Alan Edward

A Boy for Pleasure II

Short stories, second set

"In central Andalucia, north of the Guadalquivir and high among the pine-forests and sierras, an ancient puberty ritual is still regularly enacted. On his thirteenth birthday, a boy is conducted to a spot in a clearing hallowed by centuries of use; there a growing sapling is split and the boy is lifted and passed naked through it thrice, marking his passage from childhood. The sapling is cut and replanted, symbolising the hope that the boy, like the young tree, will grow up straight, strong and healthy. The ceremony, known as the llegada, or 'arrival', is normally in the hands of the local 'Wise Woman', who is still a powerful custodian of folklore and the healing arts. A male relative of the boy usually assists with the ceremony."

Brundle stopped reading and looked up.

"It's quite a full account. Here, have a look if you like – though you probably know all about it anyway."

"Well, not really." The boy took the book, turned it round, then ran his finger along the lines, mouthing the words silently.

His English was coming along. But it should. He was the main reason why Brundle's temporary post at the English school in Los Santos de Maimona had prolonged itself for a year and seven months. And, even after all this time, there was still that catch in his breath, that tightening behind his third shirt button when the boy asked him a question in class, when that wondrously dark pair of Hispanic eyes were lifted to his in puzzlement, in enquiry, or in delight at having a correct answer.

His Emilio. Though 'his' was pushing it a bit. Indeed, if possession was in question, the object was surely Brundle; even at breaktime, he took his lunch out to the playground just to watch his graceful innocento play football, to watch his leap, bounce and dive, to marvel at the turn and twist of those nimble, tight-clad, blue-jeaned hips…

Ah, Emilio… And also – wonder of wonders – those lingering moments in the classroom when the others had gone. Though Brundle was under no illusion there. It had been made clear that the reason for this suddenly heightened motivation was a proposed family visit to England. Yet, to contemplate even for an extra half-hour each day the slender, slightly grubby finger moving across the page, the smooth fall of black hair across the olive brow, the softly curved cheeks, the exquisite skin, the white, even teeth… The reason was, quite simply, a technicality.

Yet Brundle had been a little surprised when one day the boy, closing his book, had lingered for a moment and then, slightly pink, had asked quickly, "Señor Brundle, will you come to my llegada?"

Brundle had sat quite still; the image that had come instantly to him had made him blink, catch his breath, swallow.

The boy, misinterpreting, had said, "Oh, you do not have to, Señor. But we can ask a friend, a teacher, or somebody…if we like."

And which was Brundle? Better not to ask. "Of course I'll come," he said. "I'm honoured." And so it was that the leather-bound library book on Old Spanish Customs lay open between them.

Having finished the reading, Brundle asked, "It's exactly like that?"

Emilio nodded.

"Won't you be…shy?"

The boy flushed again, then said, "Well, is nearly all family, really." He hesitated. "Señor Brundle, I – I wanted to ask…"

"Yes?"

"If – if you help me, perhaps. You see, I must read too. I should have a re- a re – oh, the word I forget."

"A rehearsal?"

"Yes, I want to do good. Tomorrow I bring my book? From it I must read."

"Of course. We can go through it here after class."

Emilio hesitated, looking round the classroom. "Tomorrow, yes. But – it too bright here."

"Eh?" Brundle was puzzled.

The boy coloured slightly. "I mean – I mean, too many windows. All will see on the day, but here, in school."

Brundle suddenly understood and gulped.

"My office, upstairs, then. We can draw the curtains."

"If I rehearse, you see, perhaps I am not so shy on the day. You not mind?"

Brundle didn't mind, wondered only how he could survive the next twenty-four hours.

* *

Monday evening. Emilio with book bounding upstairs, grinning cheerfully. "Hope you have room warm, yes?"

He thumbed through the book and found the page. "First I get bare, then I stand on log. I read, then they lift me through the tree and I stand and read again. Then we have party. Is good."

"How many people will be there?"

"Maybe fifty. We are big family." The boy pulled over a low stool. "This is log. And now – big moment."

And how, thought Brundle. Emilio unzipped his anorak, and pulled it of, then his tee-shirt. In another moment or two his trainers and socks had been tugged off and he had peeled down his jeans and dropped them untidily on the carpet. Football-brown knees shading to petal-pale thighs that went all the way up. The boy slid his hands into his underpants and stopped, looking towards the window.

"Oh, the curtains are well pulled," said Brundle. "Here, best stand up on the stool."

The boy obeyed, then Brundle slid his hands into the youngster's pants and gently peeled the sun-ripe fruit, cupped palms slithering deliciously, all the way down. "Step out, then," he said hoarsely. It had been bound to look as good as all the rest, but seen at a distance of all of eight inches…wow. He could do nothing but turn quickly and fold the boy's clothes on to a chair.

"Señor… You – you tell me something?"

"Yes, of course."

"You – you look and say if you think anyone laugh at me, Señor," said the boy, a little pink-cheeked. "If you think they laugh, you say."

Brundle hesitated for a moment, then he fetched the boy's book over and handed to him. "Do your reading, chico. I can't answer for the others, but speaking just for myself, I hope it's a long reading – very long."

Emilio's dark eyes were fixed on him for another moment or two, then the colour in the boy's cheeks deepened. "So – so I read now…"

The soft treble, with its gentle Mediterranean accents, rose and fell in the room like an enchantment. When the boy had finished, he handed the book back to Brundle, but didn't get off the stool. Which was okay with his teacher; such a living sculpture could occupy the centre of his room for a millennium or so, no problem.

Emilio shifted from one foot to another. "Señor Brundle, you mind if I ask something else?"

"Course not."

The two exquisitely sensitive barometers of Emilio-emotion were cherry-bright now.

"The last year, at my brother's llegada, the Wise Woman, when she lift him, she touch his – his…" He pointed. "And when she touch it, it…" Another expressive movement of the finger. "And – and everybody laugh. You think, if she touch mine, that also happen with me? And all laugh again. If so, I will be most shamed, Señor Brundle."

"I don't see why," Brundle said. "It's quite natural. But I mean – everyone's reactions are different, aren't they?"

"Señor?"

"Well, if I may ask – has anyone ever – er, touched it?"

"Just my mamma, when she wash me. That different. But if it was the Wise Woman, perhaps, or someone else not in the family…"

Brundle, slowly, crouched on one knee. "Well, let's see. It would be prudent, perhaps, to prepare for all eventualities in advance."

"Señor?"

"You were at your brother's llegada?"

"So, with the Wise Woman…Was it like this?"

Brundle lightly brushed with his fingertips, up and down. The boy gasped, his entire body tightened, quivered like a bowstring.

Then he said, "Was – was a bit more…"

Brundle cupped his hand; it slid up and down; his other hand moved behind the boy; the fingers stroked, probed, caressed…

"Si, si!"

"Well, now we've settled that…" Brundle dropped his hands regretfully, but they were both taken in a tight grip and pulled back into place again.

"P'favor, p'favor…" breathed the boy.

Brundle lowered Emilio so that he stool on the floor; then he knelt again, one hand against the boy' rear cheeks to press him against his own thigh, then his right hand took a firmer grip and began to move busily. While the other slid up, down, then a finger entered the warm cleft, turned, prodded, twisted…

Emilio jerked, ah-ed. His arms clamped around Brundle's neck. "Si, si! Mas, mas!"

Both the teacher's hands worked hard. The boy groaned, laughed, shouted, writhed, thrashed – the suddenly he shrieked and convulsed – once, then again. His arms had tightened like a vice, then the boy's whole body relaxed, infinitely slowly. The arms held for a little longer, then the boy gave Brundle a hard wet kiss.

"Another Spanish custom of which I thoroughly approve," said Brundle, a little breathlessly. "And before I get you your pants, one for you – right here…"

The boy giggled. "An English custom?"

"Didn't you know?" said Brundle.

* *

The ceremony was on a warm pine-scented evening, the site an oval clearing in the forest two kilometres above the town. The trestle-tables had been set out, lanterns flickered in the gloomy corners between the trunks, a long barbecue crackled and smoked, rioja flowed abundantly. The English 'professor' was an honoured guest; steaks from the barbecue were pressed upon him, his hand was shaken and his back slapped.

At length… A hush as a freshly-washed Emilio, hair combed, was led out from his place. A couple of female relatives quickly divested him of his clothes and then – a pale, nude, slim, exquisite wood-elf – he stood on the stump, faintly pink-cheeked, to a general murmur of approval. "Que bonito!" breathed a woman near Brundle, and two younger woman whispered and giggled, but they were quickly hushed by an elder. An old crone, doubtless the Wise Woman, brought him the leather-covered volume of ritual. Emilio read the passage evenly, and faultlessly as far as Brundle could discern, in the soft Andalusian dialect that Brundle was only now beginning to understand. Then the book was taken away and, as prescribed by the ritual, Emilio was gently lifted by the crone and an older brother and passed three times through the split sapling amid muttered mumbo-jumbo from the old woman and clapping from the celebrants, most slightly drunk by now.

Then the crone lifted Emilio on to the stump again. Her voice rose to a half-chant, half-wail, then she leaned forward and her fingers began purposefully to stroke, brush, stroke…

Brundle, not knowing he did it, slowly rose to his feet.

The old woman's actions had their effect. The crowd laughed, cheered and clapped; more wine was poured. Emilio's eyes sparkled; he was flushed again, though not now, Brundle thought, with embarrassment.

The old woman's right hand took a firm grip, then her wrist began to move energetically; her other hand slid behind. Brundle craned. She had crooked her index finger; surely it was not where his had been yesterday…

Others round Brundle had stood as well. In the hard, practised and relentless hands of the old peasant woman, the boy writhed, sobbed, whistled, hollered…

"Jujamujabujacuja…" muttered the old woman, now almost out of breath.

"Oh-oh-oh…!" gasped Emilio

"Lubbajubbakokokokoko…" Then…

"AaaaaAAAAAAAAAH!!"

Emilio screamed, whiplashed, clamped his arms around the old woman's neck. Another shriek rang through the clearing, then another…

The crowd clapped, cheered, roared.

"Bravo! Que guay!"

Corks popped, glasses clinked.

"Bravo, bravo!"

Very slowly Emilio straightened. The Wise Woman was wiping her hand with a handful of dried grass, mumbling something about seed and Mother Earth.

But the boy's oddly bright eyes met Brundle's over the row of heads in between them. He grinned. Wickedly.

And Brundle saw that the boy had known all along. The rehearsal had been well planned – very well indeed.

Cheeky monkey. He would have to deal with him severely tomorrow.

Which he did – very severely indeed.

His arm was stiff for quite some time afterwards.

Author's note: The ceremony described in italics is real, and around 1990 still took place in some rural areas. I have a Press photograph of a boy's coming of age from that time, where he is passed naked through a split sapling.

Quintus Tibullus Medius, son of Gaius Publius Maximus, stood in his tent doorway and swore by ten gods, beginning with Jove the All-Powerful and working his way down to Linus the Half-Impotent, then back up again. When he had finished he felt better. But no warmer. One never did here – here on this benighted, fog-bound, rain-sodden, bloody island right at the bloody edge of the bloody world. Oh for Rome, for the sun, the fountains, the vineyards, the olive-groves, the blue light on the bay at Ostia, the soft red wine from the hills of Tuscany… Just stop, Quintus.

It was raining again. Did it ever leave off here? And the fire had gone out. Again.

Stooping against the driving wind and sleet, Quintus Tibullus headed for the big tent. The guards at the door snapped to attention as he entered, and the soldiers nearest the door struggled to their feet.

"Sit down." Impatiently, Quintus strode further into the tent and stood by the fire chafing his hands. It was warm here, and they were all clustered round the blaze, downing native fire-water, boasting, lying, squabbling, guffawing – basically the scrapings of the Twenty-Seventh Legion they sent here – and That Boy with them again. There was another thing, the camp was infested with these urchins, always wanting to earn an as or a scrap of food by running errands – and more. Quintus Tibullus shuddered.

"My bloody fire's out again," he said.

The boy jumped up. "I'll kindle it, Master. Just one moment…"

Mercenary little bugger. He had scuttled through the tent-flap before Quintus had time to say anything. Well, it couldn't get worse; let him try. Now he saw that another couple of locals had joined the soldiers in the tent – doubtless the purveyors of that unspeakable fire-water. He crossed to talk to them.

"Fraternise," Publius Blotto had advised him, he of the Senate – and Quintus, having had ample time to waste, had applied himself to learning the few grunts that constituted the local language.

"Perhaps you will be a Governor in a year or so, who knows."

All right for Blotto the Bulbous, sitting there polishing his clipea. But no thanks. Sooner be a foot-soldier in Rome, sooner clean the latrines in the Capitol. Well, perhaps not…

He returned to his tent. Warm firelight flickered on the canvas and suffused the whole interior; flames leapt and crackled in the hearth. The boy crouched in front, hands held out, his face, legs and shoulders already pink in the warmth.

"Splendid!" said Quintus, agreeably surprised. "The best fire I've had in this icebox for two kalends and half a moon."

"You are satisfied, Master?"

"I am warm, pusio."

The youngster sat on the rug, drew his knees up to his chest. "So that's settled. I am your slave now."

Quintus stared. "Here, just a minute…"

"Everyone knows you have no slave, O Quintus," said the boy complacently. "Not since Mog the Motionless stole three flagons of wine, drank them in a single night, and died of the shaking palsy. Since then – and the whole camp knows it – your fire is never lit, you are half-starved…" He looked around. "Your tent is a -"

"Yes, yes. You are well informed," said Quintus sourly. "Anyway, I was well rid of him. Even you couldn't be a more idle, useless… Well – what can you do, then?"

The boy sniffed at the remains of Quintus's last meal, wrinkled his nose. "I can cook, Master."

"Indeed?"

"My mother taught me. She doesn't want me hanging around with the men, but to be slave to a great centurion some day."

"I shall be a centurion next year; it is promised to me," said Quintus Tibullus with dignity.

"Then I'm slave to a near-centurion. My mother will be proud."

