

# Out of the Shadows

## Extracts for an Anniversary  
1967-2017

## Manifold Press

### Smashwords Edition

Published by Manifold Press

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-9083125-2-5

Text: © Manifold Press and the original authors 2011-2017

Cover image: © Svetlana Ilina | shutterstock.com

Cover design: © Michelle Peart 2017

Ebook format: © Manifold Press 2017

For further details of titles both in print and forthcoming, see manifoldpress.co.uk

Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living persons are purely coincidental.

###  Acknowledgements

Manifold Press would like to thank the authors for allowing us to use these extracts, and also to credit the proof-readers and editors who worked on the books in their original incarnations.

These include:

Julie Bozza

Jane Elliot

Hanne Lie

F.M. Parkinson

W.S. Pugh

and of course

Zee of Two Marshmallows

#

**Editor:** Fiona Pickles

### Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION **: 1967-2017**

Julie Bozza

TIMELINE OF GAY HISTORY IN ENGLAND **: 17 BCE-2017**

Fiona Pickles

**1st Century CE:** THE EAGLE'S WING

Cimorene Ross

**1198:** DANCE OF STONE

Jay Lewis Taylor

**1598-1602:** THE PEACOCK'S EYE

Jay Lewis Taylor

**The 1850s:** THE WALLED GARDEN

F.M. Parkinson

**1896:** ALWAYS WITH US

Morgan Cheshire

**1916:** BETWEEN NOW AND THEN

Adam Fitzroy

**1928:** ELEVENTH HOUR

Elin Gregory

**Early 1942:** UNDER LEADEN SKIES

Sandra Lindsey

**Late 1942:** MAKE DO AND MEND

Adam Fitzroy

**1945:** LIKE PEOPLE

R.A. Padmos

**1967:** IN THE PRIVACY OF THEIR HOME

R.A. Padmos

**1968:** FROST AT MIDNIGHT

Elin Gregory

**1976:** GHOST STATION

Adam Fitzroy

**2000:** STAGE WHISPERS

Adam Fitzroy

**2010:** RAVAGES

R.A. Padmos

**2011:** THE APOTHECARY'S GARDEN

Julie Bozza

**2012:** OF DREAMS AND CEREMONIES

Julie Bozza

**2014:** IN DEEP

Adam Fitzroy

**2015:** THE 'TRUE LOVE' SOLUTION

Julie Bozza

**2017:** SUBMERGE

Eleanor Musgrove

IF YOU'D LIKE TO SEE MORE...

## OUT OF THE SHADOWS

### INTRODUCTION  
1967-2017

#### Julie Bozza

The _Sexual Offences Act 1967_ received Royal Assent on 27 July of that year, and as a result private homosexual acts between men over 21 in England and Wales were decriminalised. It may have been a partial victory, but it was a deeply significant one.

We're sure most of us realised that 2017 would mark the fiftieth anniversary of that Act. What surprised and delighted us, however, was discovering how many of Britain's cultural institutions are celebrating this milestone.

The British Museum, Tate Britain, the Walker in Liverpool, and the Russell-Cotes in Bournemouth are all holding LGBTQ+ exhibitions. The National Trust is celebrating the queer history of various properties such as Sissinghurst Castle, Smallhythe Place, and Sutton House. And there are the more expected (but just as welcome!) activities, such as the exploration of 'Queer Talk' at Red House, where composer Benjamin Britten lived with his lover and muse, the tenor Peter Pears.

Manifold Press wanted to acknowledge the anniversary as well. We have created this free anthology of extracts from Press titles, which illustrates in a modest way the changes experienced by gay men over the centuries in Britain, and how these may have affected individuals. The Press is known for its historical stories as well as contemporary tales, so we felt we had a great deal of content to draw upon.

We hope that you'll enjoy this overview, and perhaps be prompted to ponder the various ways in which empathy, love and self-knowledge have triumphed despite the often harsh environment. If you are inspired to explore further – whether in our titles or elsewhere, or both – that would be marvellous, too.

#

### TIMELINE  
OF GAY HISTORY IN ENGLAND  
17 BCE to 2017

#### Fiona Pickles

##### Pre-1533

Arriving on the shores of Britain in 43 CE, the Romans brought with them a system of laws which remained in place for some three hundred and fifty years. Romans were relatively tolerant of sex between men, although the law despised those who took the passive role and described them as 'an alien sex no different from women' threatened with 'avenging flames in the sight of the people'.

Unmarried male Roman citizens were entitled to use younger men for sexual purposes, specifically slaves or prostitutes. The law _Lex Iulia de Adulteriis Coercendis_ of 17 BCE was more concerned with adultery, which it penalised with banishment to separate islands, and also criminalised sex with minors. It is thought to have been the reason for a number of castrations taking place, the purpose being to render individuals 'not male' and therefore legally eligible as sexual partners for adult men.

Early church law took over from the legal framework of the Roman Empire. There were vague condemnations for 'corrupting boys' and for male prostitution and pederasty, but the theologian Basil of Caesarea – writing in the fourth century – laid down the first specific penalties for sex between males, saying: "He who is guilty of unseemliness with males will be under discipline for the same time as adulterers."

Punishments for sodomy became steadily more severe, and varied according to the age of the offender; they could include flogging, degradation and castration. In 829 CE the Council of Paris made a connection between sodomy and the Great Flood, claiming that tolerating sex between males would be tantamount to inciting the wrath of God; the victory of the enemies of the Church would naturally follow.

The Council of London in 1102 declared sodomy a sin which must be confessed, a view which still prevailed more than two centuries later when Edward II died in captivity at Berkeley Castle. The story that he was killed by having a red hot poker thrust into his anus is doubtful historically, but it surely served as a graphic warning of the Church's attitude to any form of 'deviant' or alternative sexuality and the potential punishments that would follow being caught.

##### 1533-1967

Having broken from Roman Catholicism and declared himself head of the Church of England, Henry VIII revised and re-enacted many of the statutes which had previously existed. _An Acte for the punishment of the vice of Buggerie_ (2 Hen. 8 c.6) left the definition of buggery vague and spoke only of 'an unnatural sexual act against the will of God and man', although subsequent judgements refined this description solely to anal penetration and bestiality. Those found guilty would 'suffer such pains of death and losses and penalties of their good chattels debts lands tenements and hereditaments as felons do', so it was a catch-all means of depriving the accused of their livelihoods – and often their lives – and obviously open to misuse. It was in fact one of the methods employed by the king to dispossess monks and nuns of religious lands that Henry wanted for himself; not only was it effective in doing so, but it added an extra taint of humiliation designed to discourage others from following their example.

The Buggery Act was repealed by Mary Tudor in 1553, but re-enacted ten years later by her half-sister Elizabeth I. Penalties imposed under the Act were sometimes moderated to imprisonment and a spell in the pillory, and the severity of the latter would depend very much on the mood of the crowd at the time; an offender might be pelted with anything from bricks to flowers, according to the view taken of his crime, but at the very least it was likely to be an unpleasant and humiliating experience after which, it was supposed, he would want to change his ways. It was not just homosexual acts of buggery that were targeted, either; a case in 1716 established that heterosexual sodomy was punishable in the same way, although a hundred years later it was established that fellatio was not covered by the law and couples of any description could therefore indulge in it without penalty until the infamous Labouchere Amendment of 1885.

In 1828 the Buggery Act was again repealed and this time replaced by the _Offences Against the Person Act_ (9 Geo. 4 c.31), under which buggery remained a capital offence. Moreover the standard of proof was lowered, so that it was no longer necessary to prove 'emission of seed' to obtain a conviction; evidence of penetration was enough. This remained the case until the _Offences Against the Person Act_ of 1861 (24 & 25 Vict. c.100) which abolished the death penalty for buggery and replaced it with the scarcely less intimidating sentence of penal servitude for life or any period of not less than ten years.

The removal of the death penalty seems to have caused a wave of what is now called 'homosexual panic' and a fervent desire to punish and humiliate gay men – perhaps stemming from the belief that any sympathy shown would be seen as a sign of weakness or effeminacy. In 1866 marriage was legally defined as "the voluntary union for life of one man and one woman, to the exclusion of all others" ( _Hyde v. Hyde and Woodmansee_ [L.R.] 1 P. & D. 130), which affected not only gay men and lesbians but also people from polygamous cultures whose multiple marriages, legal in their own jurisdiction, were not recognised in England. The word 'voluntary' must also have had a hollow sound for many women.

The Labouchere Amendment, known as 'the blackmailer's charter', was enacted in 1885 as part of the _Criminal Law Amendment Act_ , and prohibited gross indecency between men. A magazine of the time explained the reasoning: "The increase of these monsters in the shape of men, commonly designated margeries, poofs etc., of late years, in the great Metropolis, renders it necessary for the safety of the public that they should be made known..." It was as a result of this amendment that Oscar Wilde was tried, convicted and sentenced, and many years later Alan Turing also fell victim to the same law. It was also at this time, however, at the end of the nineteenth century and the start of the twentieth, that the first organised homosexual rights groups began to appear in England, showing that the climate of public opinion had begun to change.

Although the mandatory sentence of penal servitude for buggery was repealed by the _Criminal Justice Act_ of 1948 (11 & 12 Geo. 6 c.58) as it relates to actual buggery, the penalties for _attempted_ buggery, assault with intent to commit buggery and indecent assault upon a male remained unchanged until the _Sexual Offences Act_ of 1956 (4 & 5 Eliz. 2 c.69); there seems to have been little or no legal understanding of the possibility that a person of either gender might be quite happy to be on the receiving end of buggery. However prosecutions brought during this period tended to be aggravated by other factors – Oscar Wilde's contretemps with the Marquess of Queensberry, for example, and the later prosecutions of Michael Pitt-Rivers and Peter Wildeblood, had as much to do with notions of class as sexual morality; there was a fear in some quarters that homosexuality had a destabilising effect on society as a whole, which could lead to anarchy, and thus it was feared by those who preferred to hold on to the status quo.

In 1954 the Home Secretary ordered an examination and report on the law concerning homosexuality. This in due course produced the Wolfenden Report, released in late 1957, which recommended that "homosexual behaviour between consenting adults in private should no longer be a criminal offence". There was no immediate amendment to the law, and in fact the debate rumbled on for a further decade, but the passing of the subsequent _Sexual Offences Act_ (c.60) removed the majority of homosexual behaviour from the scope of criminal prosecution. Royal Assent was granted on 27 July 1967, the fiftieth anniversary of which we are celebrating in this anthology.

##### Post-1967

The first gay kiss on British television was in the BBC's _Edward II_ in 1970, with Ian McKellen as Edward and James Laurenson as Gaveston. The first Pride parade took place in London in 1972, and _Gay News_ was founded in the same year. Two years later, Maureen Colquhoun came out as the first lesbian MP (Chris Smith, the first openly gay male MP, did not come out until 1984), and the year after that _The Naked Civil Servant_ was first broadcast. At around the same time, both in Britain and elsewhere, writers of TV and movie fan-fiction began 'queering' their favourite characters, a development which led indirectly to the establishment some of the independent LGBTQ+ publishing houses in existence today.

The arrival in the UK of AIDS in 1982 led to a new backlash against gay men and the rise of what was now called homophobia, which almost appeared to be Government-approved when – following the publication of a book for children entitled _Jenny Lives With Eric and Martin_ – Section 28 of the _Local Government Act 1988_ (c.9) forbade 'the promotion of homosexuality by local government' by, for example, including the book in public libraries.

When the footballer Justin Fashanu came out as gay in 1990 he met with such open hostility, even from his own brother, that he later felt he would not receive fair treatment when he was charged with a sexual offence in the USA; he committed suicide in 1998.

Section 28 was repealed in 2003. Same sex couples, who had been granted the right to adopt children in 2002, also obtained the right to form Civil Partnerships in 2004, and the first such ceremonies took place in 2005. This was not yet the full legal equivalent of heterosexual marriage, however, and there was still concern that same sex couples were being treated as second class citizens; accordingly pressure on various governments continued until the _Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill_ was introduced in 2013; it received the Royal Assent (c. 30) on 17 July of the same year, and took effect in the following March.

Nobody is pretending that the problems of gay men in particular – and LGBTQ+ people in general – are anything like over. However the fact that this publication exists at all, and that we as a mixed bag of queers and allies are in a position to mark the fiftieth anniversary of decriminalisation and all the progress that has been made since 1967, is surely something to be celebrated. The characters in our books have shared the journey made by their real-life counterparts over the centuries, but hopefully they – as well as we – can now look forward to enjoying even better and more comfortable conditions in future.

#

### 1st Century CE  
THE EAGLE'S WING

#### Cimorene Ross

Lucius bought a slave, Keret, because he felt sorry for him, but has now become attracted to him both romantically and sexually. This is awkward; they both have enemies who would be only too happy to use their growing emotional connection against them...

His eyes snapped open and he couldn't be sure he had heard something. In the darkness beside him Keret stirred but didn't come quite awake until there was another crash against the wall dividing them from the nearest barrack room.

"What was that?" Keret finally woke up, sitting up with difficulty because his hair, as usual, was under Lucius's shoulder.

"Early warning system. Stay where you are, I'll go and see what's going on."

Lucius slid out of bed and padded across the room, relying on instinct to avoid any furniture. Without opening the outer door he peered through a convenient crack to look down the street. He could see torches and what looked like a security check.

"Another snap search?" enquired his duplicarius, emerging from his room and yawning prodigiously. "I hope they haven't been up to something, we can't afford another row."

"I think we can rely on Barius – his motto has always been 'no evidence, no witnesses'. I take it you heard his warning knock? Have a look, see if you recognise anyone."

Paetus peered through the gap and straightened up. "It's the Twentieth. It'll be another security panic."

"In that case, back to bed. They're being very quiet, obviously hoping to catch people off guard, so let's be law-abiding. We needn't worry about the men, they've had plenty of warning."

Lucius watched Paetus close his own door and then returned to the bedroom, where he stripped off his tunic and dropped it on the floor. "Come on, get undressed; nobody will believe we've been making love with you all bundled up like that."

"What?" Keret was still half asleep but obediently stripped off, adding his clothes to the pile on the floor.

"We're about to get a snap inspection. Whether it's an exercise or a real emergency I don't know, but all you have to do is look embarrassed and say nothing and I'll be indignant enough for both of us." He climbed back into bed and reached for Keret's warm body. "Lie down before you get cold, goose-pimples will give the game away. Put your arms round me and try to look as if you're enjoying yourself."

Obediently but tentatively Keret slid his arms round Lucius's neck and didn't flinch when he was held tightly against the solid naked body. Lucius took the opportunity to wind himself round Keret and tried to imagine this was real, while keeping his attention on the slightest sound from the street. When he heard footsteps outside he couldn't resist the temptation and lowered his head to kiss Keret, taking advantage of the stunned immobility before reluctantly releasing him as the outer door burst open, filling the officers' quarters with people and torches.

"What in Hades?" he exclaimed, adding some more choice Gallic and Pannonian epithets as he sat up, delighted by the way Keret clutched the covers and slid down the bed until all that was visible was a pair of enormous dazed eyes and a cloud of hair.

"Sorry, sir. Just a security check. We've had a report of unauthorised intruders in one of the barrack blocks," explained a harassed centurion, but Lucius could see Siccius Niger's leering face at the back of the group.

His mind full of other solutions he still managed to say, "Why didn't you call me out? In the absence of Praefect Licinius Musa I am in charge of the Third Augusta Gallorum. Why wasn't I informed? You know the Twentieth has no authority in this section of the fort."

"Sorry, sir, but there wasn't time. We thought the intruders would escape if we waited to send a runner for you," apologised the officer, turning to leave, obviously embarrassed at disturbing him, while Lucius's sharp ears heard a muttered comment that if they'd waited they'd have caught them actually at it.

"Have you finished with my men?" Lucius demanded, carefully getting out of bed without exposing Keret to the expectant men and threw on his discarded tunic.

"No, there's the other two turmae yet."

"I'll come with you. We might as well do this by the book. Any intruder is long gone; anyway, it's probably only someone getting back after lights out."

There was no way the officer in charge could stop Lucius from going with them, but as they systematically inspected every dormitory in the next two blocks he could see that interest was waning apart from the earnest officer of the guard. More and more he began to suspect that the whole operation had been engineered, but he couldn't think of any reason why the Twentieth Valeria Victrix would want to harass the Third Augusta Gallorum. Barius and his cronies had probably made a lot of enemies in the fort, but then there was also the sinister presence of Siccius Niger. There was no doubt that Niger hated him; the prickles on the back of his neck told him that two unfriendly eyes never left him. By the time he returned to his quarters a lot of unpleasant thoughts were churning round in his mind and he crawled back into bed, finding that Keret hadn't moved.

"You can come out now. They're not coming back, I hope. Keret, do you think I'm unduly suspicious or is it remotely possible that Siccius Niger engineered the whole thing just to find out whether I was sleeping with you?"

"What difference would that make?" Keret emerged from the depths of the bed and settled himself more comfortably.

"I don't know, but it wasn't my imagination that everyone's enthusiasm evaporated very suddenly once we got across the street. I think it's possible that he's going to attempt to get at me through you, so we'll have to be much more careful in future."

#

### 1198  
DANCE OF STONE

#### Jay Lewis Taylor

Hugh, a master mason, is unexpectedly reunited with an old friend – who has recently been beaten up – and they take advantage of a quiet room at an inn to make up for the time they've been apart.

Hugh said, "I want to _kiss_ you."

Finn's voice was languid as warm honey. "Well, then – kiss me."

"I can't – your lips are so bruised."

"Are there no other places to kiss a man?"

"Not that I know of." Hugh raised his head at the sound that came from Finn's mouth: a soft, low chuckle.

" _Gud in himinn_ , you English. So staid."

"I'm not English. I'm half Kentish and half Norman French."

