping from his car.

‘Give me a hand, you two meaty boys; I’ve had such a day, and I’m exhausted! I have to go out again in a minute, too, to pick up two troublemakers! After I’ve had a cup of tea to revive me, needless to say. I’m just dying. Do you know they wrecked a boat today, and the first two I rescued didn’t even have the courtesy to help me in with my shopping! Just walked off to their houses.’ He paused, ‘You know, you do look good like that; you should always dress like that in future! Don’t ever bother with shirts, you two!’

Justin was about to explode with fury, when Tom, sensing it, laid his hand on his friend’s arm and coldly and clearly told the Perv what had transpired.

The Perv began to panic. ‘Those stupid boys. I warned them to be careful of school property. But they wouldn’t listen, and now look what’s happened!’

Flashing blue lights appeared; not just an ambulance, but also a police car. The Perv panicked, and disappeared into his house as quickly as he could run. The hospital staff had thought that the police ought to be informed, as there had nearly been two young deaths, perhaps four, and so Justin and Tom were taken, still barechested, in the car to the police station to give statements, and that as quickly as possible. They were offered blankets, but the station was warm; indeed after all their outdoor activity, it seemed too warm. They told the officers how they had recognized Chris and Tim on the riverbank, and how they had searched for, and then found, the others. A policeman was then sent to Whitefriars to interview the headmaster and the Perv, and he took Justin and Tom finally back to the school, to hot showers, warm clothes, and a long talk over some contraband whisky about the doings of the day.

The Headmaster was already cross. The Perv had been in to see him much earlier, and had related to him that one of the school boats had been wrecked by some careless junior sixth-form boys, who had deliberately disobeyed his orders. He didn’t like the Perv, any more than the boys did, but this sort of irresponsible behaviour was unconscionable. So when the police arrived, he was short-tempered with them, until he realized the seriousness of what had happened. But from that moment, he was falling over himself to co-operate.

There were prayers said for the unconscious boys that evening at chapel, and the whole school for once joined in heartfeltedly. The Perv was present, but he only prayed that the boys would not be able to remember what really happened. He was not so wicked as to hope that they might die, and so never reveal the truth, but he had to admit that it would be very helpful. He knew now that he could get into serious trouble over this, if the truth ever did come out. He honestly believed the lads to have been at fault—his vanity refused to let him see the truth—but he knew that as the responsible adult, he would be made to bear the blame, whatever happened.

‘It’s so bloody unfair. That those four ungrateful little shits should have been able to do this to me!’

The senior Matron at Whitefriars tried to contact all the parents of the four lads, and so in due course rang Linda. She, so far from being concerned, was furious. She had been in bed, in passionate congress with her latest boyfriend, and saw this as yet another plot by her son to frustrate her happiness. She swore violently, and slammed the phone down. Matron knew the situation well, and feeling that she had done their duty by Linda, with relief phoned John instead.

John was nearly frantic when he heard that Chris was unconscious, and not yet out of danger. Brushing away his tears, he mumbled something incoherent to Pat, scribbled with shaking hands a message for Tony, changed into chino trousers, trainers and sweatshirt, and ran to the car, remembering only at the last time his wallet, into which he stuffed some large banknotes. Then he ran back, swearing, for the car keys. Pat followed behind, bemused.

John could not even get the keys into the car door lock, because his hands were trembling so violently, and so he had the presence of mind to realise that he was a danger on the roads in this state. Pat calmly took the keys out of his hands and got into the driver’s seat. John thankfully got into the other side.

‘Where are you going?’ John asked Pat anxiously, as they headed into the town centre. ‘There’s no time to lose!’

‘To the hotel, to pick up my bags. Then I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.’

Pat’s calm voice soothed John as it had done so often in the past. When they arrived at the hotel, Pat took the keys from the ignition—he strongly suspected that John would just have driven off without him, he was so panicked—and went to pick up his bags and pay for a night that he would now spend elsewhere. When he returned, John was biting his nails, a sign of anxiety that Pat remembered well.

‘It’s okay, soldier,’ he said. ‘We’re on our way now. Where to?’

Pat drove as fast as the speed limit permitted to the hospital where Chris lay, over a hundred miles away. On the way he chatted calmly, trying to keep John from going into hysterics. It had already been a difficult day for him.

‘So, this Chris, is he your boyfriend?’

‘No! In a way he is to me what I am to you.’

‘A sort of ward, or foster-son?’

‘Something like that, only he’s sixteen.’