"I'll give you a trial, that's as far as I'll go. So – what's for dinner then?"

"The men have been hunting all day. You have a choice. Boar or venison."

"Mmm – my mouth is watering already. Venison, I think. And well done, please."

The youngster brought ribs, a half-leg, vegetables and – o res mirabilis – a flagon of almost-drinkable red wine. He chopped, washed, stirred. Soon the pot bubbled on the fire. Quintus Tibullus, investigating the wine further, found it even more palatable than on first acquaintance.

Two native slaves arrived with pails of hot water and began filling the tin bath in the corner. The boy watched them idly from his stool by the fire. "Ah, the luxury of being a Roman officer…"

"It's not for me, it's for you."

The boy's face fell. "Oh…that's different."

"If you think that I am having such an unwashed spectacle as my slave… Leave the stew simmering, get these rags off and get in – now." He called to the servants. "And fetch some pumice-stone."

"Ow!"

The boy shed his few clothes and climbed gingerly into the tin bath.

"Well, let's see what can be done with the sponge and my stout hands," said Quintus, pouring liquid soap into his palms. "Stand up!"

Quintus Tibullus set to work. The youngster wriggled, squawked, squealed…

"Good! Coming up nicely…"

His hands sliding over the youngster more gently, Quintus half-closed his eyes. The warmth of the fire, the steam, and the scent of the soap brought back the long fragrant evenings in Rome when he would share the big marble bath with his younger brother Sextus, a boy just into his teens like this one. And how he had loved soaping all of Sextus's smooth body, over and again, while the youngster chattered on about school, about games, about the contests in the Amphitheatre…

So very, very different… And yet – the two boys didn't look so different, with their clothes off. Not in the dim light, anyway.

"You have a name, I suppose?"

"Ulf."

"Humph. I shall name you Septimus."

"As you like."

Septimus was lifted out and dried on a huge soft towel.

Quintus Tibullus indicated the discarded clothes. "And you can throw those rags on the fire."

The boy obeyed, warmed himself at the fresh blaze, then asked, "But what shall I wear, Master?"

"Nothing," said Quintus dreamily. "You shall be a naked slave-boy, as in Egypt."

"Brrr!"

"Well…at this time of year, perhaps not. I'll get you something in the morning." He rose. "Now, get that stew ready, and snap to it."

Septimus said, "Master, I am now the slave of a nobleman, a mighty soldier, a near-centurion, and must be now spoken to with respect – properly."

"I'll take off my belt and whip you properly in a moment."

"Very well, O Great One."

The stew was ready. As the pair ate and drank, the wind rose, rattling the loose guys; the rain hammered on the stout canvas, but did not penetrate.

The boy said indistinctly, "Whew, I'm glad I won't be sleeping in that big cold tent again tonight, anyway."

"Who said?" demanded Quintus.

"Master, I am now the slave of a great man, a near-centurion, and cannot be expected

to -"

"Oh, very well, just shut up and eat."

The rain lashed the tent, now on one side, then on another. The door blew open, sending in a furry of sleet and ice-cold wind. The boy got up and laced the door, then said with relish, "You will be here for months and months. It was on the morning tablet."

"You can read?

"Of course," said the boy with dignity. "We are not ignorant. We have our schools. The monks teach us many things." He chewed, then his eyes lit up and he said, "I even know about the four elephants that hold up the corners of the earth."

"Indeed. Tell me about these wonders, then."

The boy prattled in the warm firelight, occasionally pausing to gnaw a venison rib. Quintus shuddered and averted his eyes. Julius the Lamented had been right – these were indeed a primitive and savage people. Yet who knew, what with the Roman influence…well, give it a couple of thousand years, and some of them might even pass for half-civilised.

And some were easy enough on the eye, too. This youngster, for example, with his slim body, dark hair and black eager eyes, might even be taken for a Roman boy – in the half-light, of course.

Non Iceni sed Cupidi.

Septimus discarded the rib and got up. He came over to Quintus and slid his hand down over the front of the soldier's uniform. "Let's see it," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just want to see if it'll fit in me. If I'm to be your slave now…"

"Excuse me," Quintus Tibullus said loftily. "I am aware that some of the men indulge in such practices. But I, a free-born Roman officer, have always abstained. And always will."

"You'll be the first, then," said the boy. He shrugged, returned to the fire, then went over and started jumping up and down on Quintus's huge bed. He knelt, running his fingers over the fine linen sheets. "I can't wait to sleep in here, though."

"You," said Quintus, "will sleep on the floor, by the tent door, and guard it. There are plenty of blankets."

"Excuse me," said Septimus, "But if you expect me, as the slave of a near-"

"Oh, don't start all that again," groaned Quintus. "Well, I suppose you can keep me warm for a while." He yawned, began to unbutton his uniform. "I shall retire now. Go and warm yourself up by the fire first."

"Yes, Master."

Soon, pink all over, Septimus slid between the linen sheets and pressed tight against Quintus Tibullus Medius. "If I were back in my villa among the olive groves I would be sleeping with a beautiful Roman maiden, not an impudent pusio," grumbled the latter.

"Never mind," whispered the boy. "Tell me about the young Roman maids. Would they be naked too?"

"Oh, yes."

"And…

"Ah – they would have the smoothest, most tender skin – the loveliest, most rounded breasts…"

Septimus had rolled over on his stomach. He took his Master's hand and guided it.

"Perhaps like…?"

"Certainly not!"

But, by the beard of Jupiter, what had been in that wine..?

"Admittedly…a certain roundness…a degree of smoothness…is evident, not totally dissimilar to…" Quintus Tibullus rubbed with his palm, stroked and explored with his fingers. "But -"

"And what else?"

"Oh, how they embrace one – how they kiss! Ooomph!"
"Like that, Master?"

"No – with the open lips, with the tongue – and how they twist upon you like eels, like serpents, how they writhe... Oooomph!"

Shortly later, the boy slid his hand downwards, then said, "Oh, Master! And a minute ago you said -"

"It was all that twisting about," said Quintus shortly. "Can't you keep still?"

"No," said Septimus. "Tell me more about the young maids."

"And then – and then…" Quintus went on. "At last – as you at long last…"

"Turn a bit," whispered the boy. "Like so…"

"And it is so warm – so tight…how you sink in, in and in…and how you are gripped…. Aaah!"

"Y-yes, M-master..?"

"And – they do so much too – so much – with the most unbelievable, the most furious twistings, heavings and wrigglings – yes, yes…"

"…and with the most exquisite, the most incomparable sighs, sobs, moanings and shriekings… oh, like so – like so… Till almost as soon as….waaaaAAARGH!"

Much later the boy said, "You can keep it there as long as you like. All night if you want to. We can sleep with it in."

"I doubt if I would sleep," said Quintus, rather hoarsely.

"Very well, Master. And – and – afterwards..?"

"Ah, afterwards…the tenderest, the most lingering and loving embraces, the softest, most romantic whisperings as one falls gently into sleep… Eh, what was that?"

"Can I – can I move a bit closer, Master?" murmured the boy.

"That would be difficult," said Quintus Tibullus.

"It's just that…I've stickied the sheets my side. Sorry."

The Solstice passed and soon, the gods be praised, it would be spring. One day a messenger came running to the camp, burst into Quintus's tent, and fell prostrate on the grass.

"O Quintus Tibullus Medius, mighty soldier, near-centurion, son of Gaius -"

"Get on with it."

The messenger handed Quintus a wax tablet, which he read.

"Thank you," he said coldly. "You are dismissed."

When the messenger had gone, Quintus leapt in the air, whooping.

"A centurion at last – in the Guard – and in Rome. I can scarcely believe it. Ah, the -"

"You're going away?" The boy's eyes were huge, black as a panther's.

"Yes, yes, oh yes! Back to my villa, to the pool, to the sun, the vineyards, the olive-groves, the sun on the water at -"

"Be quiet!"

Quintus Tibullus turned. The boy lay face-down on the big bed, head buried in the pillows, thumping the broad covering.

"Stop, stop! Don't want to hear no more about it!"

"What's the matter, pusio?"

"You're going away! To Rome!"

"Yes, I am. And I'll tell you something." Quintus went over and ran a hand over the boy's bare back. "You'll like it there, Septimus Minimus. You'll really like it a lot."

Author's notes:
as = a very small Roman coin, value rather less than a US cent.
clipea = medallions
pusio = urchin

It came about some years ago that an Englishmen was travelling in the far north of India, close to the border with Tibet. He had been drawn to this harsh and inhospitable region by a tale he had heard whispered in the bazaars of Allahabad and then further north and with slightly more conviction, in Lucknow and Amritsar. It was said that in a vast monastery halfway towards the peaks of the mighty Himalayas dwelt the all-powerful spiritual and temporal ruler of that region, in great splendour, closely guarded, and attended by more than a thousand monks, guards and warriors. This ruler was, he learned, a young boy of singular beauty, picked by signs and portents at birth, according to ancient custom, on the death of the old ruler, the Dorje-Buddha. The Englishman, Smithers, had seen a statue of the boy, an exquisite figure in a temple doorway, and had dared to run his hand over the cold smooth limbs until dark looks from an attendant had sent him off.

Now the north of India was then, and still is, infested with boy rulers, little godlings and mini-Buddhas. But there was more. Muttered to Smithers by a half-drunk maharajah for whom he had smuggled two litres of near-lethal Indian "Scotch" over the Nepalese border. So Smithers marched for three days through the passes and foothills of the Himalayas with only a Sherpa and seven bearers. It would not have been easy for a mere pee-ling to enter such a holy place as the monastery of Pjador (as closed from the world as the Forbidden City itself), but Smithers had friends, powerful friends, who appreciated the fire-water carried over the border every night, especially those with the "Glenfiddich" labels fashioned and affixed to them by his esteemed friend Ahmed the Dubious, a truly great artist.

At the end of the highest pass, on the very lip of a terrifying cliff, the monastery of Pjador rose midway to the stars. A temple horn sounded, then faded, as the bell was rung, and the door opened. Smithers was introduced; the robed and shaven-headed monk bowed. "We have heard of the great Smee-Tu. Please to follow me. The Dorje-Buddha will give his daily audience in a few minutes. You shall be the honoured guest."

The audience hall, three of its walls hewn from the cliff itself, was vast; it was hung with rich curtains; golden statues and effigies stood in every cranny. Monks knelt in rows, but there were also some villagers, probably with prayers and petitions. Smithers was conducted to the front, near to a raised altar area. Then a gong sounded from a gallery, a group of priest-attendants entered and there was a waft of incense. More candles were lit, and a curtain was drawn aside. And, arms upraised, the slim figure of the Dorje-Buddha stood before him.

"Ssh!" warned the guide. Then, "You are surprised, master?"

"No. But…"

"There is no need to be. You have seen how the holy men of India go naked. This is a holy boy. Holiness is perfection, and perfection needs no cloak. They are not as we ordinary mortals."

Maybe his head should have been submissively bowed, but for Smithers that was impossible. He had to take in everything of what he saw, every square millimetre of the utter perfection (how right the sardar was!) on the dais in front of him. The boy would have been little more than twelve years old in English terms, with the slimness of boyhood, yet still with a childish roundness about the hips and thighs that contrasted a little with his near-adult dignity as he moved hither and thither about the altar. Bells tinkled, censers were swung, the Dorje-Buddha gravely bowing, accepting petitions, making signs of blessing in each direction. His face, relatively light-skinned, was a perfect oval, curtained with long dark hair on either side; his large, liquid eyes, fractionally slanted, were grave and cool. He wore only a pair of ornate slippers and a great jewel around his neck that caught the million candle-flames in the hall, flashing and flickering.

The great jewel was not however the only beautiful thing that hung in front of the boy, nor was it all that quivered and bobbed wondrously as the boy-Buddha descended a flight of steps from the dais to hear the petitions of some disabled villagers at its foot. Seeing everything closer, Smithers swallowed. The boy was flawless; this was living sculpture.

Then it was over. The Dorje-Buddha climbed the stairs and a curtain was drawn.

A monk plucked at his sleeve. "Your private audience, Smee-Tu."

The boy lay on cushions, monk-attendants on either side. His eyes were so deep that they seemed almost without pupils, his expression impossible to read.

"Wel-come to the monastery of Pjador-La, O Smee-Tu", he said in hesitant English. "I hope your stay in our country will be a happy one."

Smithers bowed. "My Lord Buddha, may I compliment you on your command of our language."

The boy bowed in return. "There was an Englishwoman who taught me once. Then the… plague have taken her."

"I'm sorry."

"They wished for me to learn English," said the young Buddha. He had an engagingly boyish habit of repeatedly pushing the long hair back from his face. "They say I am to be a great ruler and must comm – comm -"

"Communicate," said Smithers. Under the guise of shifting to a more comfortable position, he moved forward a little. No, not a single hair – or at least not one visible from here. Or did they clip him, perhaps? They hadn't cut anything else. Smithers approved.

He said, "With regard to the English, if I may be of assistance...?"

"You will have tea, Smee-Tu?"

The boy-Buddha conferred with the acolytes, the acolytes conferred with the priests, the priests conferred with the High Priests, after which Geoffrey Smithers Esq MA was installed as English tutor to the Dorje-Buddha, prince and ruler.

He began that evening. Shortly after the commencement of the first lesson, Smithers decided that it would only be possible for him to continue if they sat on either side of a small table. After that, there was only a glimpse of bare rounded hip to distract him from the printed page.

"It is time to prepare for bed, my lord," murmured one of the young monks at length.

"You will continue my lesson while I have my bath," said the boy. "The English Missus said the custom was not to waste time, yes?"

Soon, amid scented steam but with dry lips, Smithers read, "I am, you are, he is, they are", while the boy repeated the lesson after him in a high, clear voice. He was bathed standing upright in a wide basin by two monk-attendants little older than himself. Pouring scented soaps into their hands from tall vials, they gently rubbed and lathered every tiny inch of the boy, at the most delicate areas lifting, moving to this side and that, soaping below and underneath, gently parting his thighs. Then turning him, bending him, the soaped hands making the exquisite flesh tremble wonderfully. And, legs open once more, as one monk-attendant holds the delectable cheeks apart while the other, still bare-handed, busily soaps the soft warm cleft in between.