"Ah," the harper said. "But still staid." He put his hand on the back of Hugh's head, and guided it down his chest. "Try there."

"I –"

"Do it; go on."

And Hugh kissed one nipple, tentatively at first, then with more fervour. At length Finn, twisting beneath him, said, "Other one," and he found the other in the dark, and had to hold Finn still to keep his mouth where he wanted it to be. After a while he said, "What now?"

"Lower," Finn said, pushing Hugh's head away, until –

" _What_?"

" _Himinn_ ," Finn muttered. " _English_. Do I have to open your mouth for you?"

"I –" Hugh wriggled down the bed. "Do you really mean – ?"

"I do. Only be – _ow._ " Finn breathed harder for a moment. " _Skítur_ ," he muttered. "All right. That's enough."

"Did I hurt you?" Hugh got up on his hands and knees.

"Yes, but it's my own fault. I forgot about that scrape on my belly, and your head's damn heavy. And – well, it happens. Or it doesn't, in this case." Finn chuckled. "Have you really never – done that?"

"Never." Hugh crawled up the bed and lay beside him. "It never occurred to me." After a moment he himself chuckled. "It wasn't in our local priest's penitential."

"Ah." Finn stretched, winced, and said, "It's in the Irish ones."

"I always knew the Irish were –"

Hugh's mouth was stopped by a slim hand. "Nobody says a word against the Irish to me."

"But you're not Irish – are you?"

A whisper of linen on linen as Finn rolled over. "My father was half Icelandic and half Danish. My mother was half Icelandic, half Irish noblewoman."

"I remember: you said your grandmother was Irish, once," Hugh said, trailing one finger up and down the sinews of Finn's throat. "How come?"

"She was a slave, one of the last in Iceland. Captured in a raid in some part of Éireann where the king's word didn't reach."

"Oh." Hugh lay still a moment. "I'm sorry."

Finn shrugged. "The way of this world." He lay still for a moment, and then said, "You didn't mean to let me stay here, did you?"

"No. Not when the evening started," Hugh admitted. "I never meant for – for any of this to happen, except that suddenly I wanted to, and it seemed the most natural thing in all the world."

"Yes," Finn said, a little sadly. "It always does, when it first occurs to you."

Hugh slid his fingers round Finn's throat. _So narrow. I could stop the breath in it with one hand_. "A story there?" he said, teasing gently.

"Yes; but not one I want to tell right now." Finn sighed. "Another time?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." They were lying face to face now. Hugh made as if to caress Finn's mouth, but drew back, remembering the blood and bruises. Finn, as if he hadn't noticed, slid his own hand across Hugh's chest to rest in the hollow of neck and shoulder, and laid his head on the pillow.

#

"How come you left Iceland? How come you went to Provence?" It was the middle of the night, but as usual after his first sleep Hugh was wide awake, and would be for a while yet.

"Is there any of that ale left?" Finn asked. "If there is, get me a cup of it, and I'll tell you."

"Not much left," Hugh said. "One cup."

"We'll share it." Finn took the cup from him as Hugh climbed back into bed. "So... I left Iceland for the first time when I was thirteen, and after that, twice a year." He drank some of the ale, and held the cup to Hugh's lips. "Here."

"Fighting?" Hugh asked, and swallowed, awkwardly because Finn was tipping the cup at the wrong angle.

"Trading," Finn said. "Or that was the reason, the first time. The last time, I knew it was for ever." The words came chill from his lips; he took another mouthful of ale, and for a long while said nothing else.

At last Hugh took his hand, and said, "Tell me more?"

Finn sighed. "The most natural thing in all the world, you said. That was how it was for Ari Einarsson and me. It's a wild place, Iceland, and you can think you're hidden, and still someone will spy on you. Hild Einarsdottir spied on us – Ari's half-sister – and there was a law case, and... to shorten a long story, I left the country and took the blame with me. Ari was the oldest son, so he had more to lose. I was a younger son of a second wife, and I was always going to be the wanderer."

#

### 1598-1602  
THE PEACOCK'S EYE

#### Jay Lewis Taylor

In a time of uncertainty – when sex and politics are almost indistinguishable and full of pitfalls for the unwary – Nick, Gabriel and Philip (Phip) must negotiate both their love-lives and their everyday lives with more than ordinary caution.

##### May 1598

After a few moments, Nick said, "If you feel – like that – about master Standage, why don't you come and lodge here with him?"

Gabriel licked crumbs off his lips, and said, "But I don't feel like that about him."

"Oh." That asked more questions than it answered, and Nick wasn't sure whether questions would be welcome. He said, "Ben Jonson came to the theatre yesterday, about that play he's writing."

"I saw him," Gabriel said. "He seemed to have a lot to say to you."

Nick pulled at the grass with the hand that wasn't holding a hunk of bread. "He was warning me against becoming anyone's ingle. Ganymede. _You_ know."

"I know." Gabriel chewed thoughtfully, and said, "Is that what you wanted when you came here?"

"It wasn't why I came here." Nick's mouth was dry; he took a swig of the beer. "I wouldn't mind if it happened. I think."

Gabriel raised one eyebrow. "If that's what you say, then you don't know what you're doing." He drank from his own mug, took a deep breath, and leaned closer. Nick made to edge away, but he was confiding rather than threatening. "The thing is about Ben Jonson, he loathes sodomites. He also loathes Puritans. But the Puritans loathe sodomites too, so Ben, bless his big boots, doesn't know which way to turn because he can't decide which he hates more. If he tells you there's sodomy in all directions – you'll need more than a pinch of salt before he can be believed, that's all."

"And – master Standage?" Nick said.

"You saw us together," Gabriel said, and smiled, looking into the distance. "Mostly, you know, a boy in the theatre, that likes men that way – well, he starts as an ingle. Ganymede, catamite, whatever you like to call it. Philip did, but Philip's different. Now he's older, he still takes that part. No, I don't feel 'like that' about him, but that's why I came to his bed. He's generous. He's kind, anyone'll tell you. Phip will put himself out for anyone – once he's awake. So now you know enough."

Nick made no reply; and after a long pause Gabriel said, "Or is there more?"

"What do you mean?"

Gabriel pulled the last of his bread apart, dipped it in the beer and said, "Do you want Philip?" before putting the sop in his mouth.

Nick hadn't thought of that, but now his skin tingled, and he wondered if he were blushing. He shrugged.

"You don't know what you're doing," Gabriel repeated softly. "Don't waste your time. If you want to be a player, all well and good; learn, learn, learn, and he'll teach you. He knows the craft. If you want to be Phip's ingle, leave now. He took no notice of me until I was a grown man."

##### February 1602

"Your memory for names is excellent, as I know already, and you do not need leading to remember them, which is more valuable."

"It makes me wonder that torture should ever be necessary," Philip said, only half-jesting.

"Some men's memories need a little assistance," Cecil said, calmly as if he were speaking of the weather. "But it is costly, and time-consuming; I prefer not." He was running one pale finger down a list of names. "Did it seem to you that Howard made any friend in particular?"

"The King smiled on him often enough," Philip said. "He stayed with Mar at first, and he was much about the King's favourites. But that may have been mere policy."

"There is a thing that they say of James, concerning – favourites." Cecil's eyes were on the paper before him.

"I know what you mean."

"Well?"

"I saw nothing, save that if you are a man in the Scottish court, the younger and better you are to look upon, the more likely you are to be – well-favoured."

#

### The 1850s  
THE WALLED GARDEN

#### F.M. Parkinson

William Ashton, frustrated by living in close proximity to his employer Edward Hillier – whom he loves, but who seems oblivious to his affection – is in London on business when he encounters a soldier in a park.

After a meal consumed in the small hotel recommended by the cab driver, Ashton armed himself with _The London Conductor_ , a guidebook for visitors, and strolled out along the busy pavements of the Haymarket, casting an amused eye over what he presumed were those in the forefront of fashion. There was nothing to equal them in the rural backwater of South Pennerton, and Hillier himself was more concerned with sober attire and clean linen than the colour and patterning of his waistcoat. Without doubt, Ashton thought, his own lack of sartorial splendour marked him out as the country visitor he was, the low-crowned hat he wore in preference to more fashionable headgear confirming the fact.

Fashionable or not, he received as much attention from one quarter as did many of the other men walking along the street. In this respect, he realised with some irony, the centre of the metropolis differed little from the streets and waterfronts of the many foreign ports into which he had sailed. Even in this most exclusive of areas, or perhaps because of it, it was an easy matter to buy the services of a woman, for they stood in doorways or walked slowly along the pavements, their manner and the look in their eyes proclaiming them for what they were, prepared to sell themselves to any man willing to pay for his pleasure.

Perhaps he, too, thought Ashton with self-mockery, should avail himself of the opportunity presented so brazenly. In a country town such as South Pennerton, these possibilities were not easily come by, gossip a deterrent to would-be transgressors. Not that it was impossible to find a willing female if needs became desperate; it was simply that he preferred certain other pleasures, ones that were not so obviously on offer in the streets of London.

The problem, his thoughts continued to voice themselves, was that what he really wished for, would give everything for – his mind made a mental sweep of all pleasures, both past and present, available to him – would never be possible. He therefore decided to appreciate what was offered to him here, to try and find some relief from the longing that was tormenting him.

In a perverse mood nevertheless, he ignored the blandishments of the women and walked on till he reached Piccadilly, its broad thoroughfare stretching away westwards towards the newer suburbs of the metropolis. Consulting his guide once more, he decided upon walking to Hyde Park and the mansion wherein the Iron Duke had lived when in Town.

By the time he had reached the entrance to the Park, the traffic had thinned, a few riders making their way in the direction he had taken, other carts or carriages bound for Kensington and beyond. Pausing to admire the large stone mansion at the edge of the Park and the late owner's equestrian figure atop the great arch giving entrance to the Green Park on the opposite side of Piccadilly, he then left the roadway, passing under the Ionic Screen entrance to Hyde Park and strode along a path through the greenery.

It was a pleasant day, the breeze preventing it from becoming over-warm, and for Ashton it was pleasurable to be amongst trees again. It surprised him to discover that he felt so comfortable now in such a pastoral setting, but then he had lived and worked in the open air for a number of years and had come to enjoy the outdoor life he had led. At this moment he sought solitude, turning away from the townsfolk exercising their mounts or passing the time of day with one another from their carriages, and struck out towards a more overgrown area of the parkland, the trees and bushes uncontrolled by human agency. Some distance off, a woman made as if to approach him but he ignored her, surmising that by her manner she was undoubtedly one of the women who found the Park as profitable an area in which to work as the streets of the West End.

Intent on following the track that, he reasoned, might bring him out on the far side of the Park, Ashton was well out of sight of the main thoroughfare when a man stepped out from the bushes onto the pathway ahead of him. The secretary halted abruptly, alert for any sound that might indicate the fellow had accomplices. It would be an easy matter here to carry out an attack upon an unwary citizen, rob his person of any valuables he carried and dispose of the body amongst the thick undergrowth where it might lie undetected for months. If that were the intention, Ashton reflected with grim determination, he would sell his life dearly. Not for the first time would he be defending himself against violent assault; the years of hard living had given him abilities in such a situation few ordinary citizens might be expected to possess.

Prepared for an onslaught, the secretary glanced around him, listening intently for any further sound, his task made more difficult by the breeze that rustled the leaves and branches. No attack came, however, nor did the man ahead of him move. Indeed, he gave the impression of being somewhat wary of Ashton, making no attempt to approach him. By his dress he seemed to be one of the lower orders.

As an impasse appeared to have been reached, Ashton broke the silence, calling out, "Well, fellow, what do you want with me?"

Glancing around him nervously, the man said in a loud voice, "It's me as c'n 'elp you, sir, if yer wishes it."

"Oh indeed? And in what manner can you help me?" asked the secretary, still alert to counter any attempted attack upon his person.

The man seemed disconcerted by the question and at a loss for words. He looked around him again as if seeking inspiration from some invisible source. "Gen'lemen allus comes 'ere when they wants 'elp... an' is willin'... to pay fer it. But if yer not, sir, I begs yer pardon, an' no 'arm done." He made as if to retreat back into the foliage lining the pathway.

"Wait!" commanded Ashton, taking a few steps forward. The man halted. Staring at him, Ashton could see he did not appear to be armed, though that was no surety the would-be assailant did not carry a knife about his person. "If it's your intention to rob me, then think again before you make so rash a move. It'll be the worse for you, I promise."

"Oh no, sir," the man grew quite agitated, "not at all, I'm no robber, sir. I serve 'Er Majesty: taken 'er shillin', an' wot I c'n earn... other ways."

Intrigued now, Ashton asked, "You said that gentlemen come here when they need help. What did you mean?" He walked nearer to the soldier, who watched his approach with wary eyes. He was a young man, Ashton noted, not uncomely, and to the secretary's surprise, his clothes and person appeared to be remarkably clean, although the garments were worn and mended in places. Nor did he seem to be carrying a knife or other weapon, to Ashton's reassurance. Remembering times in his own life when he had been glad to earn a few extra shillings, Ashton decided to humour the young man, instead of, as he had first intended, marching him back, by force if necessary, to a more frequented area before allowing him out of his sight.

"What did you mean?" he repeated, coming closer.

The soldier hesitated. "Some gen'lemen," he said at last, "wan' services done for 'em. I does 'em."

"Such as?" prompted the secretary, taking a firm grip on the man's coat-sleeve as he became more nervous at every question. He seemed to be torn between escaping before he could be asked further questions and staying in the hope of eventually earning some money. Greed won out over caution and he made no attempt to break free from the hold on his arm.

"Depen's, sir," he prevaricated. "Now supposin' you wan'ed a moll; I could get yer one."

"I don't need your help in finding a woman," said Ashton, "there are enough on every street corner in this part of the city."

"Or," continued the soldier, his tone becoming sly and confidential, "I could do summit about it if yer didn'." He squinted sideways at Ashton, bracing himself for an attempt to beat a rapid retreat if he found he had totally misjudged the situation.

A glimmer of understanding caused Ashton to ask, "You mean, if I were to say to you, I need a certain sort of help, and I don't want the services of a whore, you would do that for me?"

There was a silence. The soldier cast an anxious look about him. "I'm a poor man, sir. A soldier's pay don' go far; an extra bit's allus welcome. But there's some thin's I won' do."

Almost sure now, Ashton said, "Then what would you do? If I were to ask you, that is."

"I... c'n bring you off, sir," the young man said, all of a rush.

"Ahh." Ashton's body tensed involuntarily at the words, then relaxed, his nerves sending prickles of feeling through him in anticipation. He had not misread the soldier's intent. Fleetingly he thought of the body he could not have and closed his mind. He wished for relief and whether by a woman or this young man in need of extra money, he would have it; to be touched intimately by another man's hands was preferable.

"And what would you charge for such a... service?" he added after a short pause.

A meagre enough sum indeed, thought Ashton as the soldier named his fee, considering the risks the man was taking. As for himself, he would take pleasure when and where the opportunity presented itself, even though he had to pay for it; it was little different from buying many another service.

"I accept," he said, handing over a part of the sum of money agreed upon as a sign of good faith, "but let us remove ourselves to somewhere more discreet. A room, perhaps? I'm sure you know of something suitable."

#

### 1896  
ALWAYS WITH US

#### Morgan Cheshire

Harrison Calderwood befriends Daniel Harper – a widower with a young son, Joseph. Unknown to each other they both yearn for a deeper relationship, and eventually the tension between them reaches a point where something really must be said.

After lunch, they walked slowly in the direction of Dale Street and the business quarter, cutting through the old cemetery close by St George's Hall.

Although the city traffic was only a few yards away it felt peaceful within the churchyard. There were no new monuments to be seen; no-one had been buried there for over forty years. The area around the century-old church was well kept, but beyond that long grass swayed in the breeze.

"Let's sit down for a moment," suggested Harrison, indicating a bench in a particularly delightful location under a wild cherry in full bloom.

The interruption to their progress gave Daniel reason for misgivings; Harrison had seemed much stronger over lunch, but he was still a long way from being the hale and robust man he had been a few months earlier, and this sudden weakness was cause for concern. "Are you feeling quite all right?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Daniel; I just want to talk to you privately, and this seemed like a good enough place. Sit down, please."

Daniel sat on the bench beside him, but it was a few seconds after that before Harrison spoke. "Daniel, your friendship is one of the most important things in my life, and I really don't want to lose it." He paused there, seeming to reach for some inner resource of courage before continuing. "I never seem to have the words to tell you how I truly feel."

Daniel took an unsteady breath. So this was the moment, the one that he had half been hoping for and half dreading, and now that it had arrived it seemed that he was not nearly as self-conscious or embarrassed as he had thought he might be.

"Then _I'll_ tell _you_ ," he said, deciding it was best to be direct, whatever the likely consequences might be. "When we're apart, the only thing that makes life worth living at all is Joseph. When we're together... I find I can't say any of the things I want to say or do any of the things I want to do. That's why I must go away, Harry; this awful situation is killing me inside."

Harrison raised a hand, as though to stop him speaking. "Do you remember meeting Miss Weston that night you came to dinner?" he said into the sudden silence.

Thrown off-balance by the abrupt change of direction, Daniel searched his memory. It had been a long time ago, but nevertheless he managed to recall her face to mind. "Yes. Yes, I do remember her." What he remembered most of all, however, was her air of confident ownership regarding Harrison.

"Well," continued his friend, slowly, "her brother James went to France after Wilde was arrested. He isn't over there studying, as his family would have everyone believe; he's gone there to avoid the law. He would have been liable for prosecution if he'd remained in England, and I'm afraid he would not have been able to make much of a defence. Now, James is one of my best friends; I've long been aware of his preferences, and in fact he's made it very clear on more than one occasion that he was attracted to me. I'm fond of him, of course, but I'm afraid I found it both necessary and desirable to turn him down."

"Yes, of course," said Daniel, numbly. It was even worse than he had thought, this cool, gentle, detailed explanation of why it was quite impossible... why it would always be impossible...