‘That’s the same age you were when you came to us.’

‘No, I was seventeen. My mother was buried on my seventeenth birthday. And now I’m only twenty-one. So there isn’t much difference between Chris and me.’

‘And when you came to us, I was only thirty. Perhaps it’s having kids that makes you look older. But I’m really pleased, John, that you’ve done this for Chris. Perhaps you remember a conversation we had about the good Samaritan?’

John smiled wanly. ‘Yeah, I do. I said you were like the good Samaritan. And you still are.’

‘And I said you could thank me by going and doing likewise. Well, it seems that you have done just that. Tell me about the lad.’

And John told Pat all about Chris, his home life, and his rescue. Pat was deeply touched, and saw a lot of himself in John. Perhaps that is what attracted him to the young man in the first place. Then John told him about Tony.

‘Is Tony your boyfriend, then?’

‘No, he isn’t, either. In a way, he’s a sort of waif and stray, too, though he’s a few years older than me.’

‘Is there anyone at all? Any sort of a boyfriend?’

‘It’s a position that could have been yours, once. I worshipped you at school, you know.’

Pat laughed loud and long. It was good to hear, and cheered John up.

When they arrived at the hospital, Pat dropped John at the entrance, but would not come in.

‘I’m going to look for a hotel, soldier; they won’t let me in, as I’m not a relative.’

John began to panic again; ‘But neither am I!’

‘Then just play it cool; walk confidently in and ask for Chris. They won’t refuse you if there’s nobody else. I’ll drop by later on. Go now. Go, John.’

Suddenly released, John ran into the hospital. In minutes, he was at Chris’s bed. The nursing staff filled him in on what they knew, which at that stage was very little. He discovered from them, and from such parents of the other boys who had already arrived, that Chris and the others had been involved in a boating accident, and had suffered from severe hypothermia. They had been discovered and rescued by two other lads from Whitefriars whose prompt and brave action had unquestionably saved their lives. All the unconscious boys’ conditions were now stable; it was almost certain that they would make a full recovery; their bodies were simply repairing themselves, and this unconsciousness was simply the best way to do it. But it had been a close thing, and it was nonetheless stressful for the families, sitting by and able to do nothing but pray and wait for their sons to wake up.

John sat in a horrible plastic armchair by the side of Chris, and held his hand, saying the rosary, as the boy lay quietly. As he was on his own, reluctant to leave Chris in case he woke up, one or other of the parents in the room would bring him food, or cups of coffee. He smiled wanly at them, grateful for their kindness.

‘You must be Chris’s big brother’ said Jon’s mother.

‘Well, sort of’ he said.

‘Sort of? You’re the spitting image of each other’

This had never struck John before, but now that she mentioned it, looking down at the sleeping boy, he could see a strong resemblance. No doubt it was because Chris had modelled everything on his hero, his hair, his build, but still, it was uncanny. He even had the same eyebrows and chin as his own father had had. Only the hair colour differed; John’s was an Irish mid-brown, and Chris had his mother’s light brown hair. Mrs Wilkes went on

‘I wish my sons got on as well together as you obviously do with Chris.’

‘I suppose we are pretty close. The rest of his family don’t want to know him, so I’m all he’s got, really.’

That’s terrible!’

‘Pretty terrible, yeah. But life has been getting better for us both, I think, since he came to live with me.’

‘Oh, that’s really sweet! Bless you.’ And the woman went back to her own son.

About two o’clock, Pat came in. He tried the confidence trick, and the nurses made no objection.

‘I’ve had a bit of sleep, John. Now you sleep. I’ll sit up with Chris.’

John was determined to stay awake, but the strong and confident presence of Pat reassured him as it always had, and within minutes he had drifted off.

In the morning, John needed to speak with Tony, so he rang him as soon as was civilized.

Tony, just getting up, was shocked to hear what had happened, but was very reassuring, and deeply regretful that he was utterly unable to come to Chris himself. John told him what Jon’s mother had said about his likeness to Chris. Tony snorted:

‘What have I always said about you being so unobservant? Chris looks just like you; his appearence, dress, build, mannerisms, the lot. If it wasn’t that you were only four or five when he was born, I’d swear you were his father. Of course, it’s only obvious since he lost weight, and he’s only lost weight since he’s known you, so I suppose he’s just modelling himself closely on you. Is there any chance that you could be related?’

‘That would make me a relative of Linda! Thanks a bunch, pal!’