"I come, you come…" Smithers was unable to hold his book, and put it down.

The whole process is repeated, this time with clear warm water. And finally the boy-Buddha is dried, inch by inch, by both monks together, with large soft towels.

How do you get a job like that? Smithers began to wonder how he would look with a shaven head.

Next day, the lessons proceeded well. At one point the boy, wishing to concentrate, pushed his chair back from the table, and Smithers' own concentration failed again. Just what was it, he wondered, that was so utterly breathtaking about the inner curve of a boy's upper thigh, especially when widened by contact with the edge of a chair. If he out a hand on it – brushed it as if by accident – what would happen?

Don't even think about it, Smithers. The penalties for touching the boy-Buddha must be frightful. Slow roasting over the monastery fire perhaps, or – if they were inclined to be lenient – simply having your head chopped off with a scimitar. He didn't believe that about the English governess and the plague.

Then fate played a part. The boy had torn up some paper and a small piece lodged right on his bare thigh. If he had paused to think he couldn't have done it, but Smithers leaned forward and quickly brushed it off.

"Oh, pardon me," he said, horrified. "I know I must not touch you. Do forgive me; I forgot."

He hoped it would be the scimitar; at least that would be quick.

The boy pushed his hair back and said evenly, "It is the soul of the Buddha that is sacred, not the body. My body, it is nothing. To touch, it is no matter."

Smithers cleared his throat. "Yet in England," he said, "When we have great esteem for someone, we show it by touching, by stroking their body. May I show my regard for you in this way?"

The boy shrugged, eyes on his book. "You have this permission, if you wish. As I say, it is no matter. I am, you are. I was, you was. Were. Oh, it is not easy, this English."

Smithers' palm encircled the boyish knee, then moved up, sliding, stroking. He remembered stroking the smooth marble of the statue. But this was even smoother, warm and full of infinitesimal movements and responses in its aliveness. Now the boy was continuing from his reader.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Creeps in…"

Moving his chair closer, Smithers could reach a little further. Quite a bit further, in fact, even if just with his fingertips. Ah. Firm but quite soft. The boy read on, his voice steady, eye on the page.

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools…"

Did he dare…?

Breath held, Smithers gradually made a circle with his hand, slowly took an increasingly firmer grip, then began sliding it up and down, at first with infinite slowness.

"You wanted to learn English customs," he said. "This is one."

"It is what a small boy's ayah do in our country to comfort him at night," said the boy-Buddha dismissively.

"But when an English boy is near to coming of age," said Smithers. "When he is a child no longer…"

He speeded up, tightening his grip a little. And it was hardening now, straightening up, rising in his grasp.

"A p-poor player, who s-s-struts.."

Smithers continued too, his grip tight, as fast and vigorously as he could. The boy had begun to quiver all over; Smithers could feel the boy's thighs beginning to tremble, to close in tight around his hand, move out again, close again. His neat bottom began to shift, to writhe on the seat. Small noises, gasps, punctuated the reading.

"It is a t-tale, t-t-told by an id-id…Wow-wow!"

Smithers had pushed the table aside; half-kneeling on the floor, he worked even more furiously than before, and the boy twisted yet more vigorously as his hips and buttocks began to contract spasmodically.

"Sig-signifying noth-noth… OH-OH-OH..! WaaaaAAAAAAAAH!"

The boy's knees had thudded up against the edge of the table, knocking it over. Eyes screwed, he threw himself back on the couch, his entire body convulsing. Reaching up, he grabbed Smithers hand and clamped it firmly in place, and the movement went on and on…until there was another explosion and another yell. At long last the boy stopped wriggling on the couch, though Smithers' hand was still in place, the boy holding it there. At length the boy sat up again, picked the book from the floor and handed it to his tutor. He said gravely, "Other coming of age customs I learn, but this English one I think is the most good. Now it is done, I am in – in -?"

"Initiated? Yes, you could say that."

"Then I never have it again?" A distinct note of wistfulness.

"Not at all. Listen. In England it is what we call…"

* *

Three days later Smithers again forgot himself. He came into the room behind Sanvay (the name permitted by the boy-Buddha to those closest to him), seated at his work as usual. The boy looked round and said, "G'morning, Smee-Tu!" with such an impishly boyish grin – the first Smithers had remembered seeing – that he impulsively tickled the youngster under both armpits. "Morning, kid. Working hard, then?"

Sanvay squealed and squirmed. "This too an English custom? This I like also. This you show me too?"

"On the couch, then."

The boy bounced across, and soon Smithers' agile fingers were working diligently and fast, everywhere…

The monks in nearby rooms stared at one another in amazement as delighted screams echoed through the old walls, and went on, reaching crescendo after crescendo. Then they smiled too; it was a sound they had not heard before, but they liked it.

Next day, when Smithers arrived to give the English lesson, the boy lay sprawled on his back on the couch, knees bent and apart, arms outspread.

"The lessons we do soon," he declared. "But first the Tee-Cool."

The boy-Buddha's knowledge of the more refined English customs grew apace. A few days later before lessons, Smithers, having tickled a naked, screaming, thrashing, long-legged bundle of frenetic delight all over the couch and then all over the floor, was met with another question. "There are then no more, Smee-Tu?"

"Eh?"

"These then are the best English customs – the Tee-Cool and the Van-Keen? My lady tutor, she also do the Span-Keen when my work not good, but the customs of Smee-Tu are better, I think. Yet are there still other customs, O Smee-Tu, that you do not tell me of?"

Smithers hesitated, then he said, "There's one more thing you do with someone you care about a lot…"

The boy's face was solemn, his black eyes fixed on Smithers. "You care for me, Smee-Tu?"

Smithers rose. "You know I do, little lotus-blossom. If you will excuse me, there is something I must fetch from the kitchens first."

Some time later, Sanvay was fingering his rear and looking at Smithers wide-eyed, an expression on his face Smithers had never seen before. "What is this custom called?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

Smithers told him.

"This Vor-Keen," said the boy-Buddha," you may do again."

* *

Some months passed. The boy-Buddha progressed even further in his knowledge of English and international affairs, with particular reference to sport and distilling, and Smithers became an esteemed resident of the monastery; there was talk of making him an honorary lama. One day, a party of travellers arrived, led by two English ladies of incomparable age and immeasurable distinction. They, too, were admitted to a private audience with the Dorje-Buddha. Before they entered, their guide whispered privately to them. In the Presence, the ladies blushed and momentarily lowered their eyes. Their maid, who had taken off her glasses, put them on again. Compliments were exchanged; tea was drunk. The English ladies declared themselves much impressed with the boy-Buddha's command of their language.

"Also I have learned the English customs," said Sanvay.

"Really?"

The boy cleared his throat. "There are many English customs," he announced, "But the finest of them is the Vor-Keen." He addressed his attendants. "Send to me Smee-Tu."

"He had to leave urgently on a long journey, my lord."

"No matter," said Sanvay. "Bring instead my boy-attendant Dzaza. Then, English mesdames, the Vor-Keen I shall show to you."

Twittering with polite anticipation, sipping tea, the English ladies waited.

Shit. The train was delayed, the evening bitter, the waiting-room windowless, the bar closed. At least an hour to wait and, though it was only four o'clock, a February mist was already beginning to roll in from the fens. The curve of the up-line was almost hidden now, the far end of the platform was blurring, and the edge of the mist was brushing against the station's old-fashioned wooden canopy. Just, thought Marshall, like the beginning of one of those Victorian spine-chillers. In a moment there would be the tap of footsteps in the empty parcels office, then the wind of a driverless train on the disused branch-line…

He shivered, then moved from the branch-line platform to the main part of the station. Here it was more brightly lit, and the approach of the rush-hour was already evident. A suburban train pulled in, doors opened and slammed. At the end of the platform, some schoolboys clustered and pointed, one or two thumbing through pads and notebooks. Others from the train that had just arrived scampered to join them. Most of the boys appeared to have come from the same school – white shirts, dark raincoats, black-and-white ties and scarves. The newcomers jostled for position, tumbling and punching.

"Gerroff!"

"Gerroff yourself. I was here first."

Marshall smiled. Train-spotters. The satchels of his own schooldays had given way to executive-style briefcases and sports bags – not to mention fluorescent arm-bands – and, indeed, he'd thought that the train-spotter himself, with the departure of the steam-giants, was by now an extinct species. Evidently not. At least, not in the sidings and shunting-yards of an ancient university town like this one.

And there was more. He had wandered closer now. A kind of law of inverse pulchritude posited an ascending relationship with distance from the infernal smoke, and here it was expressed, perhaps, in the lack of a certain hard-edged machismo, but also physically, in the very delicacy and curves of the cheeks, the lightness and soft contours of the hair, the limpidity of the eyes and skin…

"Piss off, you!"

"No, gimme it, fart-face! It's mine!"

Marshall smiled again and sat down on a bench. Well, perhaps in some ways they were all much the same. But this lot, visually…

He was always prepared to follow at least one of his many interests. He took out his Nikon, fitted a 200m lens, and started to focus. He noticed that one of the schoolboys also had a camera. Spotters all… The scene was backlit, and tricky. But there was enough artificial light to fill in at least some of the details he wanted, and perhaps something quite arty could be made of the pale mists and the swirling clouds of exhaust from the locomotives. He would take a few shots from the middle distance, then move closer.

Marshall set the shutter, then began to click.

"I'd wait for the 16.34 if I were you," came a voice from close behind, making him start. "That's just an ordinary multiple-unit job, they're two a penny on this line, just these and an occasional Class 47. The through-road's on the other side. The 16.34's the 125 to Peterborough, but it moves pretty fast. You'll need a good lens, in this light."

Marshall had turned. Very slowly, he put down his camera. He didn't speak for a moment. This had to be – had to be – the prize spot of the week. The year. Clearly from the same school as the others, but the coat collar and scarf only partly hid the tumbled blond hair, the clear blue eyes, the perfect, unblemished skin.

"These sprogs see a couple of multiple-bogies in an afternoon and think it's no end of a big deal," said the youngster dismissively, indicating the group near them. "Really, you have to go down to King's Cross or maybe up to Peterborough to see the really good stuff – you know, the Class 91s and that. I often do, 'cos I like to take photos, too. But if you've got film left, I'll show you where you can get a good shot of the express, if you like. And there's some interesting stock in the sidings. I could show you that first."

"Okay – thanks. What's your name?"

"Andrew. Shall we go?"

They got up, then Marshall asked uneasily, "Er – shouldn't you be...?"

"Oh, there's plenty of time. They drop us here from the school bus, and most of us have to wait ages for our connections. We're supposed to be getting on with our prep." He laughed. "Come on!"

They crossed to a broad siding between tow main platforms. Marshall tried not to stare at the boy, but could hardly help it. The eyes had it, of course. Though…did one talk about "cupid lips" these days? And he certainly showed beautifully even, white teeth when he smiled.

He smiled now. "There's more of my mates over there – doing their prep."

There were about a dozen schoolboys scrambling around in the area of the brightly-lit siding; Marshall and Andrew stopped where a couple of youngsters were examining a long and powerful locomotive, entering its number in their loco-files. There were several other large diesels there; it appeared to be a holding area.

"A very nice model, that one," said Andrew, pointing. "New livery."

One of the boys turned to look curiously at the pair. He recognised Andrew and grinned.

"I prefer them without, on the whole," said Marshall.

"Mmm, I think you're right." The boy led the way a little further along the platform. "Now – over there, that's much the same, but as you can see, a slimmer body."

"Yes, I do rather like the slimline models," Marshall said, "And a nice design all round, that one is, especially with that neat rear end. The design would be – how many years old, now?"

"About twelve," said Andrew. "There are two of them actually – twins, you might say. And they both have neat couplers in front, too."

"I can't see that, of course," said Marshall, "but I'll believe you."

The express came through, rattling past the main platform in ten seconds flat, wailing away into the mist in only a second or two more.

"Missed it," said Andrew.

"Pity. On the other hand…"

They strolled further down the platform.

The boy pointed again. "That one good enough for your album?"

"I'd say. Lovely bodywork, as far as I can see. Even with those headlamps."

"Headlamps come off."

They wandered to the edge of the platform.

"That one's one of my favourites," Andrew said. "Fabulous design – super body, great front and rear both, lovely horn… Yes, I really like that one."

"I can see why," Marshall said. "And how many years old is that one?"

"About thirteen."

They walked back up the platform, under the wooden saw-tooth awning.

"And you?" asked Marshall.

"Fourteen," said Andrew. Then he added, "I've got no hairs, though."

"I can believe that," said Marshall, and dared to touch the exquisitely smooth cheek, briefly, with his finger-tips.

"Well – just a few little ones, that's all."

It was brightly-lit here, and more crowded. It was approaching the peak of the rush-hour. They stopped at the buffet.

"Let me get you something," Marshall said.

"Thanks. A milk-shake, if that's okay."

They sat down; the boy sucked the milk-shake; Marshall put his camera away.

Marshall said, "Though, at a school like yours, you hardly need to come here to do any spotting, do you?"

"True," said Andrew. "The swimming-pool's best. In our school we only get to wear swim-trunks in Second Form. The First-Formers – the twelve-year-olds who have just started – have to swim bare." He giggled and added, "Actually, sometimes our form has to as well, if the master's annoyed with us for any reason. Which is frequently."

Then he said, "I'm interested in trains too, though. I'll show you my photo-album sometime."

"Great. but now tell me a little more about the First-Formers – and about your friends. And about how they look without their…livery."

Andrew began to tell him…

"…and they're quite often hard, you know, sometimes for the whole swimming-class…"

Then the youngster's voice tailed off, and Marshall felt his hand very firmly seized, then pulled.

"Not here!" he hissed.

"I-I can't help it. Thinking about… Here, through my coat pocket."

With infinite care, Marshall investigated.

"Wow!" Then he asked, "In the swimming classes, is it…?"