"You see," said Harrison, "I never felt towards him one quarter of the feelings that I feel towards you."

Astounded, Daniel stared at him. "You do realise what you're saying, don't you?"

Harrison remained calm, and his gaze remained level. "I'm telling you the truth," he said. "Nothing more, and nothing less."

"And if it turns out that I'm not like James? That I'm not that sort at all?"

"Well, then, I would just have to accept it, and hope that you were still willing to be my friend now that you know how I feel."

Daniel scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, his whole body shaking in reaction. "You bloody well don't make life easy for yourself, do you, Harry?" he exclaimed, somewhere between exasperation and delight.

"I take it that question is rhetorical?" returned Harrison, mildly.

Daniel ignored the comment, wanting to be absolutely certain what he was hearing. "Let me get this clear," he began. "Because it sounded to me very much as if you want us to have a..." He hesitated again before putting into words what he had dreamed of for so long. "... a closer... relationship... ?" For Heaven's sake, even language seemed to be conspiring against him now! Was this even the right way to describe it? How could there ever be any appropriate words for describing something that most people wouldn't even dare to name?

Turning slightly toward Daniel, Harrison held out his hand. "Yes," was all he said – and really, no more was needed.

Daniel took his hand briefly, then released it. "Do you realise you've put yourself completely in my power?" he asked, shakily.

Harrison smiled at this. "As a lawyer, I'm bound to point out that you have no witnesses," he said. "It would be your word against mine."

"You know better than that," rallied Daniel. "Unfortunately there are witnesses everywhere – otherwise I would just kiss you now and be done with it."

#

### 1916  
BETWEEN NOW AND THEN

#### Adam Fitzroy

Falling through an anomaly in time from the 1990s, football fans Dennis and Allan find themselves living the lives of two First World War soldiers whose intense love-affair is a vivid contrast to their own casual enmity.

The room was lighter when Dennis next awoke, and the sounds of the barrage had died away to nothing. One bird sang in the hostel garden, such a plaintive little tune that if anyone had ever wanted to set words to it they would have needed to be unbearably sad. It was a song of separation, if ever he'd heard one; winter was closing in upon them, and from now on the poor thing would always be alone.

At his side Allan was just beginning to stir, his head turning on the thin pillow; they had made a tragic mess of this bed with their efforts during the night, but had somehow managed to bring the rough woollen blankets up around themselves and cut out the worst of the chills and draughts, and had therefore been surprisingly warm. Or maybe it was proximity and the aftermath of a bout of vigorous exercise which had accounted for that.

Dennis extracted himself carefully, doing his best not to wake his companion, but all his efforts proved to have been fruitless when Allan shifted in the bed and spoke to him.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, raising himself up onto one elbow and fixing Dennis with what – even in the pre-dawn gloom – could have been described as an accusatory stare.

"I should do, shouldn't I?" Dennis asked him, frankly. "The longer I leave it, the more difficult it's going to be to sneak out of here unseen. The girl in the kitchen – Marguerite – starts work really early, doesn't she?"

"Well, maybe she'll be late today," suggested Allan, the note of pleading in his voice almost matching that of the lonely singer in the garden. "And maybe she wouldn't tell on you if she saw you, anyway; I've always had the notion she seemed like rather a good sport."

Dennis thought about that for a moment.

"Listen, if we got caught together it would be embarrassing for you, but it would almost certainly be a lot worse for me. You're an officer, you can always talk your way out of things – you can blame it on your nerves and get yourself sent away to a nice comfortable hospital somewhere to be cured – but you know bloody well that the same thing wouldn't happen to me, especially if the powers that be decided they were going to deal with it as mutiny or desertion..."

"I know, and I honestly do appreciate your point of view," said Allan, soothingly. "Although it's not as if either of us ever had a realistic chance of getting home in one piece anyway, is it? I'm afraid you and I have pretty much seen the last of 'England, home and beauty' for a while – at least for this campaign, anyway."

"I understand that," responded Dennis. "But what I'm really trying to say is this; if ever I do have to be shot at dawn, I'd very much prefer it to be by the enemy rather than our own side – that is, if you don't object too much!"

"Yes, of course," was the more subdued reply. "And I'm very sorry; I really should have thought of that myself."

A few minutes later, Allan was sitting up against the head rail of the bed with the pillow squashed behind him, smoking thoughtfully and watching as Dennis rinsed his face and hands in the water from the jug. He had half-contemplated a trip into the adjacent bathroom, but that had felt too much like courting discovery so he'd opted instead for making use of the traditional chamber pot under the bed, and washing himself in cold water before carefully sponging his uniform. By trench standards this was tantamount to luxury in any case, and although he would not have time to shave he would certainly be as presentable as a great many of his comrades. Whatever some of the stuffier and more regimented regular officers had to say on the subject – and it was all right for them, they had batmen and servants to help them to maintain their appearance! – in the front line it didn't much matter what a man looked like as long as he was able to do his job. Nevertheless Dennis had borrowed a comb and slicked his hair down with water, and was even now climbing carefully back into his uniform.

"You'll go out through the garden, I suppose, will you?" asked Allan. "I presume that was how you got in?"

"Safer than trying to get that front gate open," said Dennis. "You know how it squeaks, it'd wake up everybody in the street. No, I'll climb out over the roof of the potting-shed, drop down into the baker's yard, and go out that way."

"They'll be working in there this morning," Allan reminded him soberly.

"I know; I promise I'll be careful. With a bit of luck I should be able to get out as far as the street without anybody seeing me, and I shouldn't have too much trouble making my way back to my unit from there. As for you – well, you really ought to go back to sleep for a while, if you can possibly manage it."

But Allan was shaking his head. "Not a chance," he replied decisively. "I'll wait until after you've gone, then I'll sort everything out and pack up my belongings ready to leave. No point in hanging about, after all, is there?"

"I suppose not." Dennis was buttoning his tunic, smoothing it down, checking that he had everything he was supposed to have. "Do you reckon we'll ever see each other again, then?" he asked. "It would be a bloody shame if not."

Allan shrugged, crushing out his cigarette. "Then I suppose it may have to be a bloody shame," he allowed, "although anything's possible. It's hopeless to try to predict what might happen. I wish we could, though; I wish we could spend more time together – and perhaps not all of it in bed."

"I don't imagine we'd have much in common if it wasn't for that, do you?" said Dennis, his mouth twisting wryly. "What would the two of us ever find to talk about, for a start? We're from completely different worlds – well, different classes, at any rate."

"Perhaps," acknowledged Allan. "Although it would be nice to have the chance to find out. Now," he added, swarming up out of the bed, naked and pale in the bedroom's pre-dawn light, "I hope you're going to behave like a proper gentleman and kiss me goodbye? And I'm not just talking about a quick peck on the cheek, thank you very much; I trust you to make a better job of it than that."

"All right."

Dennis did his best to make this seem like grudging capitulation, but in reality he could think of very few things he'd rather do. They hadn't spoken much about affection – there hadn't really been time, and anyway it had felt out of place somehow – but for all the urgency of their encounter there had also been a degree of tenderness between them. Kissing this man, therefore, would present him with very little of a problem; it was not as if he'd never actually done it before.

Settling his hands on Allan's bare shoulders, he was surprised to discover how warm he was – or how cold he was himself – and pulled him closer, his hands sliding easily down to Allan's waist and further still, over skin that was smooth and silky and seemed to sing beneath his fingers.

"I could quite easily have you again right now," he confided, ardently.

"I'm sure you could, darling," came the all-too-knowing response, "and I could quite cheerfully let you, but perhaps we ought to save it for another time?"

And Dennis, startled by what appeared to have been a thoroughly misplaced endearment, could think of nothing better to do at the moment than to stop him speaking, to make this no more difficult than it must be already by closing his mouth in the most effective manner possible. Allan's lips beneath his were warm and yielding and Allan – tall by most standards but not quite Dennis's equal – was as quiescent in his arms as any swooning moving-picture heroine, and perhaps for the first time Dennis understood that this might not simply be about sex after all. He had never really considered that it had anything to do with romance, or possibly even with love, yet if this was indeed the case he could be walking away not merely from a casual acquaintance with whom he'd shared a night of pleasure, but from someone who could – had the circumstances been conducive – have turned out to be the love of his life.

In any event, it would be better not to think about it. Too great a consciousness of what he might be losing, and he would not be able to leave at all. That was the way they all learned to feel eventually, once they got up as far as the front line; they were fighting for the future of whatever they held most dear – family, country, freedom – but it did not do to clasp it too close to one's heart when there was a job of work to be done. In time, perhaps, the men who survived the war would return and take up the threads of their lives again, and then they would be able to enjoy all the benefits of their own and their comrades' sacrifices. For now, however, such delights as those which Allan represented were probably best to be kept firmly at arm's length and not thought of in any detail for a while.

"Another time," Dennis acknowledged, as he ended the kiss. "But I'm going to have to leave you now, I'm afraid; I've got work to do today, and so have you."

"Yes, of course – but I'll watch you from the window as you go, if you wouldn't mind."

"All right." And then, because there was nothing remotely the equivalent of 'goodbye' that Dennis could ever have said to this man with a clear conscience, or that would not have caused him to falter in his duty more than he had already, he said the only thing that he could think of that he could still mean with all his heart. "I'm sorry," he told Allan, more brusquely than he meant to, and left the room without even once succumbing to the temptation of looking back.

#

### 1928  
ELEVENTH HOUR

#### Elin Gregory

Briers Allerdale, secret agent, is undercover and living as a couple with female impersonator Miles Siward – a situation he finds awkward, to say the least. Fortunately, however, he encounters someone willing to help relieve the frustration he's experiencing.

Briers scoured the East End, Limehouse, Wapping and Deptford, asking leading questions but mostly relying on his eyes. His greatest advantage was he knew Andrija by sight but Andrija did not know him, and he was confident he would spot the bastard even if he was disguised. There was something about being shot at that fixed a face in one's mind.

But it was frustrating. Day after day he left for work, changed his clothing into rough workman's wear, then roamed the back streets and alleys. It was boring and lonely, but familiar. Having someone to go home to was unfamiliar but oddly enjoyable. But for now, he decided he needed a little rest and recreation, mostly to prevent himself from reliving his constant imaginings of Miles, warm at his side in bed, or better yet, hot, under him in bed. And there was one place above all where he knew he would find what he sought.

The Grange Road Turkish baths in Bermondsey were not the largest or most salubrious but they catered well to a certain clientele. Briers paid his shillings, collected his towels and a locker key, and set about relieving himself of both his clothing and some of his frustrations. Ten minutes or so in the steam room got some of the stress-induced kinks out of his shoulders and at least one promising approach, but Briers had never been one for public performance. He murmured a polite refusal and suggested perhaps later might be better and they parted without rancour. Shampooing and massage left Briers relaxed and a little sleepy but still eager to see what diversions offered themselves. He ordered light ale from a steward and took a rattan chair to read a Daily Mirror someone had abandoned on a table. There was nothing of note in the paper, but the view over the top of it was pretty as half a dozen chorus boys between engagements posed and bickered, casting long glances in his direction to ensure he was appreciating them. A couple of businessmen, pale and paunchy, wedding rings glinting, pored over the same copy of the Financial Times. They ignored everyone apart from each other and Briers wasn't surprised to see them go into the same cubicle and draw the curtain. The steward brought his ale. Briers sipped it, wondering if one of the chorus boys might be brave enough to do more than look. There was a blond one, willowy and sharp-faced, who turned and allowed his towel to slip a little. Briers grinned, enjoying the flash of pink flesh and damp dark hair, and the boy smiled at Briers taking a step in his direction.

"I'm sorry I'm late." A chilly hand on Briers's shoulder made him start. "The meeting went on forever. Is that beer? Steward – two more, please."

Briers glared. "Behrend," he murmured.

"Oh please." Falk lay back on the next chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He smiled at Briers and continued his conversation in Czech. "The current name is Bauer. Conrad Bauer, though you may still call me Falk for old times' sake. Cigarette?"

The silver case glinted in the dim light, half filled with Turkish cigarettes, the inscription partially obscured. Briers remembered buying it and the time he had spent trying to think of a suitable sentiment – one that would express his feelings while not giving too much away if it was seen. Falk hadn't changed much: still fine-boned, still smiling, his blond hair damped close to his skull, his eyes amused and acute, his nipples still the exact same shade as his lips.

"No, thank you." Briers reached for his tobacco pouch.

"Ah, you still smoke that terrible pipe. Well, no matter." Cigarette lit, Falk licked his lips and blew a smoke ring towards the chorus boys.

Gritting his teeth, Briers waited until the steward had brought their drinks and endured Falk's chaffing when the man asked if he could get them anything else.

"A sense of humour, perhaps?" Falk suggested. "And some privacy. We have a lot to discuss and," Falk dropped his voice to a murmur, "I'm sure my friend would prefer to do that in private."

He got up offering a hand to Briers, who ignored it and stood, casting a regretful glance at the chorus boy.

The cubicle was small, dark and dank, a reasonable reflection of Briers's mood. Falk put his glass on the table and turned smiling. "You don't look very pleased to see me," he murmured.

Beyond the partition curtain, Briers could hear the regular creak of a bed and occasional moans.

"Not displeased," he insisted. "Not if you're in London just to sightsee and enjoy the baths."

Falk snorted. "As if men of our profession are ever anywhere just for pleasure. Though I admit it did give me a frisson when I saw you again."

He pushed sweat-dampened hair back from his brow and took a pace toward Briers. "I'm here on the same business you are – Andrija. For the same reason – to kill Andrija. And to find out why certain persons of interest have left home."

"Who?" Despite himself, Briers was interested. Intelligence had been slow coming in from the continent.

"Hmmm, I'll do my best to remember. But in the meantime I see no reason why we can't have some fun."

Briers looked Falk over, from the knowing smirk to the dusting of hair across his chest then down to the rise at the front of his towel, and sighed. Every night he had spent listening to Miles's soft breathing had been filled with heated imaginings. Now here was Falk, heat personified, and a huge temptation, apparently intent on exchanging information for personal services.

"Briers? Remember the coffee house in Belgrade. That upstairs room. Pulling the mattress onto the floor so we could really spread out."

"Oh, Christ." Briers groaned and closed the space between them. Falk's mouth was open even before their lips touched, grabbing greedy kisses as they pushed the towels aside and Briers took a double handful of Falk's arse. Falk hummed with pleasure and slid his hand between them taking both hot hard pricks in a firm grip. "How do you want it?" Falk grinned. "Standing or kneeling? Or I can bend over the bed."

Briers looked down and ran his fingertips over both prick heads, smearing the slickness. "Bend over," he ordered.

#

### Early 1942  
UNDER LEADEN SKIES

#### Sandra Lindsey

Max, the narrator, is serving in the RAF, where he's had a brief but doomed affair with another man; meanwhile his former lover Huw, a miner, remains at home in Wales. When they eventually do manage to spend a little time together, nothing is remotely straightforward...

Mine and Huw's days off had coincided enough that I'd arranged to stay overnight at his family home, even though that meant arriving on the last train and sleeping top-to-tail with Huw in the room he shared with two brothers. I can't tell you what torture that night was – to lie so close yet not daring to let even a whisper of my excitement escape. A poorer night's rest was never had as I feared what secrets might slip through my lips while dreaming, so I strove to stay constantly one step away from what seemed imminent disaster.

Needless to say, as soon as Huw's brothers rose and left the house, I fell straight into a deep and unbreakable sleep. Huw woke me a couple of hours later with a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

I shrugged myself into a sitting position, the thin blankets pulled up to my waist, and smiled as I took my breakfast from him. "Thanks, my love," I said, but he frowned and turned away.

I put down the cup and plate and laid my fingers lightly on Huw's shirt-sleeve, trying to ignore his flinch. "What's wrong, pet?" I'd picked up all sorts of endearments from overhearing colleagues on the telephone to wives and girlfriends, and they now littered my speech, along with colloquialisms that would have earned me detention or worse had I uttered them at school.

"That," he replied gruffly, followed by something in Welsh that I couldn't translate.

"Sorry, Huw," I whispered. "I thought I spoke quietly enough."

He brushed my hand from his arm and growled. "You did, and we're alone in the house anyway. That's not what I mean."

Kneeling on the bed, I moved closer to him and tried to draw him into my arms but he shifted away, leaving me to look like a chilly lovelorn fool: kneeling, dressed in nothing but my pyjama bottoms, despite the nip in the air, and reaching towards him.

I let my arms drop and slumped. "If you don't want me, I wish you'd told me before I wasted my leave coming down here," I told him, anger bubbling into my tone. I felt a sudden rage at all of life's unfairness: at the war and our duties that separated us, at society's strictures that prevented us from speaking openly by telephone or letter, at the known enemy who'd taken Huw's mam and my Cheeks, the people close to us in whom we had confided. I wanted to scream in frustration at the faceless bad luck which had put Huw in hospital, and also at myself for not being the man society – and I – expected.

"Don't be a clod," he retorted. He whipped his head round to glare at me. I waited for him to say something more, but instead he reached for my hair, pulled me to him and crushed the breath from me with a fierce embrace and passionate kiss. "Still think I don't want you?" he panted, holding me now at arm's length.

My nerves were too shaken by the sudden changes in mood that all I could do was shake my head. This earned me a scowl and he pulled me across himself so that I straddled his lap, our chests touching each time we breathed in. I saw in his eyes a world of hurt and bewilderment, and wondered what he saw in mine.

"I want you, Max," he pulled me tight against him and breathed his words in my ear, "ever since the lime kilns, it's been no one but you for me."

"But?" I prompted in a murmur.

"Have you heard yourself recently, Max?" I felt him rest his forehead on my shoulder. "It's all 'Jem this' and 'Jem that' and 'after the war, if Jem and I both get through'... I could bear it, Max, if it were just for the war... but I thought that after... when you said I could live with you..."