That afternoon, there were some visitors. The Headmaster came to pay his respects to the parents, and to introduce them to Justin and Tom. The two lads were very embarrassed, and, bright red, tried to fend off the compliments that the headmaster paid them in front of the parents. But the parents would have none of it. Justin and Tom were kissed and hugged and thanked again and again with tears. John hung back, and when he had a chance with them alone, he hugged each of them and said quietly in their ears

‘If Chris had died, I think I would have wanted to die, too. You have saved more than his life; you have saved mine. I am eternally in your debt. I want you to know that I’m not short of money, and I will do anything you ask of me, anything at all. I can never thank you enough.’

He pushed banknotes into the breast pockets of their uniform jackets; he must have given them several hundred pounds each. He said out loud

‘This isn’t because I think this is what Chris is worth; but it’s the only way I can show you my gratitude right now. If I didn’t think it would embarrass the hell out of you both, I would kiss your feet. Your bravery and resourcefulness were truly outstanding. If I ever have sons like you, I would be so very, very proud.’

And all the parents applauded. They then took John’s lead and soon, over their protests, both the boys’ pockets were filled with cash.

Pat leant over to John and whispered in his ear ‘That was well done, son. You really have grown up, and I’m proud of you.’

Justin, red once more, said in a gruff voice;

‘Look, thanks very much indeed. We really appreciate this, but I don’t see that we did anything very special. It’s nothing that these guys wouldn’t have done for us if our positions were reversed.’

Which modest speech endeared the boys to all present.

Justin came over to speak with John and to see how Chris was doing.

‘Look, Mr Sanders……’

‘My name isn’t Sanders, it’s Scott, Justin. Call me John, though, please. You’ve earned it if anyone has.’

Okay, thanks, er… John. Look, in a way, this has given me a chance to right a wrong. I want to tell you about it, because I’ve felt so guilty. I’ve always liked Sanders… er, Chris, and thought that he battled really bravely with everything that he used to suffer. We all knew how horrible his mother is… Oh God, sorry, I suppose she’s your mother too! O God, that’s really embarrassing. I’m so sorry…

‘No, don’t worry, she’s not my mother. Chris and I are not actually related, though I’m discovering today for the first time that we look as if we are. And you’re right. His mother is a real bitch of the first water! She didn’t even care about this!’

‘Okay, thanks. Well, he battled so bravely against everything, and I thought that if he could only lose his weight, he’d be so much happier. So I used to really push him hard, trying to make him lose the weight, but I think I pushed him too hard, and made him hate me. I think he thought that I hated him, and was doing it for that reason. But I swear that that was never the issue. I have really appreciated this chance to make it up to him…’

Justin went on, in a lower voice,

‘…and to know that you succeeded where I failed. You must be one hell of a guy, John, to manage that. I may have saved Chris from dying, but you saved him from a fate worse than death, you saved him from a life of living misery. And that really takes something.’

John was very moved. He scribbled on a piece of paper for a minute.

Justin; here’s my email address, my home address and my private telephone number. Don’t forget; I meant what I said. You can always call on me, and if I can move heaven and earth for you, I will not fail to do so. Give Tom this information, and say the same to him, please. And I will square everything with Chris when he wakes. I’ll make sure he knows exactly what you’ve done, and how you feel.’

All four invalids were conscious about forty eight hours later; Chris and Tim, having been more seriously in trouble, woke some twelve hours after the other two, which was an added worry for John and for Tim’s parents.

Chris woke slowly, wondering where he was, and why he had a tube stuck in his wrist. He gingerly sat up—ow, not a good idea—and looked around him. Hospital, obviously. And there, sitting in a chair by his bed, was a stranger—it was Pat—who looked at him and said

‘Morning, soldier.’

Soldier? It was John’s word, but it wasn’t John speaking. Chris lay back to rest his thumping head. Explanations could wait until later. He slept again. When he woke, it really was John by his side, holding his hand.

The four invalid boys were together in one room, and as they slowly came awake, they shared their memories of what had happened until they had the whole picture of that awful day built up again in their minds. It came back quickly, as they remembered detail after detail. John and the other boys’ parents, by their beds, listened, appalled, knowing how very near their sons had come to death, and all through the selfish and stupid behaviour of one man, a teacher at the school they trusted, and to which they paid considerable sums of money each year.