"When I haven't got my swim-trunks on, nearly all the time!" The boy giggled again, pressed down on Marshall's hand and made a slight movement. "Please…"

"Not here," said Marshall. "Don't be daft."

"Please!"

"No!"

"Oh dear!" said the boy. "Oh dear, oh dear. I've spilt some of my milk-shake. Clumsy me." He opened his coat. "Have you a tissue?"

Marshall fumbled. "I think so."

"Then you could rub it off for me – I mean rub the stain off. If you wouldn't mind."

"I think I could do that." Marshall found a tissue and crouched, occasionally brushed by passers-by. He set diligently to work.

"How am I doing?" he enquired after a minute.

"It's certainly c-c-c-" The boy had begun to squirm on the seat. With a sudden movement he crammed his scarf in his mouth. His body shuddered, then quivered and jolted all over; choked sounds came from behind the scarf; the legs in the grey school trousers flexed, then relaxed. After a moment, the scarf slid down again.

"It's a disgrace!" said a voice alongside.

Marshall jerked upright. A stout woman with a shopping bag had materialised on the bench beside them.

"I dunno, you got to be cleaning them up all the time – ice-cream, milk-shakes, I dunno. I dunno what young people are coming to, a disgrace they are."

After an interval Andrew said, in a slightly strangled voice, "I've got sticky underpants too."

"I'm not surprised," said the woman. "If I was your mother…"

But Marshall had swiftly conducted Andrew away, smiling inanely at the woman; the boy walked a little awkwardly. Then Marshall said, "Saturday morning – that's tomorrow – about ten. That's the best time for spotting."

"I'll bring my notebook."

* *

Saturday morning was bright and crisp, and Andrew was undoubtedly the most noticeable object on Platform 1, not just because of his bright scarlet cagoule. He came scampering across the Marshall, and took a weighty book from his rucksack.

"I've brought my railway album to show you. I can prove that I'm a good photographer too. I'll show you later."

He wore a blue shirt, neat blue jeans and white Nikes. The light breeze ruffled his blond hair. Something inside Marshall contracted sharply; his memory of yesterday evening hadn't played him false.

"But for now…" said Andrew, seemingly in high spirits, "I'll show you the Spot of the Day. Follow."

He scooted off with Marshall behind, the latter a little breathless. At the end of the platform a boy sat on a pile of fish-boxes, thumbing through a timetable. He turned and grinned. "Hi, Andy."

He was about thirteen, slim and clear-skinned, with jet-black hair and dark eyes. He said, "The ten-fifteen's about due. You're just in time. Class 45, probably the 4703."

"I've got that already," Andrew said. "I'll be back later. I just want to see if there's anything new in the goods-yard."

"Okay, see ya!"

Out of earshot, Andrew said, "That was Toby."

"Yes, I see what you mean. Friend of yours?"

"He's not at my school. I only met him recently. That's – well, partly why I've come." He added quickly, "You're the other part, of course. And…the trains, too."

They sat on a bench; Andrew took out a camera and started loading film. "I might get some shots today." Then he nodded in the direction of the distant Toby. "You think that's a – nice model?"

His eyes fixed on Andrew, Marshall said, "I like what I see enormously – though 'nice' is hardly the word. Maybe…'spectacular' would be a bit closer."

Andrew looked up quickly from his camera; suddenly he coloured.

After a moment or two he said hesitantly, "If you wanted to make friends with Toby – really best friends – what would you say to him? I'd like to – get it right."

"It's important," agreed Marshall. He paused, his eyes unmoving. "I'd say – well, quite simply, I like you very much indeed and want us to be friends – very best friends. Knowing him – what d'you think he'd say to that, eh?"

"Easy. He'd say, 'I want that too,' of course. No problem." He finished loading his camera and snapped the back shut. "And then?" he asked.

"It depends on what you want. I mean, what do you want to do?" asked Marshall cautiously.

"I'd want to do anything," said the boy, not looking up. "I mean, anything that you – I mean that he – would want."

"Well, then if I – you, that is, liked him a lot – I mean, really a lot…"

Andrew looked up and nodded slightly.

Go for it.

"Then I'd say something like – I think you are just so fabulously nice, super and fantastic that I'd like to take off all your clothes, every single stitch, and lick you and kiss you all over – every last inch of you…"

"Wow!" breathed the boy. "And…"

"And then I'd lay you flat on your back and give you such a...seeing-to that you could never have imagined the like – ever – in this world or the next."

"Wow!"

"I'd make you whoop like a Comanche, buck like a steer, shoot like a Colt-45. So – what d'you think he'd say to that, eh?"

The boy swallowed, twisted on his seat. He whispered, "I think he'd say…when?"

"You choose."

Andrew squirmed again, then giggled, "And he might also say – you've made me as stiff as a board now!" He reached out and grabbed at Marshall's hand, but Marshall held back.

He laughed. "No, no – I don't think we could get away with that milk-shake trick again, do you?"

"Probably not," said the boy unhappily. "Anyway, Toby – I mean I – wouldn't want it like that this time."

"How d'you mean?"

The boy lowered his voice. "I mean – not through my trousers this time. This time I'd – I'd want to feel your hand holding my – my bare willy. I-I'd like you to do it properly." He pressed close and Marshall felt a slight tremor.

"I'd like to as well. But not here."

The boy said, "There's a shed at the end of the siding; they keep old lamps and other gear there. I've rummaged in it often. We'll go there."

Marshall hesitated, then shook his head.

"It's okay," urged Andrew. "Nobody goes there – especially on Saturdays."

"No," said Marshall more firmly, "I think I have a better idea. What I don't want is – well, some kind of a fumble in a dark shed. It's not how it should be for us. Don't you see that?"

"I suppose so," said the boy.

"Well, then – "

"But do it anyway!"

"No! What we can do!"

"Please!" the boy tugged at his arm.

"Young man, you are asking for a good spanking!"

The boy got up, still holding Marshall's arm. "I don't mind. You can do that in the shed too. Nobody comes there. You can take my pants down."

"Much as I would like to do just that…" Marshall rose too, and firmly pressed the boy back into his seat. "By virtue of my work, I have the unparalleled luxury of a suite at the Metropole all week. Tomorrow, Master Andrew, you will come and have a highly respectable Sunday tea with me. Four o'clock. And bring your photo album."

* *

The hotel was venerable, the orchestra execrable, the cream buns abundant.

"We'll do this again," said the boy indistinctly.

The boy had taken out his photo-album. "Look, here's some shots of our sports day. Nice gear, don't you think. Green tops, really short shorts. That's why I took these." Andrew gently ran a fingertip over a few of the photos."

"Your photographic skill is…incomparable," said Marshall, looking just as closely.

"And here's some at the swimming gala. These are nice too, because like I said the First-Formers swim bare. See?"

"They're winners, no doubt about that!"

"And here's me when I was in First Form, on the diving board. I won the class that year."

"I bet you did!" Then Marshall said, "You'd better close that, before you give the waitress an unexpected treat."

The boy closed the book, than looked solemnly at Marshall.

"Do you keep your promises?"

"Which?"

"The ones you made yesterday."

"Come and see."

Very shortly later, all of Andrew's clothes were puddled on the floor of the suite; he twirled round and about, slightly rosy-cheeked, then faced his new friend, arms theatrically outspread. "Well, better than the photos?"

"Many times nicer," breathed Marshall, scarcely finding his voice, "Mega-times."

"You can take some, if you like."

"Later. But first…

"First – everything you said!"

"Everything – like..?"

The boy came over, sat on the bed tight beside Marshall, clutched him round the neck, swallowed, whispered fiercely, "Like – make me whoop like an Indian, kick like a colt…"

"Okay, you asked for it – and now I will have no mercy…"

"No!"

"Yes!" Marshall pushed the boy on his back on to the bed. "And you're almost ready for it.." He worked busily for a moment. "Oh, wow! Now you are!"

He lowered his head…

The boy jolted from top to toe. "Aaaah!" Then all at once he grabbed a pillow, crammed it down over his mouth. And Marshall again set diligently to work, the boy twisting, writhing, and wah-wah-wahing into a pillow he'd crammed into his mouth, like the scarf the day before. Marshall was glad about the pillow; in the busy hotel they were no more isolated, acoustically speaking, than they had been on the station platform. And then the boy's whole body arced as if shot through by a thousand megavolts; he bounced upright and shrieked, shrieked again. His legs flew, scissored, his toes working, his bare thighs clamping and unclamping on either side of Marshall's head as he continued relentlessly and the boy's body was swept through by end-to-end shocks, over and over, and as he yelled, again and again…

At last the youngster lay back slowly, though all his muscles still jerked spasmodically, the skin twitching and quivering.

At last he relaxed. "Wow!" he breathed. "Oh wow, wow!"

"Is that all you can say?" teased Marshall.

After a time the boy regained his breath, then he got up and scampered across the room. "Now, the rest of my pictures."

Marshall took an armchair; the boy sat in his lap, wriggling into position, then started to turn the pages again.

"There – that's the sports day. There's Timmy; he's thirteen. Just wearing his shorts, his shortest pair. Sitting on the grass, hugging his knees. Oh, and here's the Second Form swimming gala; we'd been fooling around, and we all had to swim bare. The master said, if you behave like First-Formers… See – there's Timmy again, standing on the side of the pool. Oh, and there's the twins. You remember when we were talking about engines, and I said what neat couplers they had in front? Well, look…"

Then the boy swallowed and said, "You realise, don't you, that if we look at more of these, you'll have to do all that all over again? And more, perhaps."

"And next..?"

"And next, on the diving-board…"

Author's note: This story began on the platform of Cambridge railway station, England, where I, like Marshall, found myself temporarily stranded – a not infrequent occurrence on East Anglia railways.

There was no doubt, it began with the balcony scene.

Right, they said.

I coughed, thumbed my script, earned a black look from the producer. Dress rehearsal and you haven't learned your lines yet, that look said.

Well, too bad, "He jests at scars that never felt a wound," I read crossly, then turned another page. "But soft! What light from yonder window…"

But soft. They could say that again. Juliet. Tripping on stage, nimble as a cricket, chest-high to a grasshopper. Fair hair tumbling on to her shoulders, her brilliant blue eyes high-lit, candles illuminating her softly curved cheeks, her flawless complexion, her delicate lips. And the long silk dress, neat at the trim waist, clinging to that round pert bottom.

"Oh, Romeo…"

"Oh, lord…"

And then the orchard scene – the big kiss. Wow-ee! All that tongue stuff, I could hardly believe it. Now, just where did a thirteen-year-old minx learn that? And feeling the smooth skin under the silk, the slim lithe body..

A distinct tingling below, in fact. I looked down.

Jesus. These Elizabethan tights hid nothing. Best just ask them for a codpiece and have done with it. I adjusted my doublet as best I could, holding my script in one hand.

"Farewell, farewell! One kiss and I'll descend."

If only. And then, in the final scene…

"Hey, break it up, you two," said the producer sharply.

The minx fluttered her eyelids at him.

"We're supposed to be in love."

"You're supposed to be dead," snapped the producer, "Read the bloody script before the next rehearsal."

I got changed, then sat on the wall outside, looking at – well, the bits of the school that were in front of me, and the bits on either side. St Bede's wasn't Eton, I give you that, but being Head Prefect did have its compensations – though acting in the school play wasn't one of them. God knows how I'd been talked into it.

I got up as my horrible little fag, Binns Minor, came running round from the dressing-room, swinging his wig in one hand and his costume in the other.

He pulled at my arm. "C'mon, let's go."

As if I'd been waiting for him; I ask you!

"You can give me another kiss if you like," he said. "Another whopper."

"Don't be gross," I said.

"Never mind," said Binns Minor. "I'll walk back with you anyway. You can take my hand."

"Behave yourself," I said crossly, pushing it away. "I shouldn't even be seen walking with a First Form grub, but – well, since you put on a fairly good show…okay."

"Gee, thanks…" The imp turned big eyes up to me. "Gosh, I'll always remember this, Dobbs Major."

"Oh, shut up. Come and make toast for me."

He made toast and coffee and I let him have some as well. He sat in the armchair opposite, swinging his legs, getting as much half-melted butter around his mouth as possible. I groaned. Binns Minor – what a spectacle. Uncut hair tousled, smeared face, crumpled grey shorts, grubby knees…

"And don't pick your nose," I said. "Just why are First Form grubs so repulsive?"

The imp considered the ceiling, and said, "Jorkins doesn't think I'm repulsive. He sent me a note once."

I sat upright and glared. "But you didn't..?"

He gave me his water-melon smile. "Oh, no. I'm your fag, Dobbs Major, aren't I?"

"Hmm." For better, for worse, as the saying went. As Head Prefect, I'd had first pick from the line of new bugs. Why I picked this specimen I had no idea, nor had I any idea why those two asses Truscott and Jorkins whispered and sniggered behind me. Well – I suppose I had really, but of course I don't bother with any of that nonsense. When the toast was finished, I pushed the imp out and got on with seriously learning my lines.

* *

It went better on the following night. After the orchard scene, and the big kiss at the end, Juliet and I were in the wings for a while during the Friar Lawrence scene and – well, we had an extra rehearsal. It seemed only right to make the best use of the time. I gave the tongue-bit a try-out too, and…although my tights didn't quite spilt open, I was nevertheless glad we were well out of the spotlights.

Especially when the minx whispered, "By the way, they're a little short in the costume department tonight. I don't have any knickers on."

"I'll check," I said. There were slits in the side of the dress. My palms moved over warm, deliciously smooth, deliriously bare skin.

Then my mouth was locked against the minx's again, and I knew she could feel me right against her; that giggle said everything. Dear God, I'll explode there in a minute. Before I did, I pulled away.

"Why do girls have such lovely round bottoms?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Lights, please," called the producer, and we fled into the dark like Macbeth's witches.

All of that didn't harm my appetite, and there was toast, butter and jam at tea-time.