Hearing from him my own words and how they had been heard, I understood and wrapped my arms about him and turned my head to kiss the skin between his dark hair and white collar. "God, Huw, I'm sorry. I am a clod, a complete and utter idiot. I like Jem, and I truly think you'll like him too, but he's strictly a ladies' man."

"Oh?" He lifted his head and searched my face for signs I was speaking the truth. "You're not... ?"

I shook my head, smiling with relief that the problem went no deeper than a misunderstanding. "No, Huw, I'm not – even though the man looks like a god of the silver screen. I've been trying to work out how to introduce him to Sylvia."

"Oh!"

"Quite," I grinned. "Why should she be condemned to a life of misery? Aren't all women terribly keen on chaps who look like movie stars?"

In answer, Huw kissed me again, more languid this time but with no less depth of passion. I felt my shaft rising to press against his belly, and as he responded in kind I held him tight and rubbed against him, Huw's trousers and underwear proving no more effective as a barrier to stimulation than my own state of undress. Rumbles of pleasure echoed from his chest to mine, but his hands moved down to grasp and still my hips.

He lifted me off him, laid me on the narrow bed and crawled on top of me. As he knelt between my legs, kissing my lips, jaw, throat, chest, and running one hand through my hair, with his other he untied my pyjamas and shoved them down to my knees. His firm grip encased my cock and he returned to lavishing deep kisses on my mouth, rocking his hips so that his hidden erection brushed my balls.

From previous experience, I expected he would soon leave my mouth to dive down and suck my cock into the warm embrace of his mouth, and my heart sped up in anticipation. His lips left mine and his hand slipped from my cock to fondle my balls. I gasped in time with his strokes, my eyes closed and arms looped loosely about my lover.

"Max," he rumbled, his choir-trained voice pitched to a register one felt more than heard. "Max," he repeated, his hands stuttering to a halt. My eyes still closed, I felt him kneel up, run his hands over my body sprawled beneath him, and then his weight pressed me against the mattress as he laid full length on me, hands clasping my shoulders and his mouth once more by my ear.

"Max," he breathed again, his low tone causing a shiver to run through me, "we have the house to ourselves."

"Mm-hmm," I replied, trying to pull him back in for another kiss, and when that failed, trying to wriggle my hand into his trousers, "so let's stop wasting time."

"Yes. Max," he said, sounding impatient, "there's something... something I've wondered about..."

"Yes?" I squeezed my eyes, keeping them closed, trying to figure out how to make my man stop talking and start doing. In wordless reply, he drew his legs up under me so I lay splayed against him, sparking thoughts and desires I didn't dare hope he implied. One of his hands drifted from my shoulder and down my side to wriggle under my behind. When his finger pressed between my cheeks, my eyes flew open and I grasped his forearm. "Seriously, Huw? Is that what you want?"

His face tightened and his shoulders tensed. "Sorry," he mumbled, tugging his hand out from under me. "I thought..."

"No, no!" I cried, knowing he'd misunderstood me. "God, Huw, there's nothing I think I'd like more than you buried inside me. Just... I wasn't expecting... Why?"

"Why not? I... we've both had close calls. Some men are willing to risk prison for it – why not us? If chance turns against us, would we regret not being as close as could be?"

"Hell, Huw, you know I adore you. How much time do we have?"

"I don't know," he admitted, then grinned. "Adds to the excitement, no?"

I laughed, feeling blind-sided and out-manoeuvred. "Grab my bag," I told him, "wrapped up in my spare socks."

It didn't take him long to find what I intended him to amongst my sparsely-packed overnight bag, and he held up the small pot with raised eyebrows. "Do this often, do you?"

"Live in hope? Always," I smiled at him, kicking my pyjamas fully off my legs so that I lay naked on his bed.

#

### 1942  
MAKE DO AND MEND

#### Adam Fitzroy

Harry, who has always acknowledged his sexuality, has fallen for the much more cautious Jim. They've shared a bed before, for the sake of convenience – but now, when at last they have a chance to further their relationship, the Luftwaffe has decided to bomb Liverpool...

"We've missed each other, haven't we? We should at least spend the night together, now that you're here." But even in a lowered tone this remark was still too forthright for Jim's delicate sensibilities, and a flush of red raced along his cheekbones.

"Harry..."

"All right, I'm sorry, that wasn't fair. Look, let's go upstairs – we'll be able to hear ourselves think up there, and nobody will give a damn what we're talking about."

"Very well." Meekly Jim rose to his feet and, picking up his overcoat and soft felt hat, followed Harry through the door into the backstage area of the pub, past the busy kitchen and the door to the cellar steps, along the cold dark hall to the foot of the stairs. It was quieter there, more private, and Harry reached out to take Jim's hand again and squeeze it affectionately in both his own.

"There's no need to be afraid, you know. I admit this sort of thing isn't really supposed to happen – it never is, between men – but believe me it does, all the bloody time, and you soon learn to treat it with respect."

There were footsteps above them, a door opening and closing.

"Come on." Harry pulled Jim after him, still holding his hand, ignoring the voice in his head that insisted he was seventeen kinds of fool.

"Going the wrong way," Mrs Broadhurst called from the parlour doorway. Polly, who stayed there out of the way during opening hours, was at her side. "Siren's just gone, didn't you hear it? You should be heading for the cellar."

"Oh. No." Momentarily Harry's brain was frozen, its gears refusing to mesh, and then inspiration provided what was probably the only credible reason for heading upstairs when everybody else was heading down. "Fire-watching!" he exclaimed. "My friend's never seen a fire; we'll go up to the roof and watch the fun from there."

"Just as you like, dear." Mrs B. plainly didn't believe a word of it but was content to let the lie pass muster. "I'll see you in the morning." She went on downstairs without a backward glance, and they continued to the attic.

#

Harry dragged Jim into the bedroom and closed the door behind them, his hand staying firmly away from the switch. The window was a black oval beyond which not a light was showing except the sickle-blade of the moon; whatever stars might be present were hiding behind piled-up clouds, whose edges were sometimes briefly visible before vanishing again from sight.

"Not ideal bombing conditions," Jim observed, glancing out. "Although I suppose that doesn't mean they won't come."

"No, but we'll be ready if they do." There was stilted silence for a moment, and then Harry slid an arm comfortably around his friend's slender waist. Slowly, but without hesitation, Jim's arm snaked around his shoulders and they remained there, standing side by side, staring out across the inky sky towards the river.

"You must understand, Harry, I've never in my life..."

"I do understand, Jim, of course I do; that's why I've been so careful not to push you into anything you might not be ready for. I couldn't even tell if what you felt for me was anything like I'd begun to feel for you, but at least I recognised that for what it was; thank goodness I had a smattering of experience to call on!"

At his side, Jim laughed hollowly. "I wish I had. You'd expect a man in his forties to have made some attempt to work things out for himself, wouldn't you? But I made a false start some time ago and I've been running to catch up ever since. I've managed to miss out on most of the usual rites of passage somehow – never kissed a girl, for one thing, or a boy either; it wasn't anything I even cared about until you came along, and then I started to think... Well, if there ever was going to be anyone, I would rather like it to be you." Harry's arm tightened around his waist but he made no attempt to interrupt the flow of Jim's narrative. "Of course I've been afraid of things like this all my life, and my only attempt at a romantic relationship was doomed before it ever got off the ground, but Julius – the friend I was visiting – reminded me that now, with the war..." He stopped, seeming to gather his thoughts only with difficulty. "He said ' _carpe diem_ '. He said... 'You're a long time dead, and I think I ought to know.'"

From somewhere low and very far away came the sullen sound of aircraft, as all-pervading as the throb of pain and equally impossible to ignore.

"Well, he's right about that; I learned the hard way – 'now' is all there ever is. If there's a chance of being happy you have to grab it and hold on with both hands because there may not be another. We've both lost people we cared about, haven't we? No doubt we'll lose more before this lot's over and done with, too."

"That was just what Julius said, and it made me realise – if anything happened to you, I might have years ahead of me to regret not having been a little bit bolder when I had the chance."

"I've been thinking the same about you, Jim, God knows; wishing that perhaps the last time we shared your bed... Only I was so grateful to you for everything you'd done to help me that it seemed wrong to suggest it. I've regretted that I didn't, ever since." Harry wondered if maybe he was talking too much; it was awkward, feeling sure of himself when the man he was with was clearly quite unnerved, but then when he thought about the Wren he had consoled back at Fortress it struck him that talking endless soothing rubbish was probably his defining characteristic. In the circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Hywel Vaughn thought he would make an effective broadcaster!

"I'm glad you didn't," answered Jim fervently. "I would probably have run a mile; I wasn't ready for it then. But now... I don't know what's different or why, I can only tell you that it is. If you asked me now, I wouldn't run away from you – and that was why I bought that extra ticket, and it was the reason I stayed on the train. I need to know, once and for all, who I really am; I need you to show me, if you can. That is... if you'd be so kind." It was a hopeless request that seemed to expect none but a negative response.

"Dear man, you didn't need to ask," was the confident reply. "I hoped if only I could hang on long enough there might be a chance for us eventually, but it's been such a long wait." And Harry turned his face up towards Jim's, pulling him closer, and the kiss happened somehow although he was never sure exactly how; at any rate Jim's lips were cool and dry against his, tentative in the extreme, and then there was a long deep plunge into awkward enthusiasm and something that might have been desperation. "You see?" Harry demanded, as they drew apart. "There weren't any thunderbolts, were there? The sky didn't fall in on us!"

"It still could." The sound of engines was closer now, increasing, powerful and imperative. "Wouldn't that be divine retribution, of a sort?" There was a shocked quality to Jim's tone, although he was clearly making an effort to be calm.

"Those? Don't worry about them, they're ours."

"How can you tell?"

"Engine note; those are Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, which probably makes them Hurricanes – and they're heading east, which no doubt means Manchester."

Jim shook his head slowly in disbelief. "Next you'll be telling me what the pilots had for breakfast and what colour socks they're wearing."

"Scrambled eggs," said Harry. "Black." He kissed Jim again – and this time he was certain of having commenced it, and just as certain of the avidity of Jim's reaction; it was as if all their bridges had been crossed at once and their defences had come crumbling down around them.

The compulsory aircraft recognition classes Harry had attended earlier in the war – tedious hours listening to a man with a speech impediment imitating Messerschmitts and Mosquitoes – had been of little use to him for the most part, but now he was grateful for the training – indeed for anything that would soothe Jim's frayed nerves and reassure him that the end of the world was not upon them. To Harry's way of thinking it was scarcely worth bothering about, anyway; even if he was wrong and the approaching aircraft were the enemy, if they dropped a bomb like the one which had destroyed the baker's house in Cardiff, he and Jim would experience a few moments of blinding pain and then it would all be over, nothing more and nothing less. That remote possibility, however, was irrelevant when set against the current of arousal between himself and Jim, subtle yet growing as he was taken into Jim's arms, as clothed flesh pressed against clothed flesh, as the desire for more intermingled with the half-fearful desire for less.

"I think I always knew it would be like this," Harry whispered, unsure when their mouths had parted but hearing his own heightened breathing in the darkness. "Maybe even the first time we set eyes on each other. Did you know it, too?"

"Not really. Or perhaps I just didn't recognise it for what it was."

Of course not, thought Harry. What frame of reference would this modest man have had, after all, that could possibly have concluded anything of the sort?

"I had no sign-posts to follow and no experience to go by," continued Jim. "My entire life I've been no better than half-alive, and even now I'm still woefully ignorant; you're going to have to show me everything – teach me as if I was..." He stopped abruptly. "I suppose in matters of physical intimacy I am a child – the equivalent of one, at least, a virgin. I'm not afraid of it, though, not any more."

"Yes, you are." Affection warm in Harry's voice and gesture. "But brave enough to face things you're afraid of and conquer them anyway."

"It's generous of you to say so – but you do realise, don't you, that I haven't the first idea of how to start?"

"Oh, well, that's easy enough." Harry's tone was as gentle as it had been on the icy hillside when he had talked a dying lamb into a few short hours' continuance of life. "What I suggest we do is lock the door, and then we'll take our clothes off. After that the rest of it should follow more or less naturally, and if we get stuck we can always make something up. I'm a great believer in improvisation," he added, with the matter-of-fact cheerfulness that had seen him and the crew of his submarine through any number of minor crises in their time together.

"Naturally?" Jim echoed, with a slight ironic laugh. "I've always been taught that this sort of thing wasn't natural at all."

"Well, you can judge for yourself, can't you, when you've tried it?" responded Harry. "In the spirit of academic enquiry, of course. Or, if you prefer," he added, in a gentler tone which somehow drowned out the drumming of the engines passing directly above their heads, "because you love me and I love you – and there can never be any better reason for it than that – why don't you come to bed?"

"Yes," said Jim simply, as if now that the moment had arrived the decision was no more difficult than whether or not to accept another sandwich at a vicarage tea-party. "Thank you, Harry – I think I'd like that very much."

#

### 1945  
LIKE PEOPLE

#### R.A. Padmos

Following the end of the Second World War, Karl becomes a prisoner in England – which is where he meets, and unexpectedly makes a connection with, Nathaniel Cyfer, who is not only a British sergeant but also an expatriate German Jew.

He knocked at the door of the office building. No answer. He decided he must be early, so he leaned against the wooden building and watched men go to whatever activities called them. Since everyone knew that the treatment by the English was thoroughly decent, most men were allowed to go to jobs outside the camp, and letters were trickling in, much of the initial nervousness had slowly begun to change into a quiet routine. Not a single man wouldn't want to know how long the English would keep them, but that was out of their hands, so why even talk about it? They could have been in Russia, which would be bad, or in America or Canada, which might not be so bad, but was very far away.

Then he saw Sergeant Cyfer walking towards him, and he couldn't suppress a wide smile. As soon as the sergeant noticed Karl, his whole face lit up. It made him the most beautiful thing Karl had ever seen. Knowing that he was the reason for that kind of joy was enough to make the rest of his day a good one. Nathaniel probably wasn't even aware of it, and Karl wasn't to make him any the wiser. This wasn't some fairy tale where the monster turns into a handsome prince.

Cyfer opened the door and shooed Karl in.

"You know how to type?" Sergeant Cyfer pointed at a desk.

"Not at all."

"You can learn. The first principles are easy enough. It's unlikely that I could find a schooled typist who is able to understand German handwriting, and training him would take more time than teaching you how to type with two fingers." Nathaniel put a notebook under Karl's nose. "Try to read this. Take your time to get used to it. I'll find us some tea."

Karl traced his thumb over the letters. It was the closest physical contact he would ever have with Nathaniel. Reading the words was indeed a simple matter of getting used to Nathaniel's handwriting. However hastily written it looked, there was a pattern, and all Karl had to do was discover it.

"Here you are." Sergeant Cyfer handed him a cup of tea, and nodded at the text. "What do you think?"

"That it must have been hard to keep calm with someone talking such filth about Jews."

"They never start with the filth. For the first few minutes it's all politeness, and it wasn't me who was a Nazi, but then slowly the façade cracks."

"Why do you think I'm different?"

"I have to believe it."

Karl had never known a desperate outburst could come out in such a calm manner. He knew the answer before he asked the question, but still he had to ask. "Why?"

"Because I wouldn't be able to bear the alternative. I know I'm drowning, but I can't stay away from the sea."

Karl put his mug of tea down. "I'll accept it if you want to ask for my transfer to another camp. If you have to lie about the reason, I'll understand." He smiled. "Oh, and by the way, I'm in love with you too."

Joy seemed to flash for a short moment over Nathaniel's face, but then he sighed. "Look at me, a Jewish man, a refugee, who has fallen for a Wehrmacht soldier. How can I justify this even to myself?"

"You can't, just as I can't explain to myself why, after years and years of propaganda and with two Hitler-loving parents, I ended up thinking that what they told me might not be true." Karl sighed. "So here we are, two grown men who know what they want and who still have no idea what to do."

"Even if you and I were regular citizens, what we want to do would still be illegal."

"Here too? I know we Germans are sticklers to the rules and lack the imagination to accept the quirks of the human race. But the English? You mean they seriously throw you in jail for having a bit of fun with another bloke?"

"During the war there were bigger problems than going after poofters, but soon the soldiers will be returning home and the country needs babies, and I'm afraid men like us won't find a warm welcome."

"Fuck."

Nathaniel laughed. "Would you mind if I kissed you first?"

It took Karl less than two seconds to get up from his chair, take a step – and it was all so gloriously simple after that, and so heartbreakingly complicated. That one, long, deep, greedy, desperate kiss between them told him that he had found the man who made his survival worthwhile. He had not died, and he knew now that if he couldn't be with this man, his existence would be nothing but a poor shadow of all that could have been. He clutched Nathaniel as a drowning man hoping for safety, and Nathaniel's hands were everywhere. They touched and prodded and Karl's body reacted in the only way his body knew how to.

"I think we need to calm down," he managed to utter between two kisses.

"You're right," Nathaniel gasped, and he planted another kiss above Karl's left eye. "I don't want our first time to be on a desk in a POW camp."

"I could take you to my barracks and ask the other guys if they'd be so kind to take a long walk around the grounds..." Karl laughed at his own joke and leaned his forehead against Nathaniel's because he wanted to touch him a little longer. "I want you so much that I'm willing to drop my trousers, lean over the desk and let you do whatever you feel like. The war has taught me nothing if not be flexible in that regard. But I prefer a bed and as little chance as possible that we'll get disturbed halfway. I want it to be just the two of us, in private, not whatever few minutes we can steal." He kept talking to calm his body down. "Show me how the typing machine works?"

#

### 1967  
IN THE PRIVACY OF THEIR HOME

#### R.A. Padmos

The law regarding homosexuality may have changed, but unfortunately society's attitudes are slow to catch up – which is why closeted, older Dylan is nervous about expressing his feelings towards the younger and more carefree Max.