John, having satisfied himself that Chris was fine, introduced his foster father to Chris, then went to the hotel that Pat had found, and having slept, showered, shaved and bought himself some new clothes, felt a new man. Back in the hospital, Chris and Pat hit it off terrifically, and when John returned, Chris was teasing him about being a sort of foster-Grandad.

‘But I’m not even thirty-five’ Pat protested.

Later that next day, the four young men, rapidly recovering now, together with their parents (or in Chris’s sake, John, in a brand new suit with Pat beside him), Justin and Tom, the headmaster, the chairman of school governors, two lawyers, and the police sat in a room at the hospital and went over again just what had happened. The headmaster was shocked to hear about the behaviour of the Perv, but what the boys said had the ring of truth about it. Then, he was even more shocked to hear the police telling the parents that, if they wished, they could pursue legal action against Whitefriars. The parents were unsure what to do. In the end, John spoke for them, despite his youth, and even though he had no legal responsibility for Chris.

‘Look; it seems to me that, all things considered, Whitefriars is a pretty good school. My own father came here, and I’ve known about it for years. I don’t imagine this has ever happened before, and we all know that bad things do happen sometimes utterly out of the blue. You can never totally account for the human factor.’

There were murmurs of agreement from the parents.

‘If we were to take legal action against Whitefriars, we might damage it considerably, and prevent all sorts of good things happening. This really regrettable incident was an act of unbelievable stupidity on the part of one individual, Mr Simpson, whom the boys…’ and here he smiled ‘…. whom the boys call the Perv. It would be more just, and much more productive to sue him, if you want to, rather than Whitefriars. You might get more money from the school, but surely money isn’t the issue here. It’s to make sure that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. And I’m sure the Headmaster is very determined that it won’t!’

‘Suing Simpson probably won’t actually be necessary’ said one of the lawyers. ‘I imagine the police will be taking their own action against him, and there may be damages awarded to the boys.’

The police agreed that they were certainly going to investigate, and if they thought there was a case to answer, the Crown Prosecution Service would take it on. In the meantime, they recommended suspending Mr Simpson immediately, until an enquiry could be held into his actions.

‘Sir’, said Jon Wilkes to the headmaster. ‘The Perv…er…Mr Simpson said that we would have to pay back the cost of the boat. But it really wasn’t our fault, and we really haven’t got that sort of money.’

‘Wilkes,’ smiled the Head, ‘That should be the least of your worries. Don’t worry about the boat. I’m only too glad to have the four of you so safe and well. It could so easily have turned out otherwise. On the other hand, can I do anything for you four? I think Whitefriars owes you at least something.’

‘Yes sir’, said Tim. ‘Please can we wear something else for rowing other than those obscene lycra things?’

Everyone laughed, and it was agreed. It was also agreed that as soon as the hospital released them, the four boys could return home for their Easter holidays early.

There were a few postscripts, however. John had a quiet word with the headmaster afterwards, and paid for not one, but six new skiffs and sculling boats for the school. At Chris’s suggestion, he also paid for a new rowing outfit, in the school blue, and definitely not in lycra. Pat, too, had a word with the headmaster and discovered that with the Perv’s removal—the headmaster was determined to fire him, whatever the police decision—there was room for a new Physical Education teacher and rowing coach.

John took Pat to the station, so that he could return to his family. On the way, and in the station car park they chatted.

‘Pat, we never finished our conversation properly.’

‘No, we didn’t. But we’ve the rest of our lives to do that. The important things is that we have re-established communication, son.’

‘I love it when you call me son. There’s nobody I would rather be my dad.’

Pat leant over and kissed John on the forehead.

‘You are my son, my oldest, though not my first-born. Look, perhaps there are a few things that need to be said before we part. You really need to mend your fences with Conor, John. He loves you perhaps even more than all the rest of us do; he thought, and I suppose still thinks, of you as the big brother he always wanted. He wasn’t really cut out for that role himself. He’s trying his best, but because he’s been battling with his own demons, he can’t really cut the mustard for Seán who is now needing a big brother too, and a strong role-model.

‘Over these last couple of days, with all this sitting around by hospital beds, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about that night, and what happened between you and Conor.’ Pat paused thoughtfully, and then went on, ‘I think that Conor came to you and did what he did simply because he was curious about sex. At his age, his questions and actions were perfectly natural. What nobody realised was that you had never had that opportunity. In that, John, we, and especially I, failed you. It was, I suppose, my job to find out whether you knew all you needed to know about sex. You obviously didn’t know, because you never had anyone to ask. You had no older brothers, no friends, and effectively no father. You were left floundering. No wonder you were thrown by what Conor lobbed you.