"You're actually quite good at this, for a foul grub," I said. Probably because I was quite tired, and now relaxed in the heat of the fire, I let him stay on a bit, and he crouched in the hearth making toast on a long fork, his knees pink in the heat. And I let him chatter on – all about his friends, his football scores, and how he wanted to get into the under-fourteen cricket team. And when he came and sat on the arm of my chair, then slid into my lap, I felt just too tired to push him off. Acting does take it out of one.

But at last I recollected myself and pointed towards the door. "Night's candles are burnt out."

"Wow, the producer will be pleased. You've learned a whole line."

"Out!"

An hour later, I'd just got into bed when the door creaked and swung open, very slowly. I should explain, by the way, that I have the privilege of my own room. Though others of the top swine sometimes pop in for a yarn and, perhaps, a secret smoke.

But that was…Juliet. I gasped. In the lamplight coming through the window, the delicate skin was as exquisite as before, the soft blond hair as silky, the long dress as wonderfully bottom-hugging as ever.

"Come here, you bewitching creature," I whispered. "Now."

Another long, fabulous wrestle, another of those tongue-and-teeth kisses that almost brought me off by themselves, then the whisper, "I'm bare underneath. The zip's at the back. Can you reach it?"

Could I what? In a moment I had that dress off, and in an instant that lithe nude bouncing body, all-over pale as a moonbeam, was on top of me, squirming and twisting – then the bedclothes were being pulled off, my pj's too, flung on the carpet. Fingers slid behind my head, pulling it down, then I started work with a diligence that was in a moment rewarded by a crescendo of shrieks, slim legs pedalling the air, till the tummy-muscles rippled and convulsed and the minx jack-knifed from end to end with a banshee-scream that I very quickly had to muffle with a pillow before the whole House heard. The whole School.

And a moment later, the minx panting my turn, then working with lips, tongue and teeth till I too gasped and exploded like a bomb, drawing one delighted snicker after another from down below.

We lay still for a moment or two afterwards, holding each other tight, still a little breathless.

"Love you," the minx whispered, after a moment.

"Love you too, Charlie," I whispered back.

"I always knew that. But -"

"Juliet, I mean."

The minx touched the blond wig. "Do I have to – "

"Don't take that off," I said.

"Okay – but I don't understand it."

Neither did I, really.

There were some extra dress rehearsals; Juliet and I played together awesomely on stage, and even more awesomely afterwards. She stayed longer and longer; one night, daring, we slept together, bare limbs entangled until dawn, when I hastily crammed the minx into dress and shoes, then kissed goodbye before the rest of the school was awake. And at the final performance, before the governors and parents, there was no stopping us. There was one curtain-call after another. Juliet, face flushed, walked forward, holding my hand, time after time as the audience applauded and we bowed and curtseyed. It was a triumph and the even the producer almost smiled on us.

But later that night, the clock ticked…ten, eleven…no Juliet. Aching, I twisted this way and that. Was something wrong? I put out the light, lay on my back, stared at the ceiling in the dark. Cold showers were the thing, they said. They had to be joking.

A whisper, then the rustle of clothes.

"Sorry, I'll explain later." Then my naked, incomparable Juliet was all over me again, wriggling, hugging, kissing.

My pj's pulled off as usual.

"What..?" I asked, feeling something cold and a bit slippery being rubbed on me.

"Butter from the kitchen," whispered the minx. "It's a special night, isn't it?"

"Well, it certainly is now," I agreed. And after a few moments, "Okay, over you get, then."

Well, wow, wow… I can hardly describe it. Except to say that the naughty minx did as much work as me, that the furious wrigglings of the little bot under me were so extravagant that it all lasted scarcely a moment, and, when the moment came, I almost fainted. And, as my hand had been working busily the while, I was equally rewarded by a scream and a mighty earth-tremor from underneath me – and again, and again.

We lay still for a long time again after that, cuddling, stroking and whispering things that I'm certainly not going to write down.

Then I asked, "So, Charlie, what's your excuse for being so late, then? It was awful; I thought you weren't coming."

"Sorry," the minx whispered back. "I was trying to get the costume, but couldn't. They all had to go back after the performance."

Slowly, I disengaged, lay back on the pillow. Then, just as slowly, I reached across and switched on the light. On the chair, all the minx's clothes – the grey school shirt, the crumpled shorts, the grubby socks…

I closed my eyes briefly, then contemplated the ceiling, then sighed.

"Ah, wherefore art thou…Binns Minor?" I murmured. I pulled him close. "Do it again?"

"Wherefore not?"

Author's note:
1 A "fag" in this context does not have its US connotation. A fag, in the English private school system, was a junior boy who carried out simple household duties – cleaning, tea-making, errands, etc – for a senior prefect. Any other duties were strictly unofficial.
2 "Wherefore" = why.

In the interval between the first and seventh stroke of the Chapel clock Crispin had navigated across the rugger field, through the rhododendrons and the vegetable garden, over the wall and all the way down the narrow, half-overgrown lane to its junction with the main road.

Collins never knew how it was done. He opened his nearside door and the boy got in, then the Bentley moved off straight away; in the thinning traffic they would reach the forest in thirty minutes, the lodge in perhaps another five.

"How long do you have?" Collins asked.

"Till nine tomorrow," the boy said. "It's okay. I told them my mum was having people to dinner and I had to be there to play the piano – or stand on my head, or recite Gunga Din, or something."

Halted at the junction, Collins took his first proper look at the boy since last Sunday. His foot slipped off the accelerator and the engine stalled; he re-started and they moved forward again. In the intervals between seeing Crispin he would begin to doubt whether the boy could possibly look like he did; the renewal of his belief always came as this brief delectable shock.

"Cheap petrol," he said.

Mingled with elation, there was again the imperative need to find a form of words for conveying to Crispin what he knew could not be conveyed – that from now until nine tomorrow nothing else on the surface of the earth mattered, nor could possibly matter – that for him, Anthony W. Collins, nothing could ever be better than it was. He could try, but would in the end say something deflating, banal, and quite possibly inaccurate, such as that Crispin's hair needed cutting.

"Your hair needs cutting," he said.

The boy pulled a face. "That's not what you said about me before."

"And you have brought a detectable portion of the school shrubbery into my car."

Still, his St Andrew's uniform did the boy proud, colour triumphantly imposing on texture and form in a manner that was, for a conscientious driver, unsettling. Blond hair just touching the scarlet blazer, pale brown legs against the tops of the matching socks.

"Your tie is crooked and your socks need pulling up," he went on.

The boy made some token adjustments. "It's called radical chic, didn't you know? Anyway, I get to wear long trousers next term. These shorts are too small for me now."

"I can see that," said Vernon happily.

"And it gets chilly at night – especially when you insist on dragging me out like this."

Against certain contingencies Vernon had specified an automatic gear-box. This was one of them. With his right palm, unhurriedly, he massaged the boy's smooth bare knees and thighs, up and down, over and under, to and fro.

"That's much better," said Crispin several miles later.

"I'll do all of you when we get home. Every inch."

"Wow! Promise?"

"And you won't have to complain about your school uniform, because you won't have it on. You won't have anything on."

"Oh, wow!"

The road, entering the edge of the New Forest, became tortuous. Reluctantly, Collins transferred his hand back to the wheel, preparing himself mentally for the boy's next request.

"Lemme drive."

"Crispin, I've told you many times that in no circumstances..."

"Well, let me steer then. Please, Tony?"

The boy slid an arm around Collins's neck; Collins felt the boy's chest, hip and thigh press tightly against his own. When Crispin did this Collins felt at once, as always, that two inches of space had materialised between his neck and the lower part of his skull, that his head was moving rapidly in a wide arc or circle, free of all roots and attachments.

"No, Crispin." He kissed the boy with great firmness, then detached his hand from the wheel and turned slightly to lift his arm. Outside, it had been raining; the Bentley skidded, half-spun and, at something over seventy miles an hour, crossed the grass verge into a rampart of trees.

* *

"Do try to keep up," said the man behind Collins.

"Eh?"

"I said, please try to keep up. They don't like you to lag. Otherwise everything gets behind, and then where are you?"

"Where indeed?" Collins looked around. Oddly, it was daylight now; indeed the sky was lit from horizon to horizon as if thrown up by sheets of flat water, by lakes. He thought of Italy, of Como. But nothing was familiar. A very long distance beyond the hedges there was a glimpse of low hills, of tree-clad mountains, of falling water. A brightly-coloured bird rose, wheeled in the light warm wind, then dropped out of view again. And he was walking, walking…

The man who has spoken was small and querulous; with spectacles that were badly cracked, but still in place. "The railways are a disgrace," he told Collins. "You take your life in your hands every time, Mavis said. Little knowing, of course. It's time the government took a firm line."

"I came by car myself," Collins said.

He had become aware by degrees that he was not alone. Far from it. He was almost at the rear of a vast procession of people of all ages and in all forms of attire winding through the range of hills ahead of him, stretching on and on. A procession which, as far ahead as he could see, dwindled to a thin thread spun across plains, round the side of hills, cliffs and crevasses, onwards and upwards – a slender moving filament which, even when immeasurably distant, never completely vanished.

"Just like the seven-eleven," said Collins to his companion. "You always join the wrong queue."

"No levity, please," came a sharp voice from behind. The procession moved on.

Collins sighed. By now, of course, the situation had become clear. Bloody car. Overall, indeed, his main emotion was of considerable irritation. It was really grossly inconvenient, this, coming now, when he still had so many things he wanted to do. Though, given the circumstances, some of them might be best unmentioned.

Like in a film where one scene dissolved into another, Collins was alone again. He heard voices, a shout, laughter. This was unexpected; he turned, following the sound along a path between towering foliage, almost back in the dark now. Where the sound was clearest two immensely tall pillars stood; between them hung a heavy studded gate, completely closing the path. Half lost in shadow at the foot of each pillar great presences like black dogs stirred as he came nearer, then were quite still. Suddenly brilliant light cut through the murk and fell directly on the gate, so that he was certain he had to enter. And indeed the gate yielded easily when Collins pushed; he took a step in, stood still, then, quite suddenly, laughed.

It was a familiar country after all. The usual dream, or one of them – Arcadian Type Two, perhaps. Everything was there as before. Boys, mainly. Dozens, scores of them, playing on the grass, in the water and among the trees as far as he could see. All, of course, unbelievably beautiful, with their floating blond locks and those brief classical see-through nighties or whatever they were – except for the usual number who, by accident or design, had lost everything but a daisy-chain or two.

Oh yes, he'd been there before, and so often. Next one of the innocenti would toss him a ball; he would catch it, and so on.

"Well, come in, then," said a voice from somewhere. "I have to keep it at least tolerably warm in here – I mean, just look at them, hardly a stitch between them. I can't keep the door open all day, you know."

Collins looked around. He could see nothing; a shape, maybe. "Who are you?" he asked. "And where are we?"

"The answers to both questions would, I should have thought, been quite evident to a man of education," said the Voice with slight impatience. "Questions, questions. All this and they're still not satisfied, I don't know. Have some nectar."

A naked young elf scampered across the grass with it, his golden locks bouncing as if he had just tried the newest telly-ad hair conditioner. Collins sipped, looked around, and reflected.

"Ever grateful yet reticent," he said, "it yields its essence with subtle delicacy, a suspicion of wild gooseberries, and a finite but essentially clean finish." He handed the goblet back. "Thank you."

"Actually, you only just got in," said the Voice. "I mean, after this evening's performance…"

"Oh, ah.." Collins looked down, started to speak, then thought better of it.

"In fact, you'd be surprised what a serious view is taken of reckless driving. You were never meant to career around in these things, in the first place."

"Sorry."

"But you did have some credits, naturally." It was as if a sheet of paper rustled. "Special mention, for example, of little Arthur Stubbins. Didn't have a dad, didn't have anyone, really, until…"

Collins waved a deprecating hand. "Please…"

"So all of these – all you can see – are yours now. Your rewards – it's the System. So, if you would just shut the gate behind you…"

Collins still hesitated, and the Voice said tetchily, "Something still the matter? Aren't they pretty enough for you, then?"

"Oh, yes," said Collins, "Oh, yes, but – well, I was just looking for somebody, one in particular."

"Description?"

Paper rustled again.

Collins said hesitantly, "Sort of blond hair, not very well combed, needs cutting, a rhododendron leaf in it when last seen. Distinctly grubby hands and dubious neck. Leaf-mould on both knees, inclined to be cheeky and make bad puns, some – "

"Please!" The features were still not clear, but Collins glimpsed growing distaste. "Nobody of that description here. Really – grubby hands, dubious neck, leaf-mould... I'm surprised at you."

"Or – anywhere else around here?" asked Collins, uncertain about how to put it.

"No – nobody of that description came through all day. I have the records here, and I know." Something snapped shut.

"In that case," said Collins firmly, "I must ask you to excuse me."

He stepped backwards very quickly, as if to take the Voice unawares.

This time there was no mistaking the expression. Total disbelief, then outrage. "Excuse you?" said the voice. "Excuse you? Stop him!"

The boys came shrieking from the grass and the river, scores of hands clutched at him, but he managed to keep moving backwards, and again further backwards... The blue sky vanished and it became dark; there was a noise like thunder and some warm drops began to fall, wetting his nose, cheeks and forehead.

* *

Lights had come on again. They were somewhere beneath him now; one was coloured and spun and flashed. Someone shouted, and nearer at hand a familiar voice was sobbing hysterically, "No, Tony, please. Please..."

Collins called, "Okay-dokey!" then it seemed as if whatever was holding him in mid-air snapped, dropping him on the ground with a bump.

And it didn't hurt a bit.

I hate my little brother. And so would you. I mean – just try to imagine the noisiest, brattiest, cheekiest thirteen-year-old in the business, with a perpetually mud-streaked face, hair a tangled and uncombed mop, permanently torn jeans, a ripped tee-shirt, a shriek like a hyena, a kick like a mule... and, well, there you have him more or less. And I – I with Finals three weeks away, left in charge of him for a week. In charge – what a joke – of this human plague, this one-boy pestilence, this insalubrious gadfly, this noxious insect....

