Chapter 2

I’d got rid of Fred, the town tramp who had occupied his usual place in the reading room nearest the radiator. He’d “just come in for a bit of a warm”. He was harmless enough, and on the occasions when I’d had the time to sit and talk to him, I’d found him to be a fascinating source of information on the Second World War. He was one of the first troops to land in France on D-Day. He had lost his best pal, Henry, in that campaign. From how he spoke about him, I strongly suspected Fred and Henry had been more than just pals, but I never asked. From all accounts, Fred was never quite the same again after the war was over.

With the library empty of readers, Mary and I closed and locked the doors to the non-fiction section and went into the main office and signed out. Once that duty was done we interlocked our arms—as was our custom—and headed out of the library building and down the street to Daphne’s.

* * * *

We found ourselves at our usual table in the window, a pot of coffee between us. Neither Mary nor I liked the traditional English beverage of tea. We had also chosen our second favourite cake—cream doughnuts—all the Eccles cakes having been sold earlier.

From our vantage point looking out onto the high street, we were able to play our usual game of man-watching.

“He’d suit you right down to the ground,” Mary said of one guy who had just come out of Boots the Chemist.

In truth the man did look kind of hunky in his black bomber jacket, the collar turned up against the cool evening.

“He’s probably married,” I sighed. “All the good ones usually are.”

“Funny, I always found the good ones were all either married or gay, so that gives you a chance with at least half,” Mary said, draining her cup.

Our other favourite game was to guess what a particular individual did for a living.

Mary’s best guess that day was to whisper to me that one man—mid-forties but still quite fit looking—was a secret agent for the Russians. He masqueraded as a prostitute to get women into bed to learn their secret recipes. He’d pass this information back to the KGB. They would then take over the western world by developing the best tasting Yorkshire pudding and selling it at an ever increasing price. Thus they’d gain enough capital to be able to buy out all the multi-national companies of the world, and hold them under the yoke of the Soviets.

Did I mention Mary had a screw loose?

After we calmed ourselves down from that piece of outlandish deduction, Mary decided it was time she headed home. She still lived with her parents and dated occasionally, but hadn’t found Mr Right, yet. I dated not at all, and of course I too was still looking for Mr Right. I had my own place about a fifteen-minute walk away. It was a rather basic two up, two down; all I could afford, but it was mine. Well, the building society’s.

Mary’s words of a few minutes earlier re-awoke something I’d been considering for a while. I’d thought about hiring a guy for a couple of hours. I didn’t think I could go as far as actually having sex with him, but perhaps he’d agree to just sit and talk, or maybe we could have a kiss and a cuddle. I’d almost approached one of these men a few times, but had always chickened out at the last second.

After bidding Mary goodbye outside Daphne’s, I squared my shoulders, set my jaw and ventured toward the back streets of our town and the red light district. Once on Gamble Street—the place where I knew a few rent boys plied their trade—I began to experience the same doubts I’d had before, but I pushed them aside and walked with the most confident manner I could muster, up to a young man of about nineteen or twenty years of age. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt which was a little on the small side for him, a pair of worn blue jeans, and white trainers. He was a couple of inches shorter than me with curly black hair. As I drew closer still I saw his eyes were grey-blue. He was good-looking, and under normal circumstances—say in a gay bar—I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“Hi, mate,” he said in a low—and, to me, sexy—voice “What you after?” He had a faint but detectable Geordie accent. I thought it was…well…sexy.

Haltingly I asked, “Uh, what do you, um, offer?”

He smiled reassuringly. “Anything and everything, so long as we’re safe.”

“Um, would it be all right if we just went back to my house and uh,” my voice, low to start with, whispered, “Just sat and cuddled and…” I knew my cheeks were flaming red. This was a bad idea.