‘No, John, you are not a pædophile! Look; I can’t tell you the number of times that my brothers wanked me off, and they were all ages. And I’m straight! Have you ever felt attraction for a child because he was a child?’

‘No, never. Actually, I love men like you. Athletic, strong, good men.’

‘There you are, then. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just a normal gay man. I really want you to take an interest in Conor; perhaps you can reach him, since none of the rest of us can. Can we send him down to stay with you in the holidays?’

‘Look, Pat, Dad, I know this is a strange thing to ask, but do you really think he could be gay too?’

‘It’s possible, as I said before, but I think it very unlikely, if only for the fact that he is so very much like I was at his age. But even if he were gay, as far as I’m concerned that’s not a problem. So, can he come and stay with you?’

‘Of course. But let me buy my new home first; at the moment, Tony Chris and I all have to sleep in one bed. Even if Conor wanted to, there isn’t room!’

‘Kinky! But of course. Just let me know when. Will you come and see us, then?’

‘Pat, I honestly don’t know if I can. You can’t imagine how much I long to see all of you again, but there’s so much baggage.’

‘I suppose I understand, son. We’ll take it gently.’

‘One more thing, Dad. How did you find me?’

‘I’d never given up looking. Every spare moment of the last few years has gone into it. I tried and tried; your solicitor was pretty pissed off at you, but would not break professional confidence, and he was my only lead. I tried everything I could think of, and spent all my time searching. Even now, you probably know I should be in school, but as in everything, my family come first, and you’re part of my family. The most troublesome part, I might add! I hope I won’t get the sack for being here! But then, I tried something I’d tried countless times before; I entered your name into the Google search engine on the Internet, and for the first time, this web site came up. Something about sailing holidays. I remembered your Swallows and Amazons thing—by the way, you’ve got Conor seriously hooked too—and lo and behold, there was your photograph on the screen. Looking good, I might add. No glasses, muscles and a tan have done wonders for you! When I think what you used to look like! Anyway, there was your addresss on the web page, too.’

‘That was Chris. He did the website; he didn’t know I was hiding from anyone, so he never thought that I might object. He must have posted that page recently from school; my address wasn’t on the site last week.

‘Look, Pat, er…Dad. I want you to know that you remind me of another of our Lord’s parables. The good shepherd, who left his ninety nine sheep on the hillside—you’ve got nearly that many children—and went to look for the weird one who went missing. I’m so sorry for wandering.’

‘It’s not your fault, son. It makes me so happy to say that. In a way, it’s more my fault for not spotting the problem when I should. I’m so sorry.’

They both wept a little, then hugged. Finally, they kissed each other on the cheek, and Pat ran for his train. He missed it, and returned, disconsolate (and more than a little embarrassed) to John.

‘So much for the dramatic queeny departure; now I’m really in trouble, soldier. If I’m not in school tomorrow, I really will get the sack. And that was the last train.’

So John got out of the car and handed the keys to Pat.

‘With my love, Dad. Go safely with God.’

Tom and Justin meanwhile continued to visit the hospital every day, and they, Tim and Chris quickly became fast and very close friends.

John drove Chris home in Chris’s car. They had gone to Whitefriars to pick up Chris’ things—carefully timing it for when everyone else was in class, so as to meet nobody—and left for home straight away. They had gone about ten miles, when John felt his hands beginning to shake. Up to this point, he had remained perfectly calm and in control, as he had always been whenever there had been a crisis. But now he had to pull the car over onto the grass verge, and his whole body was shaken by terrific spasms. Chris was terrified.

‘John, tell me! What’s wrong?’

But John suddenly struck his forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed and yelled, his eyes and nose streaming. All the strain of the last week had suddenly welled up in him. He was, after all, only a few years older than Chris, still little more than a boy. He had maintained such perfect control in public, and now out of the gaze, with only Chris present, he broke down. Chris undid both their seatbelts, then leant across and switched off the engine. And then he pulled John into his strong arms and hugged him closely. John sobbed into his shoulder

‘I was so afraid… so afraid, Chr… Chris! So afraid that I was going to lose you. And I had never told you how much I love you. And this business with Pat, too. It’s all been too much!’

Chris wept quietly, torn between sorrow for his love’s misery, and joy at his knowledge that John really loved him.

They held each other, weeping, for a long time, then John got into the passenger seat, and Chris went around to the other side, and drove them both home.

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