And tonight – oh, tonight was worst of all. Not just the Insect, but his friends, if friends they be, yelling, rampaging and wrestling through all the house, rattling and screaming round and round the yard on their skateboards, then, inside again, making the night hideous with the squeaks, bleeps and squawks of their wretched electronic models, games and other similar contrivances invented to make the lives of their elders as unendurable as possible.

And then, his friends banished, the Insect refusing to go to bed, standing on his head on the floor, trampolining on the sofa, then doing some kind of acrobatic where his feet, in their size-six Nikes, finally crashed right on to the table, scattering my books and papers far and wide.

So at last I did what I should have done hours earlier: I turned him over, took his pants down and thoroughly reddened his bum, then packed him off to his room.

Peace at last... Yet I still couldn't concentrate. I thumbed through my papers. The Fifth Peregrination of the Visigoths... Or was it the Fourth. Shit.

Then the door creaked and I looked around. The cheek of it. The Insect again. Half-naked as usual, just clad in the skimpy little shorts he wears in bed or around the house in the evening. Looking pathetic this time, but it wasn't going to work.

He came over and stood behind me.

"Go away," I said.

He had the impudence to wind his bare skinny arms round my neck.

"I've been crying," he said.

I couldn't be bothered to push him off.

"Hardened villains don't cry," I said.

"Well, my bum's sore," said the Insect.

"I'm delighted to hear it," said I. "Now, shove off and let me get on with my work."

Paid no attention, of course. In fact, squashed himself right up against me (yuk!) and said, "You're just cross because that silly girl isn't here and you can't smooch with her. You'll have to smooch with me instead." He pressed his face up close and blew into my ear.

I pushed him away; the Insect gets really stupid sometimes. What annoyed me more, though (and I'd never have told him this), was that when I reached round to shove him off, my hand pushed against his bare upper leg – and, well, I began to feel a distinct prickling right under the table, just below my third trouser button.... And, indeed, I'd felt the same when I'd been smacking him – which had never happened before. Was I going crazy?

"Shove off," I said again, furiously.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what? You have so many things to be sorry for that I'd like to be sure just which of them we're talking about."

"For earlier."

"Well... all right, then."

"What you did," said the Insect, "I wouldn't take it from anyone else, y'know."

"You mightn't be asked," I said shortly. "Now, look here – are you, or are you not, going to go off and leave me in peace?"

Silly question. The Insect shook his head, and his untidy locks flew. He needed a haircut, besides everything else.

I sighed. "What do you want, then?"

"This." Quick as a flash, the Insect reached under the table. He grabbed.

I yelled and shoved him away, but he jumped up and down on the carpet, clapping his hands in triumph. "So you do like me – you do! I knew it, I knew it!"

"Oh, shut up," I said shortly. "The fact is, I simply can't stand you, and you might as well know it."

"You can't fool me!" He grabbed me from behind again, and started swinging on my arms. "And I felt it underneath, when you were smacking my bum. Hard as a rock, it was."

"That was yours," I retorted, making an unsuccessful effort to detach him.

"Mine too," the Insect admitted. "Couldn't help it, feeling your nice big hand on my bare bot…Wish you'd gone on longer. I was just going to shoot." He giggled. "How'd you have liked your trousers stickied?"

"If you'd done that, you wouldn't have sat down for a month."

"Sorry I didn't, then," said the Insect shamelessly. "Anyway, you'd probably have stickied first. Like an iron bar under me it was, you think I couldn't feel it? Bare skin's sensitive, you know."

"Oh, shut up!"

"Next time," the young wretch went on, "I'll wriggle and wriggle, as much as I can, and you will sticky, you'll see!"

"Just go away and let me get on," I said wearily.

The Insect sat in a chair alongside and pulled his knees up to his chest.

"Okay, I'll play a game with you. If you win, I'll go away and leave you in peace. But if I win, then you have to do whatever I say."

I sighed and pushed my chair back. "All right, what do I do?" Better to humour him than refuse.

The Insect placed his palms together, held upright. "You do the same."

I did, then the Insect said, "Go!", reached out quickly and slapped me gently on the cheek. He said, "You lose. You should have done that first."

"I wasn't ready. It's not fair."

He shook his head. "Sorry, too late. Now you have to do what I say."

"Well?" I asked, resigned.

Quickly the Insect stood, skinned his pants down. "Suck me," he said.

I stared. Of course, I'd seen all the Insect has, many times, as he certainly isn't shy. But not like that – and I'm really talking hard. I admit it, I was impressed.

He kicked his pants off completely, then grabbed me round the neck again. "And you must do it properly," he said, his voice a bit breathless. He swallowed. "I mean, go on and on till I shoot. I can, you know."

"I don't doubt it," I said, still looking. Of course, there was no other way to get rid of him, so I leaned forward. But suddenly the Insect's arms tightened, he locked his mouth on mine, and he started doing things with his lips, tongue and teeth that even "that girl" never dreamed of. How did he learn?

And, as for me, that tingling down below got ten times worse than before. And because of the Insect... I ask you!

Anyway, I found my hands clasping his two round bare rear cheeks and, just to please him, I poked the ends of my fingers in between and wiggled them around a bit. Of course, being the Insect, he squirmed and squealed extravagantly and, when I took my fingers out, he reached round and pushed them back in again, as far as he could. Finally – quite a bit later – his lips detached themselves and I bent down again, but he pushed my head and said, "No – you must do it properly now. I mean, both of us upstairs and completely bare."

Before I could protest he was scampering for the door, his bowsprit waving in front like you wouldn't believe. So... that was how we came, shortly afterwards, to be wrestling around on my bed with not a stitch between us; what I do in the cause of a peaceful life!

Anyway, as I promised, I took my little mouthful (though not so little as I'd expected) and did my best, with the Insect – typically – playing up madly as usual, flinging his legs and arms about, laughing, whooping and shouting... And did he shoot, too – his body snapping like a whip – and with a scream like a banshee. And not just once, either!

Well, did I escape at last? Not likely; in an instant he'd wriggled upwards, pinning me down on my back, lying on his tummy on top of me. Somehow, he managed to trap mine in the tight, warm space between the tops of his thighs. He squirmed and squeezed, and I couldn't hold back a gasp.

He giggled (the Insect missed nothing) and repeated the process even more energetically – and I couldn't prevent catching my breath that time either.

The Insect said, dropping his face on mine, "1 could make you come, now – with me, because of me. Couldn't I – couldn't I?" He jerked and squirmed again; two-thousand-volt shocks began to run all through me. "Couldn't I?"

"Aaaah! Yes, yes!"

"Either this way, or suck. You can choose."

I couldn't speak for a moment. The Insect began to squirm again. "Go on – admit it – you're crazy about me, like I am about you. You'd like to turn me over and stick it right up me, wouldn't you? – just as far as you can. And I'd let you, and I'd wriggle my bum like mad for you – and I'd be the best fuck you've ever had, the best anyone's ever had. Wouldn't I – wouldn't I?"

"I told you – I c-can't stand you," I gasped.

"Yeah? Then why are you in bed with me, naked bare?" He squeezed tight as a clamp, writhed again and again.

"Waah!"

"Choose!"

I chose and – the things he had done with his tongue and his teeth downstairs were nothing, I can assure you. I just couldn't keep still or couldn't keep quiet and – Insect or no – I forgot about everything for a while. Though I don't think it took long – not long at all.

I lay absolutely breathless afterwards. Not the Insect, though. On his tummy on top of me, he bounced up and down again, and I groaned.

He prodded the end of my finger with his nose. "So – I know now – you are crazy about me!" He prodded and bounced again. "Tell the truth, now!"

I've always found that's a mistake. So I don't know what possessed me then. But whatever the reason – so help me – I shrugged, pulled his head down, then whispered in his ear.

"I knew it, I knew it!" He bounced even more gymnastically. "Now every night I'll sleep with you - every night, all night. I'm your boy now. You can suck me as often as you like, and you can stick it up me too, as much as you like and as hard as you like, and I'll do the same to you."

He thudded and thumped and I groaned again. Why can't I keep my trap shut?

"And I'll be really nice to you in the day. I'll be quiet and good as gold. I'll let you do your work and never interrupt and do everything you tell me." He lifted my hand and slapped the palm. "Deal?"

I made a face. Then, suddenly, I laughed, kissed the Insect on his cheeky little mouth and slapped his palm in turn.

"Deal!" I said.

There were soldiers everywhere. For the past week, ever since Candlemas, the town had been in turmoil. At its centre, in the old square, the gates of the castle had been opened for the first time in months, a thousand candles burned behind the slit windows, and a huge fire leapt in the Great Hall. Because tonight the King was in town, and all week heavy ox-carts laden with the choicest viands and poultry, with barrels of the richest wine and ale, had creaked their way up the lanes, along the streets, and through the gates into the milling inner courtyard. And that afternoon, amid the huzzas of the crowd, the carriages with the King and his Court themselves had driven quickly across the square and in at the castle archway, followed by a score of mounted knights, heralds and standard-bearers. Then the flag had been raised, a triple guard had been set, and none dared approach but soldiers or the richest townspeople, guests at the King's banquet. As evening approached, the carriages of the guests, one by one, had rattled over the drawbridge and through the castle gates, which had clanged shut behind each.

The bright-eyed urchin hiding in a doorway opposite watched and calculated. Then, as a soldier opened the gate to admit another carriage, the boy, fast as quicksilver, dodged behind him and was through the gate in an instant. A moment later, as the carriage clattered through and the gates slammed again, he crouched in the shadow of the high courtyard wall, eyes alert in the warm flickering light from the interior. Silas Slipper was aged about thirteen, though no-one was sure, not even he. He was small but wiry, his body and his senses sharpened by the battle for day-to-day survival in the medieval streets. He had done this before. When there were banquets in the castle there were also, he knew, rich pickings of food and wine, some to eat and drink, some to sell. And often the nobles, especially after a yard or two of good ale, were not very careful where they left their valuables...

He skirted the courtyard, keeping close to the wall. Nearly everyone was inside now; he could hear the hubbub from the kitchens, the shouts and roars of laughter and the strumming of the minstrels from the great hall, where the banquet had already begun. He knew where the kitchens were, and in a moment he was through the wide arch, down a flight of stone stairs and was flattening himself in a corner by the doorway, watching the sweating, quarrelling cooks, maids and scullions labouring round the huge stoves, running up and down with laden wooden trays on the stairway to the banqueting hall above. Rows of joints – ham, beef, venison – were laid out on a long trestle table opposite him, ready to be carried upstairs. Silas's mouth watered; the desire in his belly was almost painful.

No-one was looking in his direction; it was a moment for boldness. As if fired from a bow, Silas was out of the doorway, had snatched a ham, and then was through the door and haring back up to the courtyard, all in a split second. There was a shout, then another, and footsteps came pounding after him, but Silas, dodging from one patch of shadow to another in the vast courtyard, was confident that he could evade any pursuer. And he knew the pursuit would be half-hearted anyway. Small thieves and starvelings, through not exactly tolerated, were nevertheless a fact of life in the castle as well as in the town.

In an angle of the high wall, knees tucked up to his chest, Silas munched the ham; soon he felt good, better than he had for a long time. He looked around. He knew he could get out as easily as he had got in, but he was reluctant to abandon his adventure so soon. Just across from him, a long outside staircase wound upwards on the castle wall, then ended at an area bathed in light, just below one of the tall windows of the banqueting hall itself. He tucked the remains of the ham into the waistband of his ragged trousers, made sure he was unobserved, then scampered across the yard and up the stairs, stopping just before he reached the top, raising his eyes above the level of the sill with great caution, inch by inch.

He could see almost nothing. The window gave on to a broad but deserted gallery, but beyond its rim he could see the leaping firelight and the candle-light on the roof, could hear the roar of the multitude underneath. Carefully, Silas swung his legs over the sill, then crawled on his knees to the edge of the gallery and peered over.

He gasped. Underneath, far underneath, as in a fairy-tale, sat row upon row of richly-attired burghers, burgesses, earls, peers, knights and their ladies eating and drinking from vessels of shimmering gold and silver; in a lower gallery minstrels, tumblers and jesters entertained the guests. But Silas's intake of breath was because he was directly facing the high table where sat the King himself, together with the Queen and the very greatest of the nobles. Initially alarmed, he ducked his head quickly, then raised it again; all were occupied with their conversations, tales and jesting, and none was likely to look up, still less likely to see his small form half-hidden in the shadows.

So he crouched, completely still, taking it all in. His eye was caught in particular by the boy, scarcely older than himself, who stood behind the King, slightly to his right, sometimes pouring wine, sometimes fetching fresh dishes. A boy with long fair locks, richly dressed in scarlet and gold livery, his doublet carrying the royal arms on its chest; gleaming crowns stood on his high collar. The boy's blue eyes roamed around ceaselessly, attending to the King's every wish, yet relaxed; sometimes he smiled when the King spoke to him, smiled brilliantly, showing perfect white teeth.

Silas sighed. To be page to the King of England; how utterly wonderful. Probably the boy himself was of noble blood; he certainly looked like it, with his fair, clear skin and his easy and graceful carriage. He was clearly the favourite of the King, too; a couple of times Silas saw the King look up and share a joke with the boy; he smiled at him often, once patted his arm. The urchin's eyes remained riveted on the page. He wondered what it would be like to have a friend like that – to play with a boy like that – instead of the little ruffians and vagabonds who were his daily companions. It was unthinkable – and this, oddly, hurt in a way he wouldn't have believed.

He must have grown careless, approached too near the edge. His eyes had begun to roam around the hall, over the rushlights, the tapestries, the banners, the great hounds asleep in front of the fire. But when he looked back towards the high table he saw, to his horror, that the page-boy's eyes were fixed full on him. Or was he mistaken? He saw the boy whisper to an attendant, who left, but then everything seemed as usual, the boy didn't look again, and there were no signs of alarm or upheaval. Slowly, Silas relaxed. However, he sat down on the stone gallery floor, back against the wall, for a moment; watching the banquet had made him hungry, and he fumbled for the ham-bone again.

"So 'ere's a nice little cock-sparrer."