If the daily news had ever mentioned the subject, Dylan must have missed it, and thus when he opened the _Kinbridge Chronicle_ he gasped in surprise. Was it really saying what it was saying? He read the line over and over again, still not having any real idea what it meant. Homosexual acts between men no longer illegal... Homosexual acts between men no longer illegal... Homosexual acts...

Now take a deep breath and actually read the bloody article.

The index finger of his right hand followed the words, his lips moved, but hardly a sound was coming out.

"Most people, who have nothing but a feeling of understandable distaste when confronted with even the idea of homosexual men, will agree with Lord Harran that there is no reason for celebration. This law has passed because all wise men agreed that it was the only sensible thing to do, an act of charity even, not however the endorsement of something that remains vile in nature. Indeed, while there might be nothing bad about homosexuality, there is certainly nothing good. Those who see no choice but to bear this cross and do not possess the strength to travel the high road of abstinence, are now able to engage in sexual congress without the necessity of fearing censure under law with someone like-minded in the privacy of their home."

#

During lunch break, in the garden, Max looked so absolutely beaming with joy and yet so nervous that Dylan had to ask, "Who is she? I promise to keep it a secret."

"Who?" Max echoed.

Dylan chuckled. "Now, don't play coy with me. Is it one of the blondes or brunettes, or perhaps that petite red-haired one?"

"Okay, if you insist on knowing, this one is tall, with short dark brown hair and brown eyes. A bit silent, you could even say shy, but sweet as anything."

So this was it, the moment the beautiful illusion changed into stark reality. This was the last time Max would join him during lunch to drink tea, eat sandwiches and talk about nothing in particular. Dylan was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. "I can't remember ever seeing a tall, short-haired typist, but a lot of them have passed through the door of Lamarr's during the past seven years. If you fancy her, she must be a lovely girl."

"I read the _Chronicle_ and it's no longer illegal. I'm twenty-two, so that should make it definitely okay. And I also know you'll still hate me for it, and if you want I'll find a job somewhere else and you're too much of a real man to be one of us anyway, even though you're so quiet and gentle – not that normal men can't be gentle of course – but I can't help it. I'm so sorry, but it happened before I could stop myself," Max rattled on.

"What law?" Dylan pretended not to understand, giving Max, and perhaps himself, a last way out. As unlikely as it was to happen, more than anything he was afraid he might become the victim of ridicule. He didn't want to see Max's expression distorted in hate after he'd enticed Dylan out of his hiding place. He couldn't face the humiliation.

Max's face darkened. "I knew I was making a mistake..."

"... in the privacy of their home." Dylan didn't understand how he was still able to breathe when realisation hit him right in the pit of his stomach. "Are you trying to tell me that you're feeling the way I do? That I'm not imagining this? I would hate to embarrass you by drawing the wrong conclusion."

Those few sentences could be enough to destroy his whole existence.

"I wish I could hold your hand, perhaps even give you a quick kiss," Max sighed. "Because I don't know of a nicer way to tell you how I feel about you."

"And get us discharged from our jobs, perhaps even arrested?" Dylan immediately regretted sounding so sharp and aggressive.

Max frowned. "I'm aware how this works for men like us. Why do you think I was so bloody nervous to tell you this?"

"It's all right, you can trust me: I could never hurt you."

Max's face softened. "I know."

Max had shown him his cards, perhaps it was only fair, Dylan admitted, to take a leap of faith. "I... enjoy your company."

Max chuckled. "Is that polite for 'I totally fancy you and can't wait to get you into my bed'?"

"Isn't that a bit too forward... yes." He might win everything or lose it all, but at least he had given love a chance.

"You sure are playing hard to get. It took me months to get you this far. Or do you really think I sing _Light my Fire_ and _Let's spend the night together_ for just anyone?"

"You're making a joke out of everything." Dylan suddenly heard what Max was saying. "Since when?"

"The moment we sat on this bench for the first time on that Tuesday in April and you offered me half your sandwich." There wasn't a hint of hesitation in Max's voice. "That same night I did two things. One was drawing my memory of you and me sitting here because it wasn't enough to have it all in my head. The other one you can guess..." He winked at Dylan, a naughty gleam in his eyes.

"Oh dear."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Dylan somehow managed to survive the afternoon and even got some work done. When it was five o'clock Max simply walked with him in the direction of the number 12 bus stop and Dylan allowed him.

#

"It's really nothing special where I live. There's a small living room, an even smaller bedroom and a tiny kitchen, but there's a shower and it's clean and affordable, so I'm not complaining." Dylan filled the silence.

He closed the door behind them, turned the key twice, and suddenly, for the first time in his life, he was being kissed by another man.

He was in his thirties, he had known since he was twelve about his nature, he had brought men to orgasm with his mouth and hands and some men had done the same to him, without even knowing their names, in places that were being called cottages with a bitter sense of humour, but he had never been kissed.

But now a young man with slightly too-long dark blond hair and a smile to melt a frozen heart, took Dylan's face between his hands, the kiss happened and Dylan could cry with the beauty of it and the all-encompassing love.

#

### 1968  
FROST AT MIDNIGHT

#### Elin Gregory

This complete short story first appeared as part of the Speak Its Name Advent calendar in 2011, and has also been given away on the UK Meet USB sticks in 2013 and 2015.

The ancient church was glowing with candles, its warm purple-grey stones almost covered by swags, garlands and bunches of greenery through which the carven stone faces of green men peered, as though amused by the antics of the worshippers. Dafydd Jones, farmer at Hen Cwrt in that parish, smiled as he sang up at them. He had provided much of the holly and all the mistletoe that studded the decorations with rubies and pearls. He and Colin Wilson, lodger at Hen Cwrt as far as most people in the parish knew, had spent most of the afternoon yesterday hanging the greenery. He felt that he was entitled to a smile or two.

Christmas, and especially this midnight service, was his very favourite holiday. It fell in a lull between ploughing and harrowing the fields ready for next year's wheat and the six weeks of sleeplessness that was lambing. All around him were other men and women, determined to enjoy this well-earned holiday. In pews in front and behind, they sat, well wrapped in their tweeds, men with caps on laps, the ladies with their best hats tilted on newly permed hair. Underfoot too, and outside in the graveyard, were generations of Joneses and Jenkinses, Pughs, Harrhys and Progers who had shared this midwinter break.

_Sixteen eighty-nine or nineteen sixty-eight, it doesn't make much difference to sheep,_ Dafydd thought, _nor to those of us who work with them_.

But the modern age, now, had its perks. The Electricity Board had promised to bring a line right up into the valley. Up as far as the church and even beyond to Hen Cwrt. It would make a big difference. He would no longer have to remember to buy batteries for the cherished transistor radio he took to the lambing shed for company. He remembered a time when there had been only the sounds of the farm and maybe his own voice raised in song. As it was raised now, blending its strong true baritone with the other voices around him, but especially with Colin's lighter tenor to his right, that felt for but never quite seemed to find the right note. His life had changed for the better even without the conveniences of electricity.

They sang all the old songs, rocking the rafters with the power of their voices, as the minutes ticked by to midnight. When they fell silent and the Reverend Evans began to speak, Dafydd leaned back in the pew. After a careful glance around he let his right hand fall and, secretly, linked his fingers with Colin's where they lay waiting on the age polished oak between them. Colin smiled and squeezed, shifting to let a fold of his coat cover their linked hands. Even tonight, even here with their vicar reminding everyone of the utmost importance of love, they had to keep that space, that little distance between them.

Dafydd returned the squeeze but continued to look down the aisle to where the Nativity scene had been set up. Large Victorian plaster models, beautifully painted – Mary awed, Joseph looking as shell shocked as only a new father can, shepherds rustic, kings regal and the angels with arms and wings spread, their ecstatic faces lifted to Heaven. All those were old favourites and familiar from Sunday School, but it was the animals Dafydd particularly liked. The sturdy donkey, ears drooping with tiredness, sheep and their lambs – Herdwicks from their extravagant fleeces – and two large patient oxen, who would surely have been cudding quietly at that time of night, filling the stable with the intense scent of fresh grass.

They sang again before taking their leave of friends and neighbours, most of whom spoke in English out of courtesy to Colin. Many of them thought Colin was staying at Hen Cwrt because it was cheap and not too far from his place of work in Radnor. Only a few knew otherwise – that Dafydd Jones, confirmed bachelor of thirty three had finally found someone with whom he wished to spend the rest of his life – and of those few, some appeared unconcerned but others avoided him unless, as tonight, they were forced into reluctant civility. In their little world of village, church, two pubs and a garage, you couldn't afford to be at odds with your neighbours, even if they had habits of which you disapproved, and Dafydd was more useful than most and more pleasant than many. But there were ways of showing your disapproval that fell short of outright rudeness. There weren't many of them but somehow their frosty goodbyes took the warmth out of the truly affectionate farewells of others. Dafydd smiled and spoke mildly but wasted no time in leaving.

On an icy night like tonight it was safer to walk than to drive and Hen Cwrt was only a mile across the fields. They pulled on hats and gloves, turned up their collars and strode out across the graveyard to the stile. Once they had put the first field behind them they could walk together, rather than yards apart, and Colin took Dafydd's arm, his gloved hand settling warm in the crook of his elbow.

"You don't mind, do you?" he said. "This ground is rough."

Dafydd smiled because the pasture was a smooth sheep-cropped sward of turf glistening with frost, but the excuse was a good one.

Cloud shadows moved slowly thrown by a gibbous quarter moon. Dafydd glanced up at the bright arc, uneasy as he remembered the news that men were up there now, circling around it in a spaceship. Three Americans, highly trained, carefully selected. Dafydd wondered if anyone cut _them_ dead as they left church.

When they reached the farmhouse and opened the door, Fly bounded to meet them, her white muzzle, ruff and paws bright in the moonlight. Dafydd greeted her then went inside to light the lamps. The sharp scent of matches and paraffin were a small price in exchange for the warm glow that brightened the shabby but much loved comforts of home. He opened the firedoor of the Rayburn to stoke it up and Colin came to join him, drawn to the warmth.

"Why don't you put the kettle on while I check on the ewes?" Dafydd suggested and went to change his good coat and cap for the old ones he used around the yard.

"It's so cold tonight," Colin complained rubbing his hands together. "I don't know how you stand it."

"I have something warm to come back to," Dafydd pointed out and whistled to Fly but paused at the door to look back, smiling with content to see Colin, quite at home, opening the pantry.

Dafydd made sure that the skim of ice on the water trough was broken and that the bale of hay he had fetched for the ewes earlier hadn't been trodden down into the frost. Most of his flock were sleeping. Only a few raised their heads and just one bleated, a soft unworried _mmmrrr_.

Above, the clouds had thinned and everything was stark black or shining white under the brilliant nail paring of the moon and its accompanying astronauts. They were so high, so distant, like gods looking down on the miserable sinners, while below in the valley, the last lights were winking out. There went the pub. There the Pugh's place – they were probably having difficulty settling the kids. There went the Jenkinses. Now it was just Dafydd, Fly, the sheep and the men in the moon – and, inside, Colin singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" a little off key.

The singing broke off and Colin shouted. Dafydd ran. He was half way across the yard when Colin reached him, Dafydd's little transistor radio buzzing static in his hand.

"What? What is it?" Dafydd demanded, for Colin had no coat and big as he was, was already beginning to shiver.

"No – no listen!" Colin tilted the radio and the signal fizzed before settling to a calm American voice reading something familiar.

And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters.

"What's that?" Dafydd asked.

"It's them," Colin pointed up at the sky, looking round, his finger tracking across until he had found the moon. "The Apollo chaps."

"Oh." Dafydd listened, looking at the plastic and metal box in Colin's hand rather than the hard edged arc of the moon. He listened to the quiet voices, thinking not of gods and judgements but of ordinary men far from home, and yearning for the touch of a loving hand.

"And from the crew of Apollo 8, we pause with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas and God bless all of you – all of you on the good Earth."

Dafydd looked up at the sky, then at Colin who was smiling at the moon, his face filled with pleasure.

" _Gogoniant i Dduw yn y goruchaf_ ," Dafydd murmured – Glory to God in the Highest – "and on earth peace, goodwill to _all_ men."

"Amen," Colin murmured, looking up into the star strewn sky. He had dropped his hand and the radio had gone off station again so Dafydd took it from him and turned it off to save the battery.

"Thank you," Dafydd said. "Tonight I needed to be reminded that _bendithio Duw_ made the world and everything in it – including you, _cariad_ , and me – and saw that it was good."

"We're good," Colin said with a grin. "Come here." They both looked around, first, then laughed because there was no one to see unless one of those astronauts had a very long telescope. Colin's hands on Dafydd's face were icy but his mouth was warm, his tongue warmer still. Dafydd held him close until they both shivered, not with cold this time.

"Inside," Colin murmured against his cheek. "Come on. It's nineteen sixty-eight! Inside, with the doors locked and the curtains pulled, it's legal for us to do whatever we like."

"God bless Leo Abse," Dafydd replied and gave Colin's arse a good hard squeeze before they turned towards the house. Inside would be cocoa and kisses and then, with any luck, a reason to be more than seasonally joyful before sleep.

#

### 1976  
GHOST STATION

#### Adam Fitzroy

Although homosexuality is now legal in England, there are still plenty of intimate activities a man can be blackmailed for – which is a fact that SIS agent John Dashwood and his colleagues have no hesitation in exploiting shamelessly whenever an operational need arises.

Shortly after three that morning, Dashwood, Webb and Tom Bertram were in the back of a dummy police car with Gog and Magog in the front, pulling away smoothly from the vicinity of Ghost Station. All but Webb were armed and made no secret of the fact, although Dashwood had stopped believing in the power of positive weaponry the first time he'd had a partner blown to pieces at his side. These days he preferred to rely on guile.

The driver remembered the way, of course, and they were soon in a narrow, cobbled street lined with parked vehicles; there was scarcely room for the car to pass between them.

"This will do," Dashwood said impatiently, avoiding Tom's cat-ate-the-canary grin. There was a light behind the pale front door and another in what he knew to be the bedroom, although the curtains were firmly drawn. Just as well, in view of some of the activities that went on up there. "Boys, you can stay outside for now."

He got out and waited for Webb. Tom was last, drawing a gun from a shoulder holster and watching the American closely as he stepped across to the door. Dashwood wasted no time in manipulating the simple lock with his Barclaycard; a moment later the door was open, and Tom slid past his chief, gun in hand, and flitted silently up the stairs. Dashwood closed the door and signalled Webb to follow him.

"Bedroom's occupied," Tom reported in a whisper as they met on the landing. Indeed, their caution was scarcely necessary. From beyond the closed door came the rhythmic sound of a cracking whip, of heightened rhapsodic breathing, and of low, muffled whimpers.

Whoever was inside seemed fully preoccupied and was probably paying very little attention to the rest of the world – a condition with which Dashwood could empathise only too readily.

"Well then," he grinned, throwing the door open with a dramatic flourish.

The scene which met their eyes was perhaps more outré than any of them had ever fully expected. From a ring-bolt in the ceiling a young man was suspended by his hands, which were secured behind him, so that his body bent forward at an unnatural angle; his arms were tightly bound from wrist to elbow and his feet were held apart by a spreader bar stretching him almost to splitting-point. His body was encased in a fantastic ensemble of straps and buckles, his exposed genitals bound and weighted, his head concealed by a hood without eye-holes but fitted with some sort of contraption for keeping his mouth open. His pale backside was striped and raw from a whipping being administered by a man wearing nothing but leather chaps, nipple clamps and an executioner's mask, who appeared to have been simultaneously beating the boy with one hand and frigging himself with the other – a not unimpressive feat of muscular co-ordination.

"Oh dear," Dashwood drawled unctuously. "Are we interrupting something? I do apologise."

He glanced at the executioner, whose hitherto painfully rampant erection had wilted instantaneously. "Just as you were getting to the fun part, too. Purely as a matter of interest, were you going to bugger him or make him suck your prick?"

"I... what?"

Dashwood sighed. "In either case it doesn't really matter," he said, feigning sympathy.

"Resorting to this house for the purpose of lewd homosexual practices – and I can assure you, this one qualifies as 'lewd' – means it can be regarded as a brothel under sections 33 to 35 of the Sexual Offences Act 1956, as amended by the Sexual Offences Act 1963." He reeled this off with undisguised enthusiasm, ignoring the red-faced incoherent spluttering with which it was received. "All of which, I'm delighted to say, means you're liable to prosecution for gross indecency. And don't try to tell me, squire, that the boy consented to it; this little scenario of yours constitutes assault, and the law as it stands doesn't allow an individual to consent to being assaulted. Although I suspect you know that, because you're one of the people who make the law – aren't you? Where is it I know you from, do you think? Have I seen you on the telly? Minister of... housing, health, transport, something like that? Don't worry, it'll come back to me. But while we're waiting, why don't you go with my officer and sit in the car and give me a chance to talk to your charming companion here? After that we'll decide what we're going to do with you, all right? No, don't bother with your trousers, you'll be quite warm enough as you are." And, apparently oblivious to the man's extreme discomfort, he handed him over to Tom.

"Leave him with the boys outside and come back here," he said.

Tom nodded, stowed his gun, and took hold of the flabby shuddering biceps of the masked man, steering him out of the door and down the stairs.

"Help me get this poor bugger down,"

Dashwood told Webb, and with the American supporting the boy's shoulders they quickly released him from his painfully stretched position and began removing some of the devices attached to him. The bar, arm bindings and hood came off one after the other, and the first words out of the boy's mouth when they did were abusive.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he demanded. "Who do you think you are, breaking in here and..." He stopped abruptly. "Shit! John? How did you get in?"

"I had a key." Coolly Dashwood flashed the Barclaycard. "Put your knickers on, Piers. We're not here to make trouble – we need a favour from you, that's all."