Silas started and shot to his feet, but he wasn't quick enough for two soldiers, both young and fit, who had come silently through the gallery window. He was caught and held firmly, with only a token struggle.

"Well, well, well," said the other soldier, looking the ragged youngster up and down with distaste. "We do get proper little varmints in this place, no doubt about it. Come on!"

Silas, resisting furiously, was dragged back down into the yard, down a further flight of stone steps, then the door of a dungeon was pulled open.

"The King's got a nice cage for sparrers like you."

He was pushed forward hard, falling on to the straw, then the door clanged behind him. He ran to the barred space in the door and swore at the guards, though without rancour. He sat on the straw-covered floor with his legs doubled under him and went back to work on the ham, which fortunately had not been found. He wasn't greatly bothered. He would be released in the morning, he knew – probably after being whipped – but it wasn't the first time, and he had survived. For the moment, he was warm, dry, and had a full belly; what more could a street-urchin want?

In a few hours the hubbub from the banqueting hall had subsided, the wheels of the homegoing carriages had stopped echoing through the yard, and Silas, head on a straw-filled sack, was asleep as deeply as he had ever been, either in the hovel he called home or on the streets.

When he awakened, however, it was still dark. There were lanterns that burned in the courtyard all night, and some light penetrated even into the dungeon, making barred squares on the floor, but of daylight there was none. He knew, somehow, that a sound had wakened him – a sound very near at hand. He stiffened, trying to see into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing.

There it was again – a muffled sob, then another. Someone, in the dark, was crying, crying bitterly. All of Silas's skin tingled; he went ice-cold. He had heard the stories about the old castle, about the ghosts, the hauntings, the headless knights and white ladies, the cries and screams heard in the empty dark. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a fairly solid shape huddled in the straw a short distance away. So there was no ghost, no mystery. He had company. Another prisoner had been brought in while he slept.

The crying continued, and he gingerly moved closer. He drew in his breath slightly. Curled in the straw was a young boy, completely naked, his head hidden in his hands, his body shaken by sobs.

Silas touched his shoulder. "'S all right," he said awkwardly. "It'll be all right, we'll get out tomorrow, we always do."

"It's not just that," came the muffled voice. "I've been punished. I spilled the best wine, I was whipped. Look."

He twisted slightly, and Silas whistled as he saw the red lines on the boy's delicate rear cheeks. Then, touching him again, he said, "It's hard luck, it hurts, but it doesn't last. I know. You'll have forgotten about it by morning, you'll see."

"But – but I'm so ashamed."

"G'wan, nothing to be ashamed of. I'm always spilling and breaking things. Here, my name's Silas. What's yours?"

"Arthur." The boy on the straw twisted around again and looked up, his face tear-stained, his hair mussed, but Silas drew in his breath immediately.

"You're the page! The King's page!"

Arthur hesitated, then nodded. "But if I spill wine, do anything wrong, then I get in trouble. Like now."

Silas nodded. Clearly, being a page in the royal household had its drawbacks. But he still couldn't take his eyes off the fair-haired boy beside him. He was like one of those boys in great paintings in the local churches or cathedrals, like the slim beautiful angels you saw clustered round the saints on the altarpieces – beings with flawless bodies, perfect features. This boy, like them, didn't look real; touch him and he might disappear.

With great care, grimacing slightly, Arthur pulled himself up to a sitting position on a sack of straw and hugged his knees. He smiled weakly. "You're right, it doesn't feel quite so bad after a while."

"You want to talk for a bit?" asked Silas, now wide awake.

Arthur looked down at the ground. "You won't want to talk to me, will you?" he asked in his soft, cultured voice, so different from those Silas was used to. "You've probably guessed, haven't you?"

Silas frowned. "Guessed what?"

"Well, it was I who gave you away, wasn't it? You must know that. I saw you, and told them."

Silas shrugged. "I don't mind; it ain't so bad here."

"But you want to know why I told them?'.

"I s'pose you had to."

"It wasn't just that. But it was just – well, I was looking into the gallery, and suddenly saw this dark-haired imp with very bright eyes looking down at me and – well, I thought…he could be fun, maybe."

Silas laughed. "That's odd. Because I thought…oh, it doesn't matter." Then he said, "But someone like you – I mean, you must have a lot of mates."

The blond boy shook his head. "I don't really have any friends – mates. I just get to meet people like – well, bishops and so on."

"Cor!" Silas was appalled. "Cor!"

The page shifted from the sacking with another grimace, then curled up on the straw. "Brr, it's cold in here."

Silas hesitated, then said half-shyly, half defensively, "S'pose you wouldn't want a street boy to keep you warm, snuggle against you, would you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, my clothes ain't so nice, I mean..."

"Take them off, then," said Arthur.

"Sure you don't mind?"

Arthur shook his head, so Silas wriggled out of his clothes, then crawled across to Arthur and wound himself around him; Arthur's arms twisted round his neck and their thighs twined together; soon Silas felt the smooth cool skin become warm and the shivering cease.

"How's it feel there?" asked Silas, reaching round Arthur and down, gently touching the spot with his fingers.

"Stings a bit still."

"You – you wouldn't want the likes of me to stroke it a little, would you?"

Arthur took Silas's hand and pressed it back into place; Silas gently moved his palm to and fro over the smooth rear cheeks, stroking them, gently parting, then stroking again

"And stop saying things like that about yourself," Arthur said. "If we're going to be fr – mates. If we are."

"'Course we are," said Silas. He thought, then said, "But we can't, Arthur, can we? Tomorrow you'll be back paging again, and I'll be out on the street. It ain't no good, is it?"

Arthur said thoughtfully, "I don't know. You could be a page."

"Yah!" said Silas derisively. And then, "Don't make fun of me, Arthur."

"I'm not," said Arthur earnestly. He twisted up to a kneeling position. "Stand up."

Silas stood, slightly bashful, in the dim lamplight while Arthur's eye ran over him from top to toe.

"You'd do very well, actually," said Arthur decisively, at length. "There was a knight who said once, 'Even a little peasant boy, stripped of his clothes, can have the skin of a prince and the body of an angel.'"

"Don't be daft."

"I'm not." Arthur smoothed Silas's dark hair and arranged it on either side of his face.

"Yes – washed, combed, and in the King's livery, you could make the prettiest page anyone ever saw. And – speaking of princes – the prince needs a page – has done for a while."

"The princeling, you mean," said the urchin with slight contempt. "He's a bumptious little whipper-snapper, they say."

"I – I suppose so. Anyway, the King keeps trying to find a page for him, but he's hard to please. He's only got a tutor, whom he hates."

"Well, you couldn't fix it, anyhow," said Silas. "You, thrown down in the dungeon like me."

Arthur shrugged. "Strange things have happened before now. And, as you say, tomorrow it'll be forgotten. Let me try, anyhow." He hesitated. "If you really want me to, that is?"

Silas nodded. Then he said slightly cheekily, pulling at Arthur's arm, "Now it's my turn. Come and stand in the light and let me have a look."

Arthur stood on the straw; Silas slid to his knees, his hands gliding down Arthur's flanks and thighs. Then he said shyly, leaning forward, "You got a nice one. The nicest one I ever seen. And you're getting little hairs, too."

He reached out gently with his fingertips. "And it's hard! Coo!"

Arthur bent slightly; his palms slid all over the urchin's slim body. "It's hard because of you," he whispered accusingly.

"Because of me!" said Silas, thrilled and flattered. Then he said, " And mine' s-"

"Sssh!" said Arthur, then he clasped his hands behind the urchin's head and pulled it down and forward, his hands remaining tight clasped in the tumbled dark hair.

A moment later Arthur squealed. "You bite!"

"Sorry."

"No – again, again. Please."

Arthur slid back on the straw; Silas, thighs astraddle the blond boy, pressed him back, bent forward.

"Oh, oh, waaAAAH!"shrieked the page.

Silas's hand slid round on the straw, under Arthur's wriggling buttocks, then he slid a finger in between, pushed.

The blond boy whooped again. For a moment or two Silas was immensely busy. Then Arthur convulsed, screamed. His long slim legs spun, scissored, clamped on either side of Silas's head, splayed, then smacked back again.

Arthur held Silas's head where it was for a moment, his whole body still shivering from top to toe. Then, very quickly, he pulled upright and pushed Silas back on the straw.

The page was astonishingly diligent. Silas's four limbs thrashed on the straw floor – then, with a piercing crescendo of shrieks, the urchin's lithe, nude body jack-knifed again and again as it was racked from end to end with shock after delectable shock, such as the youngster had never – ever – felt in his young life until now.

After that, light-headed and exhausted, he remembered very little, perhaps just Arthur whispering "Mates?" into his ear as they twisted together to go to sleep, and himself nodding emphatically.

* *

It was completely light when Silas opened his eyes for the second time. Remembering, he looked round, but he was alone. Awake almost at once, and half panic-stricken, he jumped up, searching, rummaging through the straw, throwing handfuls aside. Nothing and no-one. At last, he sat down on the straw to think. Had it been a dream? But it had been so vivid; he'd never had a dream like that before....

Perplexed, he raised a hand to rub his eyes, then noticed something, stopped, and frowned in puzzlement. On his hand, traces of dull red – like ochre, or chalk dust.

He rubbed it and it came off. He remembered what had been red – the marks on the pale, delicate skin on the previous night; he remembered how, and for what a long time, he had touched and stroked them. His frown deepened. But that sort of red didn't come off – or it wasn't supposed to. Not a dream, then – but had he been tricked? Had someone made a fool of him? But if so, why?

He was still puzzling, and no further on, when he heard the rattle of chains and the door was pushed open. It was the two guards, the same two as the previous night.

"Come on, nipper, you got a job, you're lucky."

"Eh?" said Silas foolishly.

"Yes, so move it," said the other guard. "An' get them clothes on. We can't 'ave a page showing all 'e's got, can we?"

"A page?" Silas stared, then began to struggle quickly into his rags.

"We'll 'ave to get all the flummery on you, mind, before you're fit to hexhibit – but get that lot on fer now," said the first guard, watching him with distaste. "And I don't think much of 'Is Royal 'Ighness's choice neither, but the Prince's wish is my command. I want to keep me 'ead on me shoulders for a bit longer."

"'Aving 'is royal bath, 'e is," said the second guard. "Wants you to wash 'is 'air – no doubt 'is other pretty little bits, too."

"Come now," said the other with a wink, "we mustn't speak of 'is 'Igh an' Mightiness like that, so disrespectful, must we?" To Silas, "Come on, you!"

Silas, at the cell door, hesitated. "Where – where's the page who was here last night?"

The guard frowned. "What d'you mean page? The King don't never bring no page 'ere. Where d'you think this is, Windsor Castle? Now – git."

"Very nice, M'sieu. You agree?"

Martin made no sign. Then he took a pack of cigarettes, flicked it open and held it out diffidently, not turning his head.

"Thank you, M'sieu. You want, eh?"

Martin shrugged, still not making eye-contact. But not moving on either. On the Boulevard Pasteur, as always at the time of the promenade, the string of youngsters opposite sold oranges, matches, contraband Marlboro. The one on the corner, cross-legged on the pavement, was selling coloured handkerchiefs and...

"Is my Chouchou, that. I speak to my Chouchou for you, yes?"

"Mebbe."

Unusual, these days, to see a kid in the old-style djellaba, except in high summer. This one was perhaps from the mountains. Slim, a sight of softly-curved cheeks, dreamy-dark eyes. Two bare brown legs poking from underneath, two grubby feet in sandals. From the mountains... It was said that they wore nothing, but nothing at all, underneath.

"You cough bad, M'sieu. You smoke too much perhaps."

"Mebbe."

There would be no more of the brash town-brats, that was for sure. Haggling not only before and after, but during, for Christ's sake. This could be different. Let me be kissed with the kisses of wine, not stung as many times as a one-legged beekeeper.

"How much?" he asked.

Chouchou, whose eyes had been fixed unmoving on the pair, pocketed the handkerchiefs and wandered across. Favoured with a hundred-watt grin that exposed surprisingly good teeth, Martin mentally upped the sum he'd had in mind, and was favoured with a word or two of quite serviceable French. Not from the mountains after all, maybe.

The men smoked again and spoke of numbers. Parent or pimp, Ali Baba would be paid off first, Chouchou later; at least the kid would be properly rewarded. The man was paid a little more than he expected. Not wanting to be followed, Martin lingered a little. Then he bought a bag of tangerines and gave it to Chouchou to carry. With youngster and tangerines a short distance to the rear, Martin followed the winding streets to his apartment and arrived in a few minutes.

"M'sieu?"

"Through here. Wait a moment."

He went off to store the tangerines, then returned to his bedroom.

Wow-ee! He had been right about the djellaba. The single garment had already been tossed to the floor, and the kid lay naked and tummy-down on the bed. A little shy, perhaps – or perhaps not. Head turned, a cheeky grin. "I ready, M'sieu!"

Martin crossed the room and drew the curtains, preferring the half-light. Though standing motionless to stare for a century or so. Perfectly shaped, the contours and skin flawless. The slim waist and legginess of early adolescence, but still with childhood's soft rounded swell of hips and buttocks...

"M'sieu!" Impatient...

Martin had taken his clothes off; he lay down, stroking and caressing the youngster, running his hands over skin of petal-smoothness that sent electric quivers all through him. Savouring the delicious squirms and wiggles of response.

"Flip over."

Teasingly, the head shaken vigorously, dark locks flying.

Martin said, "I'll make you."

"Oh yes, M'sieu?"

Sliding his hand underneath the youngster, Martin ran his palm over the delicate chest and tiny nipples, the smooth flat tummy, the minute and almost imperceptible wisp of pubic hair, then –

"Good God!"

He snatched his hand away. He reached again, then in an instant was on his feet and had snapped the light on.

Staring, biting his lips. "There – there's been a mistake. A big mistake. I'm sorry."

Chouchou sat up, blinking and bewildered.

"M'sieu?"