"I was doing someone a favour," was the arch response. "And he was doing me one, too!"

"I know. It all looked very cosy and you were obviously enjoying yourselves." Dashwood glanced around for Webb. "This is Dan."

Bewildered nods of greeting were exchanged.

"We need to use your telephone: one quick call, and then we'll go. It's up to you whether we take your friend away with us or not. Do you actually want him back for any reason?"

Piers's lips curled nervously. "If you took him away, what would you do with him?" he asked.

"Nothing fatal. Embarrassing, rather than painful."

"I'll think about it." Piers was fumblingly removing several layers of restraining devices from his pathetically detumescent manhood. "Oh God, I should never have let him do all this to me, should I? What if there'd been a fire or something? I'd never have got out alive!"

"No, I don't suppose you would. He didn't exactly look like the type to rush downstairs with you over his shoulder in the event of an emergency. You need to be able to trust the person you're doing this sort of thing with."

Dashwood flicked an end of leather strapping thoughtfully, as if entirely cognisant of its purpose.

"Oh, he was all right – as long as we were doing what he wanted."

"In my experience, they always are."

#

### 2000  
STAGE WHISPERS

#### Adam Fitzroy

After an accident actor Jon – half-in and half-out of the closet – has been unable to attend the 'commitment ceremony' of two friends. He's recuperating at home with the help of his young daughter Justine when Roy turns up to tell him all about the fun and games he's missed.

As promised, Jon was driven home by Edgar and Jenny during the course of the following Monday, after which he retired to bed and took no further part in the proceedings. The next afternoon, by arrangement with Justine, Roy arrived in a taxi, bringing – in addition to his overnight bag – a bottle of champagne and a sheaf of gladioli worthy of Dame Edna Everage at her finest. He was all charm and bonhomous cheer, but to one who knew him as well as Jon there was something a little too determined about the twinkly good humour, something so forced as to be almost painful. It took an actor, he supposed, to know when another actor was putting on a show.

"The champagne," said Roy, settling in, "is from the wedding. Everybody was sorry you couldn't make it. Especially me – I could have done with the immoral support. But I see you've got plenty of flowers already."

Bouquets had been arriving at regular intervals during the morning – from the crew, from Eddie and Jenny, even from Nigel whose own recovery was progressing satisfactorily. There was also, tucked away on the windowsill and half-hidden behind the curtain, a bunch of multi-coloured roses which had arrived without a card or other means of identifying the sender. Justine had been all for ringing the florist to make enquiries; Jon had calmed her with something vague about a friend with a penchant for practical joking. He had managed to insinuate that the culprit might be Bill, and was now hoping Bill wouldn't take it into his head to send flowers for real; he didn't think it likely, but doubted his powers of invention would be up to devising a second explanation if he did.

"People have been very generous," he said, as Justine bustled from the room in search of a container tall enough to take the gladioli.

Roy reached across urgently and took his wrist. "How much can I say in front of her? Do you need me to keep my big fat trap shut about the wedding?"

"Not really – she must have seen the invitation, it's still on the board in the kitchen. Just try to avoid outing anybody who wouldn't want to be outed, will you?" The look that accompanied this remark was direct and meaningful, leaving Roy in no doubt whom he was alluding to.

"All right. But having a commitment ceremony isn't exactly keeping it off the radar, is it? I've brought pictures, if you're interested; I printed them off last night. How about you, Justine? Would you like to see photos of a wedding with no bride?"

She blinked, re-entering the room and setting down a plastic waste-bin full of water which was the only receptacle that would hold long-stemmed flowers of any description.

"I knew it was supposed to be a gay wedding. James and... somebody?"

"James and Matthew," supplied her father. "They're friends of Roy's."

Roy was scattering pictures on the coffee table. "Well, a wedding is a wedding is a wedding, I suppose – and this one had everything: confetti, cake, cheesy smiles, family mayhem. I expect you'll recognise some of the people in the background, at least."

Preoccupied with the flowers, Justine glanced over briefly. "It's a sweet idea – but it isn't legal, is it?" There was no criticism inherent in the words; this was merely an observation.

"It's not illegal, either," responded Jon. "Just not officially recognised. But if they wanted to make their relationship public, this was probably as good a way as any to go about it."

"Not that it was ever really a secret," Roy put in. "They should have been hyphenated years ago, like Gilbert-and-George or Marshall-and-Snelgrove or something. Nobody talks about James or Matthew separately any more; they might as well have been married. Unfortunately the law doesn't allow that yet – although I know there's been a fair bit of lobbying lately."

Justine was giving her concentration to the flowers, declining to look at the pictures while her hands were wet.

"Well," she said, "I don't understand why anyone would go to all the trouble of having a wedding if it doesn't mean anything. Couldn't they just hang on and wait until the law's been sorted out?"

Roy and Jon exchanged glances.

"My love," said Roy gently, "generations of queer men and women have died waiting for the straight world to wake up and take notice of them. Not to get too political about it or anything, but there comes a time when you have to put your foot down and insist on being who you are. Besides, nobody has any idea what might be around the next corner; it's really a case of grabbing your happiness while you can. And, let's face it, we're all a bunch of theatrical old queens... there's nothing we like half so much as dressing-up and showing-off!"

"Very true," laughed Justine. "So what did you wear, then, Uncle Roy?"

"Blue suit, darling, and a fabulous waistcoat – there's a picture of it somewhere – explosion in a paint factory, like the one Simon Callow had in _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. I worked with him once," he mused. "He played my boss. We didn't get on, which is odd because we have so much in common, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't steal from him – or anybody else – should the occasion arise."

"No shame in stealing from the best," agreed Jon, with a conspiratorial grin.

"Not that you'd know, of course, never having stolen anything from anybody."

"As long as you believe that," Jon smiled, "it means you haven't noticed yet."

"Is that Pete?" Justine pointed to a bulky figure at the edge of one of the group shots. She had dried her hands and was examining the pictures for faces she knew – of which there were precious few. James and Matthew under a rose arch; James and Matthew with their families grinning and trying to pretend they were comfortable at a wedding between two men; James and Matthew cutting a heart-shaped cake... Here and there a well-known face appeared in the background, but for the most part they were snapshots of people's cousins and grandmothers and best friends from drama or music school. "Why's he looking so miserable?"

Roy sighed. "He was in a bitch of a mood all day. Someone stepped on his toe in the morning, and after that he wanted to kill everybody he met." Jon looked up sharply across Justine's bent head, but Roy's expression warned him to silence. "It's a long story and not particularly edifying; let's just say that he wasn't at his best, shall we? I could have done with your dad along to referee, Justine; he always adds a note of sanity to the proceedings. Trust you to find a way of weaselling out of it, Jonathan!"

Thus Roy steered the conversation away from what appeared to be a somewhat delicate subject, and back to the absorbing topic of Jon's accident.

#

### 2010  
RAVAGES

#### R.A. Padmos

Professional footballer Steve, who is in a secret relationship with his team-mate Daniël, has unwisely had an encounter in a park with a man he doesn't know; it's an awkward moment to run into a group of fans, to say the least.

"Fucking hell, tell me you're not him."

"Okay, I'm not him." Steve smiles because the look on the face of the man is genuinely funny. If this night is going to stay oddly surreal, he might just as well accept it with a smile and a joke. He guesses the autograph moment will be just about now, together with the more recent standing next to the famous person and ask your mate to make a photo with his mobile phone.

Only then he sees the absolute horror on the face of the man, and on the faces of the others around him. The shattered admiration. He doesn't count them; guesses there might be half a dozen pairs of staring eyes and gaping mouths. No, definitely none of them is thinking: I can't believe my luck today.

"My little boy has his poster above his bed. Plays the same position with his school team. Has his number on his kit. The nipper worships this fucking, bloody... can't even say it..."

"If you can't even trust the boys of your own club..."

"Just now we're finally getting somewhere, with a gaffer who knows what he's doing and owners who give a shit and some new boys with real talent..."

"It wasn't easy to get airtime for his bleedin' song..."

"Away games are going to be hell if they ever find out..."

"In a park, where there's families and all..."

"Good thing we're here to put things right, because the police have gone all politically correct. Protecting the queers instead of the decent people."

"He didn't even try to get away, like they always do. Saw them running? Won't see them any more tonight. Thinks he's something better. Thinks he's one of us."

What's he supposed to say? That what the men thought they saw was a misunderstanding? That he simply needed to take a leak? That his private life is exactly that, private? That he would never risk the last years of his career as a professional player at this level to seek some cheap thrill in a park, when he has the genuine article in his own bed? That love is love? That no father should teach his child to hate?

Something tells him the men gaping at him are not of the polite conversation kind. And most likely a statement, however truthful, that he just happened to walk in the park, with no greater crime than having his fly open to take a pee, unaware of the kind of place this seemed to be for some, will prove to be useless. They saw what they saw and whatever comes from his mouth cannot be the truth. Above all, he doesn't want any more of this kind of attention, if only because of Daniël's position at Kinbridge Town. Thus far no one has made the connection, but what does that guarantee? Guilt by association can be just as devastating.

"Nice meeting you too. Now boys, it's getting late, so if you'd be so kind as to let me pass..."

They howl with laughter.

"Now boys, it's getting late, so if you'd be so kind as to let me pass..."

"Makes you wonder why we didn't see it sooner."

"They can pretend whatever they want but in the end, it always shows."

Since when is it unmanly to ask a polite question in a civilized manner? No one can accuse him justifiably of having a posh accent. He doesn't sound all that different from them, he knows that all too well. He might have been born in Ireland, but talking he learned in the housing estate in north-west England where he grew up. What's he supposed to say? Get out of my face, mother-fucking sons of just as many bitches, or I'll make sure none of you will ever see Chestnut Road Stadium from less than two miles again?

He has to get away. No way is he staying there with a bunch of bigots, reeking of stale beer and chips fried in oil that's become syrupy. If simple English words are not enough, a modest use of physical force might be the answer. Even with trees and bushes blocking one escape route and those men the other, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. If he can dive between them, something he has done countless times during equally countless matches and training sessions, he should be able to run away. There isn't a single cell in his brain doubting he can outrun any of this unfit lot without even breaking a sweat.

A wall of muscle and fat is enough to stop any rational thought for a few precious seconds. If this is a game to them, it is played by rules he isn't familiar with. And there isn't a referee in sight. If this is a team sport, he's still alone. He misses his team-mates. They would stick up for him, and only later ask him how the hell he got into this bloody mess.

At first, the attack is indiscriminate. The men simply kick and punch and shove whatever they can hit. There's even some hesitation in their action, like they are still not 100% sure of what they're doing. Perhaps it's the remnants of human decency refusing to give up resistance this early. Six against one can hardly be called fair. Even more than that, he is one of the men who helped in changing their barely hanging on in the lowest regions of the Premier League club into something they can proud of because there's actually something to be proud of. He is a name on a shirt, a name called by the announcer at their home games almost every match, a name in the Chronicle, a name they chant because fuck, did you see how he took the ball and passed it so razor sharp to Kirkby it can only be called pure science. Is it too much to hope for that? Recognition of a job well done?

Steve doggedly gets up every time he's worked to the ground, tries to fight them off. It hurts, but he's had worse. He isn't afraid to use his body; he's not unfamiliar with its working and with the discomfort that comes with using it in a way that's perhaps ill-advised. If this doesn't stop very soon, he's in risk of tearing several muscles. And at his age and in this line of work a position in the starting Eleven is easily lost. But more than that, he doesn't want to confront Daniël with bruises on his body and face when they see each other again. How does a grown man manage to get in this kind of trouble during a walk in a city that at worst shrugs off his existence as just one of the many, but mostly has shown so much affection?

One of the men boots him hard enough at the back of his knees to make him hit the ground so violently it knocks the wind out of him. His head whips so hard against the pavement it makes him swoon. Even though a less trained man would fall even worse than he does, he soon realises this is the point where he no longer is able to get up. He keeps trying though, because blind instinct goes on long after the sane mind has drawn its conclusion.

He shouldn't have forgotten his mobile phone. Daniël has teased him often enough that he seems to prefer carrier pigeons instead of modern means of communication. If he hadn't misplaced the stupid thing... but, honestly, what does it matter now? The next match will be played without him, no matter how many phones he might have been holding in his hand.

He tries to look them in the face. They have to know he's human. They have to be reminded of their own humanity. But the smile he sees on the faces of every single one of them makes him strangely relieved, grateful even, that Daniël is at home, safely in bed, hopefully having a nice dream about the next time they'll see each other.

They now start to make serious work of venting their frustration about whatever is bothering them about life in general and him in particular. Something inside him wishes that later, when he sits in front of a nice and understanding (they have special training, he's almost certain of that) police officer (no man or woman these days, it's called officer) he can say that it all went so fast, that he hardly was aware of what happened. Or that he's able to witness his own suffering from a safe distance, like he once read in a magazine article during the flight to an away game. But his brain refuses to work like that; it doesn't subtract even one second from any of the agonizing minutes. The pain isn't lovingly covered up by endorphins.

"He shouldn't have come here. Not to this park or this city or our club."

Kick in his stomach.

"I hate it when they pretend to be normal."

Kick at his left side.

"You guys think this piece of Irish shit is the only poof in our club?"

Kick against his right hipbone.

"Kirkby?"

Kick in his crotch.

"Hey, no one talks shite about the skipper."

Kick in his back.

"Sorry."

Kick against his left hipbone.

"Levee? Only joking, boys, only joking."

Kick against his breastbone.

"Not funny. But, seriously: any of the other foreign lads, perhaps?"

Kick against his right shoulder.

"Can hardly believe that Moreschi really is a man."

Kick at his lower back.

"He's the best striker we had in ages. Would be a shame."

Kick in his belly.

"Dominguez?"

Kick right in the middle of his spine.

"Don't be daft."

Kick against his left shoulder.

"Any of the French guys?"

Kick against his buttocks.

"Nah..."

Kick against his ribcage.

They must not say Daniël's name. They must not even think his name.

Kick...

"Daniël Borghart?"

The sound he makes stops the kicking for a second. Even he hears how different it sounds from the grunts and groans that follow every time one of their iron-nosed boots and his body make contact. Don't you dare touch him, he wants to say: not with your eyes, not with your words, not even with your thoughts. Don't you dare to make him as dirty as your vile hearts. Hearing them say Daniël's name hurt something inside him their boots hadn't been able to touch. It is not theirs to defile, not theirs to even know about. It should have been loving parents, a respected coach, close friends. Not them.

#

### 2011  
THE APOTHECARY'S GARDEN

#### Julie Bozza

Sixty-five-year-old Hilary remembers when homosexual activity was still illegal. Tom, born in more accepting times, has never kept his sexuality secret. The two are similar in many ways, but growing up in different eras has created some significant divergence in their attitudes.

Thursday was rainy, and for a little while Hilary feared the worst – but Tom rode over anyway, and once he'd changed into dry clothes, they took the opportunity of the bad weather to search through the remaining boxes of paperwork and other oddments on the first floor, those in Hilary's bedroom as well as in what he was already thinking of as Tom's room. They didn't find anything of great relevance, but the hours passed together were warm and congenial, and Hilary began pondering the notion that there might yet be a depth and breadth of contentment that he hadn't even guessed at.

That evening they settled into the sofa together with a pot of Assam to watch the third episode of _Midsomer Murders_ , titled 'Death of a Hollow Man'. For a while contentment fled, as Tom's growing irritation set Hilary himself on edge. There was a gay couple on the show, and the slightly older man of the pair was all that was stereotypical about gay characters. He was camp, and fussy, and while he might be forgiven for owning and running a bookstore, he was also the set designer for the local theatre troupe. And yet again, the couple seemed to have secrets – kept from each other as well as from the village – and they became suspects...

The tension eased towards the end when it became clear that the only real secret kept was that the slightly younger man had been having an affair – with a woman. Faced with threats of blackmail, he did the decent thing and confessed all. The last view of the couple was of the older man sobbing disconsolately in the younger man's encompassing arms, while the latter reaffirmed his commitment in plain and simple words. It was an honest love, even if it hadn't always been a loyal one.

Tom was silent as the credits rolled, though it was a more thoughtful silence than had been the case before. He seemed to be contemplating his own hands where they lay loosely on his lap. Hilary hardly dared speak, though he muted the sound of the television before the ads began. Eventually Tom cast him a glance, and said, "Well. I can't really complain about that, I suppose!"

"No..." Hilary agreed, though with enough doubt that he might be easily refuted and not take it amiss.

"That turned out to be a real love, didn't it?" Tom looked at him. "I mean, we were meant to assume they'd be all right together, weren't we? That they'd get past this?"

"Yes, I think so," Hilary said with somewhat more certainty.

"Good," said Tom. And he lapsed back into silence.

After a while of neither of them speaking but not moving either, not calling an end to the evening or heading for bed, Hilary very tentatively asked, "Tom. Forgive my nosiness. Are you, er... ?"

"Yes," Tom answered with a smile. "Yes, I am, _er_..." The smile broadened, as if he couldn't resist his own mischief. "Gay. I'm gay. If that's what you're asking."

Hilary nodded quietly, and wondered to himself why he was intruding. He'd known or at least guessed this about Tom for almost as long as he'd known the fellow, and he knew what would happen, too. One day in the not too distant future, just as soon as Tom had finished his thesis, just as soon as it was no longer improper, then Dr Justin Ware would declare his long-invested interests, and surely Tom was too fond of the man to refuse. Even if there was more love on one side than the other, perhaps that was inevitably how these things worked.

"Hilary... ?"

"Mmm?"

Tom was tugging gently at Hilary's hand – and there was something about his tone that indicated he was repeating himself when he asked, "What about you?"

The meaning was no doubt plain enough, but meanwhile Hilary had been overcome by the feeling of his hand wrapped up in another's. Tom had only done it to regain his attention, of course, but it felt kind and it felt deft despite the shared aches and pains and calluses of their gardening work.

"Hilary. Are you, er... ?"

He regathered himself, and offered with a soft smile, "I haven't been anything much, for such a very long time."

"But _were_ you," Tom persisted, "even if it was a very long time ago?"

He took a moment with that, and then slowly began, "When I was your age, homosexuality had only just become legal. I was twenty-one in 1967."

"I don't want to be wrong about you. Not about _this_."

Hilary huffed a laugh, wondering if it mattered most to the young man that his gay radar, or whatever they called it, wasn't malfunctioning.

But Tom hadn't let him go yet, and his fingertips were exploring the back of Hilary's fingers when he said, "You've got great hands, you know."

"Do I... ?" Hilary peered down at the large clumsy things, made larger and clumsier by the contrast with Tom's neat perfections. "Well. You've said so before."

"Yes. I love watching them make tea, and handle fine china. Carry a tray so perfectly steady. Or tug a weed out of the ground, and then grasp the wheelbarrow's handgrips. They're competent, and they're strong... and they've seen life."

"Well, maybe not quite so much of life as you suppose," Hilary admitted.

"Tell me," said Tom. "You know I'm just going to pester you until you do."

Hilary laughed again, aloud this time. If anything was going to illustrate the two-generation chasm between them, it was this issue of homosexuality; it was Tom's openness and curiosity, and Hilary's insecurity and discretion. It was Tom's experience – for Hilary assumed the young man could hardly have failed to take full advantage of the more accepting environment he'd been born into – and it was Hilary's reticence.

"Well, then," Hilary finally said. "There may have been an encounter or two... before the law was so obliging as to offer permission, as well as after."

Tom was grinning at him, which was reward enough. "You rascal, Hilary! You rebel! It makes me wish I was breaking the law, too!"

"No, it doesn't," Hilary replied rather severely.

That candid face fell again. "No, it doesn't," he agreed. After a moment, he asked, "And more recently... ?"

Hilary gazed down at their joined hands. "Don't enquire too deeply, my dear, or you'll realise what an uninteresting person I am. I've led a rather quiet life, you know."

"That's all right," Tom reassured him in a murmur, his hands never ceasing in their movement as they stroked and caressed Hilary's.

"Until recently, I thought the most astonishing thing that had ever happened to me was inheriting this place from Evelyn. Since then, I've realised that has been well and truly eclipsed –" he had to draw a breath for courage – "by your friendship."

"Oh..." Tom sighed, as if enchanted.

"Though I also realise that you only care about me for the sake of the garden."

That earned him a great guffaw of laughter, and Tom jostled his hands for a moment before finally letting go. "Such a tease!" Tom accused, his eyes merry, before he started collecting the tea things onto the tray, and then he stood to take it through into the kitchen. "You really had me going for a moment there!" he called back.

_Well_ , Hilary reflected. Unlikely as it all was, Tom had really had Hilary going as well!

#

### 2012  
OF DREAMS AND CEREMONIES

#### Julie Bozza

Australian Dave has followed his love interest, Nicholas, to England, and they decide to tie the knot – but at this point their only option is to enter into a civil partnership. This excerpt describes what they consider to be their wedding day.

Early on the morning of the thirty-first of October, Dave woke nestled deep in the bed, with Nicholas curled around him pressing sleepy kisses to his nape. "Good morning, husband," Nicholas murmured with his lips brushing against Dave's skin.

Dave shivered in delight – and snorted. "Not yet, I'm not!"

"Mmm... Our last chance for a bit of illicit fornication..."

"You don't want to save yourself... ?"

"At least a decade too late for that!"

"Tart!"

"And you can't resist a fine tasty tart."

"That's true."

So they made love, just as they were, still warm and blurred with sleep, Nicholas thrusting gently against Dave's rear and each with a hand overlapping on Dave's cock echoing the same sweet rhythm. They spilled over with sighs, and still wrapped up close they snoozed again for a few minutes, before at last the alarm went off.

"Good morning, husband," Nicholas said again.

Dave chuckled. "Come on, then. Let's make that happen!"

They each had a quick shower and dragged on the nearest casual clothes, then headed down to join the rest of the family for breakfast. The general mood was cheerful yet busy. Everyone made a point of greeting Dave and Nicholas, and wishing them well.

Dave found that he wasn't very hungry, so after he'd drunk his coffee he made his excuses and wandered outside for some fresh air. He must have been looking pensive, for when Simon popped his head out of the front door to find Dave pacing back and forth on the driveway, he asked, "The not unexpected cold feet, sir, or is it serious second thoughts?"

He managed a low chuckle in reply. "Neither, really. And today of all days, you can call me Dave, can't you?"

Simon came out to join him in the cool morning air, closing the door behind him. "We're a bit more formal here in England than you're used to, I imagine."

"Just a bit," he replied, bunging on the irony.

"You know,... Dave. You must always ask if you need anything."

"Thanks, Simon," he said with a nod. "I will. And – likewise."

"I mean, sir, that I would consider myself to be serving the ultimate good of the family, if there was something you wanted... even if you felt they wouldn't agree. I would be happy to serve you, sir."

Dave eyed him narrowly. "Are you encouraging me to make a run for it?"

"Not encouraging, Mr Taylor. Merely making sure that you know it's a possible course of action. If you wish to take it."

"I don't. But I appreciate the thought." They paced back and forth together companionably for a while, before Dave confessed, "I've been thinking that I've never said – those three little words to him."

"I am sure that Nicholas is very much aware of how you feel for him. We can all see it."

"Yeah? Then why do people keep asking me if I want to get out of this?"

"Ah." Simon considered the gravel at his feet for a moment. "Nicholas does have a way of carrying all before him. Everyone here loves him dearly, and he's too sensitive a man to deliberately hurt anyone. We have, however, learned to speak up on the few occasions when we've needed to." Simon tipped his head towards Dave. "I suppose there might be some concern that you have yet to learn that."

"No, that's all right. I can fend for myself. Australians are rarely backward in coming forward."

"Of course, sir. Dave. Well, if I may, I would like to wish you every joy today and in all the days to come."

"Thank you, Simon. You, too, mate." And Dave went back inside and drank another coffee.

Soon it was time for Dave to head off with Denise and their little family to get formally dressed. Nicholas kissed him on parting, and told Dave how beautiful he was going to be. Treating him just like a bride! "God, shut up," Dave grumbled. "Anyway, you know no one's gonna outshine you."

Nicholas chortled in surprise. "Oh, I do believe you have it bad, Mr Taylor."

"I do, sir," he murmured in reply. "I have it very bad indeed..."

And they were parted, not to meet again until they were suited and groomed, and ready for the ceremony.

Dave got dressed in Charlie's room, under Denise's supervision. She was stunning in a dress of heavy silk that looked as if it had simply been draped snugly around her figure but might slip off again at any moment. It was coloured the grey-green of eucalyptus leaves. She'd had a shirt made for Dave in the same material, along with dark grey linen trousers with a slightly rough weave.

There was also a silk waistcoat of a hazy dark green-blue. It was a simple design, without any collar and with rather discreet buttons, but it was nicely fitted – and a step or two more formal than Dave was really comfortable with.

"You don't have to wear that," said Denise. "Just the shirt, trousers and proper shoes are enough."

"Nicholas would like it, though," Dave responded. "Wouldn't he?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Okay, then." Dave had had his way about the morning suits, after all, so he could make a gesture in return.

Charlie, meanwhile, was dressed in the same kind of trousers, and a shirt of the same silk but coloured a dusky version of pink eucalyptus flowers. He looked absolutely magnificent.

"Jeez..." Dave complained. "Just as I'd gotten used to being the centre of attention for once, you two decide to go and look, like, _ten_ times more gorgeous than me!"

"As if," Denise returned.

"And it's _my_ wedding day, thank you very much!"

"Don't worry about it, mate," Charlie said with some fervour. "You look about as beautiful as a white fella can."

Which made Dave turn about as pink as Charlie's shirt – and then he went red as Denise pressed a kiss to his cheek that was warmer than any she'd bestowed on him since they'd broken up.

And maybe she'd done that deliberately, for he didn't manage to raise a protest as she fixed a buttonhole corsage to his waistcoat. It was made of creamy-white eucalyptus flowers and leaves. "How d'you manage that?" he asked in a subdued kind of voice.

"They're silk," she replied.

And there it was again: silk. Dave sat down on the nearest chair, and tried very hard to pretend that he didn't feel rather dizzy.

Charlie was shrugging into a grey-green silk waistcoat, which unfortunately toned down the effect of the pink, but it did turn them into a proper coordinated wedding party. Dave shook his head, thinking that Denise had worked some kind of miracle – and praying that Nicholas recognised it as such. There was a buttonhole corsage for Charlie, and then a silk shawl and a wrist corsage for Denise – all in pinks. And they were done.

Denise was considering the three of them with pride. "Not too shabby for a bunch of colonials, if I do say so myself!"

"It's marvellous, Denny," Dave said.

Charlie was beaming happily. And then Vittorio came in with Zoe wrapped in a carrier across his chest, and told everyone how wonderful they looked – though it was true his gaze lingered longest on his wife. Which was as it should be, Dave figured.

"They're bringing the cars around now," Vittorio continued. "Nicholas said he'll be away in about five minutes, and then if you follow when you're ready."

"This is it, then, Davey," said Denise.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak, but that was just the expected jitters. "I'm ready," Dave said. "I'm ready now."

#

Simon drove Dave, Denise and Charlie to Beaconsfield in the Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. When they got to the old courthouse and parked behind Robert's Renault Espace, Dave was amused and touched to find Frank there in his full chauffeur uniform, despite the fact that he knew Robert had done the driving. Apparently Frank felt the need to also give Nicholas away, or shine up the cars, be available to deal with any breakdowns, or some such thing. Dave went to shake his hand, and received a solemn nod in return.

Then Dave headed inside with two of his very best friends at his shoulders. His third best friend gaped in wonder for a moment on seeing him – and then beamed more brightly than he'd ever smiled before. Nicholas strode across the lobby to meet Dave, and to take both of Dave's hands in his own. "God, David – you look – you look _beautiful_..."

"So do you," he offered perfectly genuinely. Nicholas wore a grey morning suit as if it had been designed for him, for his tall, lovely figure with his slim waist and strong shoulders. There was a creamy-white rosebud on his lapel, and under the grey suit was a sage-green waistcoat, an ivory shirt, and a dusky-rose cravat. Dave was grinning at his husband-to-be for the sheer delight of seeing him, but he was also beginning to see that between them Nicholas and Denise had come up with a genius solution to the clothes problem. The away team were certainly far more casually dressed than the home team, but the shades of grey, pink and green – while very Australian on one hand and very English on the other – made the whole thing work together perfectly. "God, this is brilliant!" Dave exclaimed.

"Denise," said Nicholas in heartfelt tones – though he didn't let Dave go. "Thank you. _Thank you_."

She was happy, too. "My pleasure, Nicholas."

"And as for you, Charles," Nicholas continued. "How gorgeous are you in pink! You almost make me wish I hadn't seen David first."

Charlie guffawed under his breath. Richard and Robert had come over by then, and each shook Charlie's hand, and kissed Denise on the cheek, with much murmured admiration. Robin was standing there looking somewhat overawed by the whole thing – and also utterly charming in a perfectly tailored morning suit of his own.

Dave, who'd been dreading so many aspects of this day, found himself declaring, "I can hardly even wait to see the photos!"

Nicholas laughed. "Hey, let's get married first, though, eh? Seeing as we're here."

"Yes, let's," Dave agreed. And they turned, and walked together hand-in-hand into the Disraeli Room and down the aisle, with their beloved friends and family following along behind.

#

"I declare that I know of no legal reason why we may not register as each other's civil partner. I understand that in signing this document we will be forming a civil partnership with each other."

Those were the formal vows, such as they were. Even Dave thought they lacked poetry. But then they each said a few words of their own, and they exchanged rings.

Nicholas said: "From the first day I met you, David, you made me feel safe. You made me realise that I could unfurl my wings and be myself and simply live. I'm not afraid any more. I'm not afraid. No matter how long or short a time we have together, I want you to know – I want you to always remember – that no one has ever been happier than how I am with you. David, I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

And Dave replied, "Then that's what we'll do."

Dave said: "We were friends first. Even though I turned you down, and it took me ages to realise what we could be together, you were a real friend to me, and I was a friend to you. We took care of each other, right from the start. And we still have that, that's still the bedrock, even though we have so much more as well now. We take care of each other, and we'll go on looking after each other for all the years to come. And that means the world to me. Nicholas, I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

And Nicholas replied, "Then that's what we'll do."

Everyone was so happy, and the whole thing felt so charged. Robin finished off the ceremony by reading out a poem by A.A. Milne called _Us Two_. Dave had originally thought Winnie-the-Pooh a rather bizarre choice for a wedding ceremony, but hearing it on the day, when they were already bubbling over with joy, he felt it was absurdly apt.

Even then, though, he wasn't quite done because there was something more he had to say – now, for the record, and with witnesses. Just as the registrar was about to call time, Dave said for them all to hear, "I love you, Nicholas. I _love_ you."

And Nicholas said, "I love you, too, David Taylor."

And they were married.

#

### 2014  
IN DEEP

#### Adam Fitzroy

Widower and ex police officer Ted is on the small Scottish island of Ellisay to solve a family mystery; hooking up almost by accident with his landlord, Athol, the two of them can't resist sharing war stories about their less-than-satisfactory previous relationships.

"I can't even remember the last time I did this," I said, an hour or so later, with my head on Athol's shoulder, my hand on Athol's chest, our clothing scattered liberally about the floor. "Properly relaxed with somebody, I mean. It would've been Sheila, though, definitely. The blokes I've met in the past were never into this sort of thing – they liked keeping it simple, and so did I. Safest in my line of work, anyway – no names, no pack-drill. Supposedly we don't discriminate these days, but some senior officers haven't evolved much from the dinosaurs. Anyway, if you're bisexual, people automatically assume you must be cheating on your wife."

"Weren't you, though? You slept with other people while you were married to her."

I sighed. This was a debate I'd been having with myself on and off for years, and I'd never reached a particularly satisfactory conclusion.

"Actually slept with," I said, "no. If you're using it as a euphemism for having sex, though, yes. The question is whether or not the emotions are engaged, and they never really have been before. Anonymous men in anonymous places... it's just a transaction, like having your hair cut or your teeth polished. Essential maintenance. You can do it by yourself, but the results aren't usually as good – and it definitely doesn't last as long. I always told Sheila she was the only girl for me, and that was true; she's the only person I've ever wanted to be married to, anyway." I fell silent, tracing a pattern with a fingertip on the smooth plane of Athol's breast. "I'm not proud of the way I had to live, but that was just how it worked in those days; you found somebody who wanted the same thing you did, and it was all quick and simple, no complications. Things have changed, though, and I reckon I have, too; I'm not sure I'd be making the same decisions these days."

"I'm very glad to hear it," he said.

"I didn't do it while she was ill," I hastened to reassure him. "I wasn't interested at the time, anyway, and I loved her, you see; I still do. But love and sex are totally different, in my book, and you're lucky if you happen to find them both in the same place."

Athol's arms tightened round me. "I won't pretend I haven't hooked up with someone for a night or two myself and never seen them again afterwards," he told me. "I've never actually been in a relationship with a woman – that's just not who I am – but there was a man once. I thought it was going to be permanent too, but it didn't work out that way."

"Oh?" There was clearly a wealth of hurt behind the measured words. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"Thank you. It was when I first came to Ellisay, and it was one of the reasons I decided to stay and make a life for myself on the island. I met a guy in the bar on the ferry – he was an artist, Danish, lived on Sanday. We were a couple for about eighteen months in all, but we never actually lived together – my grandfather was still alive at the time and this was his house, although he was in the Care Home by then. We did talk seriously about a civil partnership, though, and Torsten seemed to be all for it. The plan was that he would move in here with me after my grandfather died. I was going to turn that room of yours downstairs into a studio for him."

"But obviously... that wasn't what happened in the end?" Clearly disaster was looming, and I would have liked to spare Athol the pain of discussing it.

"Well, no. Oh, it went well enough at first – I proposed, he accepted, and for a while everything was wonderful between us. Then my grandfather died, and as far as I knew we were still planning to formalise the arrangement. We filled in the paperwork, took it to Kirkwall to submit, set a date and paid the fee, exactly as I'd been expecting. About a week later I got a phone call telling me they'd be rejecting the application because Torsten, bless his little cotton socks, had a wife in Denmark he hadn't bothered mentioning. Apparently he got a phone call at the same time too, because he cleared out of Sanday that afternoon without a word to me or anybody else, and I've never seen him since. The stupid part is," he concluded ruefully, "if he'd told me he was married but separated from his wife, we would probably still have been together. It wasn't him having a wife that was the problem, is what I'm trying to say; it was him not owning up to it in the first place – and then buggering off without a word of explanation or apology. That was just totally unnecessary, and I still don't understand what he thought he was doing."

I couldn't agree more, and although he was clearly making an effort to talk about it in as calm and rational a way as possible there were echoes in his voice of the unhappiness he'd suffered then.

"I can understand that. Did you ever find out what happened? Had he gone back to his wife in Denmark?" It wasn't an unfamiliar story – in outline, at any rate. The details, however, were different every time.

"Not as far as I know. He sent me a postcard from Oslo, which probably meant he was travelling again, but I've never heard from him since and I literally have no idea where he is now. That was the man I was hoping to build my life around – and he was capable of just walking away and leaving me. I suppose I was naïve, but I don't really think I deserved that."

#

### 2015  
THE 'TRUE LOVE' SOLUTION

#### Julie Bozza

Romantic Jules dreams of getting 'properly' married. His polysexual sister Jem can't imagine ever settling down, but still supports Marriage Equality. In this scene, Jules' policeman friend Leonard has come to help fix their heating system; Archie is Jules and Jem's father.

The boiler was in the big basement room, which was Archie's, and there was also a tank in the attic. Once Jules had introduced his friend to Archie and Jem, they all headed downstairs to stare with arms crossed and pensive looks at the boiler. Leonard said, "I was going to ask if it's still under warranty, as I wouldn't want to void it, but I assume not?"

"Maybe it was," Archie agreed, "back when I was a lad. But there's no need to worry about that sort of thing, Constable. Any help you can give will be very welcome."

"All right," Leonard replied in distracted tones. Then he started investigating the problem, both upstairs and down, obviously working through a mental checklist.

Jem went up to the kitchen to make a round of teas and coffees, while Archie produced his own toolbox and then went round to the neighbours when Leonard required more. Jules pretty much just hovered uselessly.

They were all still in their coats and scarves – and her hat, in Jem's case – although Leonard stripped off his coat once he started the actual work needed. Archie commented, "It's shocking how quickly this house loses its heat. We really ought to think about insulation."

"I'll soon have this sorted out, Mr Madigan."

"You will? That's wonderful! Thank you, Constable Edgar."

"Leonard is fine. I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm just a friend."

Archie glanced at Jules with more meaning than was warranted, and ignored Jules rolling his eyes in response. "Then, Leonard, please call me Archie."

"Thank you, Archie." Leonard paused and sat back on his heels. "I'll show you the problem, if you like. Well, there's two problems, and one has triggered the other. I can only manage a temporary fix, but that will see you through until you can get a proper plumber here."

"We're very grateful, Leonard." Archie went to crouch by Leonard, and the talk rapidly descended into valves and various kinds of thermostats.

Jules took that as his cue to head upstairs to hang out with Jem. She was sitting in her regular place at the kitchen table. "Looks like he's getting it fixed," Jules told her.

"You found a good one there. A real little homemaker."

"Yeah, yeah." He sat beside her at the table, and peered at the pizza menu in her hands. "Have you ordered yet? I don't think Dad and Leonard will be long now."

"What sort of pizza does your cop like?"

"He's not _my_ anything!" Jules protested. "And I don't know. We've only ever had coffee together."

"I bet... with a scrawny figure like that... he'll want healthy."

Jules huffed a breath. "He is _not_ scrawny! He's _fit_. I bet he runs marathons or something."

"So, a primavera pizza, maybe with chicken."

"Anyway, I think you're wrong."

"Never. But go right ahead and amuse me."

"If you ask him about the pizza, he'll just say, 'Whatever you're having, thank you.'"

Jem snorted. But Jules was confident he'd read Leonard correctly.

A popping in the radiators preceded a gurgling and a ticking, and then within moments Jules and Jem could feel the first hint of warmer air. Archie and Leonard appeared soon after, looking pretty pleased with themselves. "Leonard's fixed it!" Archie announced rather redundantly.

"Temporarily, at least," Leonard clarified.

"You're a miracle worker," Jem said. "What sort of pizza do you want?"

"Oh," said Leonard, clasping his hands together for a moment. "A slice of whatever you're having will be fine, thank you."

Jules cast Jem a smug glance – but her snort and her knowing look undermined his triumph. Somehow she'd got the idea that...

The pizza place was on speed dial, so Jem had the order placed moments later. Archie fetched the spare chair and invited Leonard to sit – next to Jules, of course, seeing as Jules had the long side of the table. Jules promptly stood and made them another round of hot drinks, and set out plates, cutlery and napkins. The radiators were all coming to life, but the house was still way too chilly. The four of them finally settled around the table, still in their coats, and with their hands wrapped around the steaming mugs of tea or coffee.

After a long moment of silence, Archie said, "You'll have to come for dinner on another night of the week, Leonard. Jules usually cooks for us, when he doesn't have to go into the office, and he's a dab hand at it."

Could his Dad _be_ any more embarrassing? "I just make simple stuff. Nothing to boast about."

"It's always delicious," Archie stoutly continued, "and nutritious, too."

"I'm sure it is," Leonard obligingly agreed.

Jules said, "Chicken, sage and mushroom pie tomorrow. Anyone could make it."

"No, they couldn't, son," Archie insisted.

"I love pie," Leonard remarked.

Jem snorted again. "Well, _that_ could be a problem."

Jules was possibly the only one to understand the reference – or at least he certainly hoped that Archie wasn't across such slangy terms for the Lady Parts, and he suspected it wasn't exactly Leonard's area of expertise. Jules shot Jem a venomous look anyway.

She said in suspiciously sweet tones, "Jules will make someone the perfect husband one day."

"Oh my God, _shut up_ , would you?"

"My son is rather a romantic, Leonard, and of course Jemima teases him dreadfully."

"What else are sisters for?" Jem opined.

"Be careful," Jules said, "she bites."

"Only consensually."

"We're not _really_ sister and brother. We couldn't be any more different. She's poly, you see."

"Polly?" Leonard echoed. "Oh, I see. Poly-what?"

"Poly-everything, thank you," Jem retorted. "Sexuality, gender – it's all far more fluid than most people dare to dream of."

Jules said, "Maybe omni is a better description. As in omnivorous."

"Hey, at least I have my dignity, you know. Far more than you do."

Archie interrupted them in heavy tones. "Children, we have a guest. A grown-up guest."

Leonard looked a tad self-conscious, but offered, "It's a compliment, really... that they don't feel they have to be on their best behaviour."

"You may live to regret that thought."

They were saved by the doorbell. Archie went down to collect the pizza, while Jules got up to fetch the lemonade and ginger beer from the fridge. "What would you like to drink, Leonard? I'll make you another coffee, if you like. We only have these for cold drinks – the old-fashioned versions, yeah? I know not everyone likes them – but otherwise it's milk or water."

"The ginger beer, thank you," Leonard replied. "That's quite a treat!"

Jules set the bottle down nearby him without making eye contact, and went to get four glasses. Then Archie brought the pizzas to the table, and everyone was cheerfully distracted for a while. Jem had ordered two large pizzas, and a good half of each had disappeared before anyone said anything more than 'Please', 'Thank you', 'God, this is good' and 'I may not die of hypothermia after all'.

The remaining slices were devoured in a slightly more civilised manner. Jules had time to ponder the situation while Archie and Leonard exchanged pleasantries in between mouthfuls. Archie and Jem had obviously leapt to all kinds of conclusions, which wasn't exactly fair on poor Leonard – who didn't deserve to be rigorously match-made to someone like Jules just because Leonard was nice enough to help where he could. In any case, there was Ewan Byge to consider, and Jules really had to wonder how Archie and Jem could possibly forget that.

"I went to Ewan Byge's flat on Saturday," Jules commented out of the blue as the eating frenzy was finally ending with a whimper.

Leonard was obviously surprised, but he didn't say anything. He simply turned to consider Jules carefully. Archie was silent. Jem watched them all with narrowed eyes.

"I went to help him with his accounts, his paperwork."

There was the slightest hint of relaxation in his companions.

"I guess, just because he's great with words doesn't mean he's good with numbers! I'm no good with words, after all. So Ewan and me... we kind of... dovetail."

Leonard went a little pale.

Jem chuckled with a wry note, and said quietly, "Is _that_ what they're calling it these days?"

"But there's one thing we agree on, and that's Marriage Equality. He was such a huge part of that campaign. He still has a poster up on his wall."

There was nothing more than an 'uh huh' kind of response from anyone, so Jules sailed blithely on.

"In fact, his London flat is in a house just like this one, and his living room and kitchen is in my bedroom here.... So to speak."

Another silence threatened to de-rail the whole evening, but eventually Leonard said, "I read one of his books. As part of my investigation." He cleared his throat, and amended, "As a result of my investigation. You made me curious," Leonard added to Jules. "So I bought a copy of _The 'True Love' Solution_."

"Oh, that's marvellous!" Jules cried. "Did you enjoy it?"

A slight pause, as if Leonard was considering the diplomatic answer. "I don't think I've ever read a romance, so I have nothing to compare it with. But it was very engaging. I never wanted to put it down."

"Excellent!" Jules almost clapped his hands in glee. "What did you think about –"

"That's my cue to make the tea," said Jem. "Leonard?"

"Yes, please. Milk and sugar, if I may."

"Of course." Jem went to put the kettle on, and Archie settled back in his seat as if ready to listen or let it all flow over him, as it suited.

Jules continued to Leonard, "Ewan always writes Happy Ever Afters. Maybe one or two Happy For Nows, but almost always HEAs. So, what did you think about Liz and Tracy getting married at the end, but Dexter and Mike just sailing off into the metaphorical sunset?"

Leonard looked a bit mystified, as if not at all sure about how he should answer.

Jules helped him out. "Ewan asked me if I thought Dexter and Mike would marry, too, but actually I think they're happiest the way they are. Together by choice, and kind of free at the same time."

Dead silence.

Archie said, "You astonish me, son."

"Yeah, where did that come from?" Jem chipped in. "You're all about the wedding bells, Jules."

"Marriage isn't for everyone," he loftily declared.

"But it's what you've always dreamed of," Archie persisted, "and they're your favourite fictional couple. Aren't they?"

Which was all true. Jules sniffed, and was lost for how to explain himself. What was the point he'd been trying to make?

Jem brought over the cups of tea, while Archie belatedly began tidying away the remains of dinner. They all finally shrugged off their coats and let them hang off the back of their chairs.

Leonard tried to get the conversational ball rolling again. "Jemima, if you're so very different to Jules, what do you think about Marriage Equality?"

"It's Jem, mate, unless you're arresting me."

"I apologise. Jem."

"Well, actually I approve."

Leonard obliged her by looking surprised.

"Not because _I_ want to marry. I don't even want to be monogamous – despite all the sods who tell me I just haven't met That Special Someone. I've actually found a few special someones over the years, and I can tell you that Friends with Benefits works just fine."

"Why do you approve of 'gay marriage', then?" he prompted.

"Because it frees things up, doesn't it? It recognises that relationships are more about choice and love than convention and reproduction. And once no one is gonna decide which gender you can marry, or which sexuality fits, which romantic leanings are acceptable, then it really doesn't matter any more, does it? Only to the individual. And that's how it should be."

Leonard was smiling his quietly happy smile. "I like that," he said. "I like that very much."

"Good," said Jem.

Another silence stretched as they sipped their tea, but it was comfortable now. Neither Archie nor Jem asked about Leonard's views or preferences, as they seemed to assume they knew very well. They assumed it involved Jules. Obviously Leonard would set his sights far higher, though. He'd want someone more serious and less flibbertigibbet. Not that Jules minded because... well, Ewan Byge.

Jules' musings and the general peace were soon broken, of course.

"Wait a minute!" cried Jem. "You're not telling me your writing bloke sleeps in my bedroom, are you?" She shuddered. "We'll have to swap, Jules!"

"What do you care?" he asked. "Given the great variety of people who've slept in your actual bedroom?"

"My brother's Number One Crush in my bed? No, thanks!"

#

### 2017  
SUBMERGE

#### Eleanor Musgrove

People are becoming freer to express their identities, and one of the ways the inclusive nightclub Submerge fosters self-expression and mutual respect is through the use of pronoun stickers; these three unconnected scenes explore what this means for various patrons.

##### Miles

"Hey, Miles. Can I hang out here for a while?"

Miles looked up from his desk to find Gina peering at him around the door of the little back office he called home. "Sure, why not? Wait, isn't Addie out there?"

She slipped inside, blue eyes twinkling as she made herself at home in the spare chair. "Yeah, she's talking to some guy. I waved as I went past, but they seemed to be working on something so I didn't stop."

Miles took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep moving his pen across the form he was filling in. "Talking to some guy, eh? You okay?"

"Wha-? Oh, not like that." She laughed, tossing her long hair back. "For one thing, she wouldn't cheat, especially with a guy, especially here. For another thing, when I walked by all he seemed to be asking about was you."

Miles froze, looking up. "Me?"

"Mhm. Think you might have an admirer. I've seen the guy out in the audience for Addie's shows before, and he's always got one eye on you."

"Really?" He thought about it for a moment. "... Cute guy?"

"Hell, I wouldn't kick him out of bed, and you know I prefer ladies. He's a bit more feminine than your usual type, though, a bit on the androgynous side. Wearing a bit of make-up, a 'he' pronoun sticker – told you those were a great idea – and he's got seriously good hair."

Miles could feel her eyes on him, knew she was watching for him to make a decision as she fiddled absent-mindedly with a pale strand of hair that was hanging down in her eyes.

His paperwork wasn't that interesting; curiosity won out.

"Fancy a trip to the bar so I can have a peek?"

"Now you mention it, I _am_ thirsty." She grinned cheekily at him as he pulled on his suit jacket and readjusted the angle of his bowler hat before heading for the door.

"Fine, fine," he sighed. "This one's on me."

##### Addie

Addie hadn't even realised the club was opening until Miles began briefing the staff – they'd turned up out of nowhere, or perhaps she just hadn't seen them come in. Connor and Gina had decided to gang up and tickle her, which was highly unfair but impossible to stop, so perhaps her distraction could be excused. At any rate, the staff began getting ready for the night, and their guests decamped into Miles' newly-unlocked office to dump their belongings and get changed into more club-appropriate attire. There were no live acts today, so the entire club would be given over to dancing, and Addie didn't have to worry about how her outfit would look on the stage. That meant she could give herself over to a little more sparkle than usual, without worrying about it distracting her audience.

"It never does for the drag cabaret," Gina had teased her, but Addie still worried about it.

Tonight, however, was Addie's night off, and she had a beautiful sequined top on – sleeveless, to show off her arms. Addie was proud of her arms – they were muscular, but not what she would call _too_ muscular, like one of those bodybuilders with the tiny heads. Mostly, her muscles were a result of carrying heavy things around and doing all sorts of grunt work at the café, to say nothing of the occasional help she gave her brother with his removal company. Unlike Gina, however, she wouldn't be wearing a skirt today – especially not one so short. It wasn't even that Addie didn't like her legs; she just preferred not to have people staring at them. Besides, it was easier to shrug a jacket on over a lack of sleeves for the walk home than to shimmy into a pair of jeans. Easier to just wear them from the beginning, in Addie's opinion. However, she was never going to complain about Gina wearing the shortest skirts she could find. Anything Gina wore was fine by her, in fact.

Connor was dressed to the nines in a smart-casual suit. He seemed to be debating the idea of going out and grabbing a 'he' pronoun sticker –

"I don't know, I'd sort of like to see what people assume, given how long I've been on T."

– but in the end he decided to take one after all. He looked a little awkward about it, though, and Addie reached out to touch his arm before he left.

"What's wrong?"

He sighed. "It's... I wish I didn't always have to advertise the fact that I wasn't born this way. I'm a man, you know? I wish I could just be a man without wearing an 'I am a man' sticker."

Addie and Gina exchanged the briefest of glances. "Well, they're not just for trans or non-binary people. They're to make things easier and less awkward. Jamie wears one, I guess because of all his make-up – I'll have one for 'she' pronouns, please. G?"

"Yes, also 'she'. Thanks, Connor."

When he came back with the stickers, he looked a little happier. "I feel less like I'm wearing a big 'ask me about my transition' sign now. Thanks, guys."

"No problem. Now, ready to hit the floor?"

"The floor won't know what's hit it," Addie confirmed, and they headed back out into the main room, twisting the handle to lock the office door behind them.

"Actually," Gina shouted over the music as they jostled for a position at the bar, "where _is_ Jamie?"

"I don't know," Addie realised, "... and Miles, for that matter?"

"Jamie disappeared first," Connor offered, "so maybe Miles went to look for him?"

"Someone must have cleared up the pizza," Gina suggested, and that made sense.

"Well, they're big boys. They can look after themselves. We, however, are drinking and dancing and being altogether too attractive. Plan?"

"Plan," the other two agreed, and the bartender finally turned to them.

##### Jamie

By nine that evening, Jamie was picking up a pronoun sticker at the door. He didn't strictly _have_ to, of course – there were plenty of regulars who never did – but if it made things easier for people, he figured he might as well. Of course, he wasn't expecting many people to approach him, since he planned to be with Miles for as much of the evening as he could, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Besides, it wasn't any _trouble_.

As he'd hoped, he'd barely reached the main dance floor before he spotted Miles sitting at a table, nodding along to the music, with a couple of waiting drinks he must have ordered the moment Jamie texted him from outside. Jamie waved and made his way over.

"Hey. Is that for me?"

Miles nodded.

"Sorry, it's lemonade again. Couldn't remember if I'd ever seen you drink anything else."

Jamie shook his head. "You might not have – I'm not much of a drinker. Lightweight, see."

Miles chuckled. "No shame in knowing your limits. Grab a seat, it's good to see you." He glanced behind him, as if to check nobody was listening – the irony was not lost on Jamie – and then continued with a faint blush. "I've missed you."

"It's only been a weekend," Jamie pointed out, then lowered his voice, "but yeah, me too. The other night was... well, really great."

"Glad you had fun." Miles shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "Would you dance with me again, tonight?"

All thoughts of work and investigations and recordings left Jamie's head when he saw that little shuffle and realised the reason for it. Miles, in that moment, was nothing and nobody but a truly adorable man Jamie wanted nothing more than to dance with.

"Drink up," Jamie told him, "and then let's show this club what real dancing looks like."

Miles grinned at him and held out a hand to pull him into the throng. Before Jamie knew it, they were both on the dance floor, finding their rhythm together and holding each other close as they enjoyed the music. Miles smiled at him, and Jamie, powerless to resist, smiled back.

#

### IF YOU'D LIKE TO SEE MORE...

... _follow these links to read about our authors and their other published works..._

 Julie Bozza

 Morgan Cheshire

 Adam Fitzroy

 Elin Gregory

 Sandra Lindsey

 Eleanor Musgrove

 R.A. Padmos

 F.M. Parkinson

 Cimorene Ross

 Jay Lewis Taylor

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