"Look, I'm sorry, kid." Martin gestured to the djellaba on the floor, then picked it up and threw it on the bed. "It's that thing – you can't tell the difference. Put it on."

The kid still stared. "You – you not want me now, M'sieu? But you -"

"Oh, you'll get your money. Now, just put that on, then I'll pay you and you can go."

To his dismay, Martin saw the dark eyes start to fill.

"Do not be angry, M'sieu. What is it I have done?"

Disappointment, Martin realised, had made him harsh. And he was not proof against a child's tears. Whichever the sex. He sat down on the bed again and put his hands on Chouchou's slim shoulders. "You see, in that djellaba boys and girls look much the same – when they're young anyway, and it's easy to – well, make a mistake."

"Oh, I see, M'sieu. You thought I was..."

"Mmm." Martin nodded. He found a tissue and dabbed very gently. "And I'm not angry. It was my own stupid fault – not yours."

Surprisingly, his arms were again round the youngster, comforting and stroking. Even more surprisingly, the skin was no less deliciously satin-smooth, warm and lickable-soft than it had been a moment before – not on the kid's arms, back, tummy, or... anywhere. Even more so, he thought, though that was ridiculous, of course. Two arms were round his own neck in turn; the body squirmed under him and a pair of delicate lips smacked repeatedly against his own. Then the slim body quivered at a giggle…

"Eh?"

"Was funny, that."

Yes, quite crazy. And in just a moment he's disengage from Chouchou, stop exploring the delicate mouth with the tip of his tongue... In a moment. If they could see me, he thought.

He chuckled in turn.

"So you want now, M'sieu?"

"No, really, I – "

The small hand explored disconcertingly. "Oh, M'sieu, you lie!"

"I – I can't help it." And Martin blushed.

"I show you," said the youngster, taking a surprisingly firm hold.

"No – really."

"Yes, I show you." Chouchou held, then guided, very firmly indeed. And soon Martin felt every single millimetre tight-clasped in the living warm so that, at the merest twitch of Chouchou, electricity sparked and flickered upwards, so that he could keep still no longer... And under him the small body twisted, hips writhing and grinding, until mega-volt surges rolled, gathered, rolled, at last sent lightning crackling through his body again and again, blinding him with white and scarlet. Someone cried out, and then it was dark again.

After he did not know how long, Martin disengaged – very, very slowly.

"Was the first time, M'sieu?"

Martin nodded, still scarcely able to speak.

The youngster whispered, "Tomorrow you make your own choice. We are a large family, brothers and sisters both." Another giggle. "They shall line for you all naked, then you make no mistake!"

Martin coughed, swallowed, then asked , "Are they all as pretty as you?"

Another faint giggle. "My mamma always say I am the prettiest, M'sieu."

"Um. Tomorrow, perhaps we'll... talk about it. Just you and me."

"Of course, M'sieu," said the kid solemnly. A moment of hesitation. "And now, M'sieu, for me...?"

"Ah, yes, of course, the money."

"No, not the money." Again Martin felt his hand being firmly guided. Resigned, he made one or two experimental moves.

The kid gasped, writhed. "Oh, yes, M'sieu!"

And then, once again, Martin performed magnificently. Though he began with hesitation, like a man who caresses a small but unpredictable pet snake that instantaneously stands quivering at his touch but might at any moment spit like a firecracker.

1. The Good Boy

My dear, I was furious at first. I mean – his third year at College now, wanted to bring his girl-friend down for the week-end. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But when I say that she can have his room and I'll make up a bed for him on the sofa, he says, cool as you like, "Oh, don't worry, my bed will do. We'll be sleeping together; it'll be okay."

No, it would not be okay. And a nice girl too, by the sound of it. Jeremy had been on about her for ages, I'd even spoken to her on the phone. But now – what his father would have said I simply cannot imagine. Next thing, a teenage pregnancy and – oh dear me, no thank you very much. So I simply made up a bed for Jeremy on the sofa like I'd said and, if there was going to be a show-down when they arrived – well, I was ready for him.

But what a relief! "Toni" was actually Tony, not a girl after all but a boy – a younger boy from Jeremy's year in college. Quite a lot younger, in fact. That was why I'd been misled on the phone. One of these infant prodigies he was, went up to Oxford about a year ago when he was only twelve and Jeremy took him under his wing, so to speak. And a really likeable youngster too, as it turned out – a little shy, but with charming manners. And very attractive as well, with big blue eyes, delicate features, a lovely smile – well, it was easy to see how anyone could take to him. I certainly did. And he was so nice about the sleeping arrangements too, wouldn't hear of Jeremy taking the couch, simply insisted they would share. And it made me proud of Jeremy to see just how helpful he was to the youngster – kind and protective, just like any mother wants her son to be. And, after supper, as Tony was fatigued after their long journey, Jeremy even helped him with his bath before they went off to bed, unusually early for Jeremy. Yes, the youngster was clearly going to be a good influence.

It wasn't until the next morning that, so to speak, the penny dropped. Not right away; when Tony first came into the kitchen, that just tickled me. I was pottering about, sorting out breakfast, when the door opened unexpectedly and young Tony appeared. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, and his mouth opened with dismay to see me there. As well it might, with him not having a stitch on.

"Oh – oh, I thought it was Jeremy," he stammered, standing there sort of transfixed.

"Don't you have any pyjamas?" I asked.

"I – I well, not in the summer," he said, "Sorry." Then, pink-faced, he turned and scampered off upstairs.

Well, my dear, I've brought up three boys. Seen them a thousand times without their pj's. So I simply had a bit of a laugh to myself when he had gone. Poor kid, though.

When I went along the landing a few minutes later, however, I heard giggles and laughter through the door of the bedroom, and guessed that Tony had seen the funny side of it too.

Then I stopped dead, right there. Something went cold, deep down inside me. Call me slow on the uptake if you like. Yes, I suppose I was. You hear stories naturally, but where your own are concerned you have a kind of blind spot. Or I had, until then. But suddenly, with a mother's instinct, I knew. Some people, of course, say that it's just a kind of phase they go through, but – well, I wasn't so sure.

I went down to the kitchen, sat quite still for a moment, then called Jeremy. I'm one for having things out, right there and then. So I put it to him, straight.

"And I want the truth, mind."

At first he blustered a bit, tried to deny it. Then when he saw that that didn't work, I got the lots-of-others-do-it routine.

I waited till he had finished, then said, "They may do, but have you considered what age Tony is? You involve a boy of that age, it's regarded as a very serious offence, you must know that, You get into big trouble."

"Oh, come on, Mum," protested Jeremy. "Anyway, it wasn't me started it, it was Tony, honest. He had this friend before, and -"

Losing patience, I said sharply, "Please, Jeremy, lie to me if you have to – just don't put the blame on to the youngster. Whatever happens, you are the elder, you are the one who will be held responsible. You must see that."

Jeremy looked at the floor, then said slowly, "Yes, I suppose so. But – "

"But nothing. Call Tony down."

"No."

But I insisted, and in a moment the youngster appeared through the kitchen door once more – though this time he had a towel knotted round his waist.

"She knows," Jeremy said without preamble. "She's found out."

Tony, his eyes big with dismay, stared at me, then to my dismay burst into tears. Jeremy at once went over and put a protective arm round him; the youngster locked his arms round Jeremy's waist and buried his head in Jeremy's chest; his whole body shook with sobs. His towel came undone and slid to the floor, but he didn't seem to notice.

Oh dear, oh dear, I thought. Whatever I'd wanted, it wasn't an operatic set-piece like this. Suddenly, I really began to feel like the Wicked Mother. I went over, patted Tony on the shoulder and said, "Look – don't worry. It's not as bad as all that."

Indeed, I almost smiled, as I saw that what the kid had was sticking up like a medium-size beanpole – but of course I pretended not to notice. I simply retrieved the towel from the floor, dropped it in the laundry-basket, then said, "I don't want to make things difficult for you. I just want to help, that's all."

"It's okay, Mum," said Jeremy. "We'll stop. I promise."

"Promise?"

"Honest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper package. "Here it is. That's all of it."

I opened the packet, sniffed and nodded. Yes, I'd have recognised the smell anywhere, even – as I had a few minutes ago – on my own upstairs landing. Cannabis sativa. To tell the truth, I'd smoked it myself as a kid, but I wasn't going to tell them that. And now I felt a lot better about Jeremy. Indeed, I began to feel proud of him again as I watched him comfort Tony, saw the way the kid smiled back at him. Yes, he's a good boy really.

So's Tony.

And – best of all – he won't get pregnant.

2. Scotch Mist

The wind, as on most days, blew lustily in from the Forth estuary and roared up the Royal Mile like an Inter-City train. The heavy stone buildings round the Mound broke it up and in the square between them it began to die, though it still fluttered through the tumbled hair of the boy piper under the wide battlement of the Royal Gallery. Gusts flickered at his kilt, at the ribbons of his pipes, and at his long plaid as he played a pibroch, a reel, then a slow lament, the sound echoing poignantly through the old pillars and passages. Knots of tourists gathered to listen, many dropped money on the pavement.

When he had finished, the boy picked up the coins and tucked them away, then, slightly flushed and breathless, he wiped his forehead and, pipes alongside, perched on the low wall to rest, swinging his buckled shoes. At length, lifting each knee in turn, he pulled up his scarlet-topped socks and adjusted the garter-tabs, squinting down to get them straight.

On the pavement opposite Pickering swallowed, then he went across and gave the youngster a two-pound coin. His eyes lit up. "Gosh, thanks."

"Not at all," said Pickering. "It was delightful. You must play a good deal."

"I take it as my instrument in school," said the boy. "I just come down here at week-ends; I'm saving for a mountain-bike."

"Doing all right?"

"Not bad. It was the Festival last week, that's always the best time. I'm nearly halfway there."

Pickering took another two-pound coin out his pocket, tossed it up and caught it again. His eyes slid down, not for the first time, to the delightful bare brown knees, a poem in themselves, poking out from under the tartan.

His eyes moved back again, he spun the coin between his fingers, then said, "Tell you what. If you'll satisfy my curiosity on a certain point I'll give you this as well."

The boy cast his eyes up. "Oh, how boring, not again! Everyone asks the same thing, Americans even. But I won't tell. Not ever."

Pickering laughed. "Fair enough – here, have it anyway."

He tossed the coin and the boy caught it. "Thanks!" He turned a brilliant smile on Pickering, brushing back the delicate strands of hair from his forehead, making the man's heart lurch almost painfully.

"Would you," said Pickering, "have an equally vehement objection to joining me in a Big Mac?"

"I shouldn't think so," said the boy. "I'm starving. I haven't had anything to eat for hours."

"Not since when?"

"About nine."

It was eleven-fifteen. Pickering shook his head gravely. "We can't have that, can we? Come on."

"The best burger-bar's right over here. I'll show you, said the youngster, leading the way.

"What's your name?"

He was Gavin, aged thirteen-and-a-half. His pipes tucked under his arm, he half-walked, half-skipped along, just keeping up with the man's longer strides.

"Not everyone asks, by the way," he said. "The Japanese don't, they're much too polite. Not like you."

Pickering, entranced by the boy's gentle, liquid accent, smiled down and said, "Sorry."

"And if it's not that, it's will I play Amazing Grace."

"I'd like that as well," said Pickering.

"Tell you what," said Gavin. "I'll have a bet with you. If you can make me tell, I'll give you the two pounds back. If not, you have to give me another two."

"Fair enough," said Pickering. He looked at the boy again. "Is that all your own gear?"

"Not quite. The kilt's my school uniform – the Royal Grammar, you know – and the socks too. The rest I've just sort of scrounged or borrowed. Okay – here were are."

He had been right. The burgers were stupendous, the toppings unparalleled, the accompanying portions of chips gargantuan.

"Well chosen. I compliment you on your taste," said Pickering eventually. "About the bet…"

The youngster shook his head. "Don't bother."

"I just wanted to say that there are – other ways of finding out."

Gavin said, "Well, I'm not going to swing on a lamp-post – or stand on my head or walk on my hands for you, if that's what you mean."

"Drat – foiled again."

Gavin smiled. "Though I might, if there wasn't such a big audience. Could you pass the ketchup, please?"

Pickering gulped, obeyed, then said, "And there are still other ways."

"Like what?"

The table was blessedly small. Pickering's palm rested easily on the youngster's knee, and it was just as easy to slide it up the delectably smooth thigh.

"Do you think they do extra onions?" asked Gavin.

"For you, apes, ivory and peacocks."

"Just extra onions. If you don't mind."

"I'll enquire in a moment," Pickering promised. His arm slid to its full length, and he swallowed again. "Oh, wow," he breathed.

After a moment he asked, "Don't you get cold?"

"No, I'm used to it – in school, you know."

Pickering leant forward a little more. "We're really talking a boner, aren't we?"

The boy swallowed a mouthful of chips, then said, "Your fault, with all that talk about me doing handstands for you."

Pickering laughed. "As I recall, it was in fact you who raised the topic. However – you can't go out like that, can you?"

"S-pose not."

"Certainly not," said Pickering. "Wouldn't do at all, no, no, no. Never mind, I'll see to it."

Pickering saw to it, diligently. And a few moments later, suddenly, fragments of burger, onion and cucumber exploded all over the table, even speckling Pickering's shirt and tie and the empty chair beside him.

A waitress hurried over, looking concerned.

"Is he all right?"

Gavin turned his eighteen-carat smile on her. "Oh, yes."

"You sure?"

"I'm quite sure. But might I have a tissue, please?"

"Och, don't worry. I'll wipe the table down for you, no problem."

"It's not for the table," said Gavin. "It's for my – ow!" He turned wide eyes on Pickering. "Why did you kick me?"

"You know."

"No, I don't." The boy turned back to the waitress. "I want to wipe my face, but my friend seems to object."

"His friend will smack his bottom in a minute," Pickering informed the waitress.

"Och, don't be hard on the wee lad, he means no harm," said the waitress as she bustled off.

"Well, would the wee lad like a drink the noo?" Pinkerton asked.

"That wasn't very funny," said Gavin. "Still, you're just a Sassenach, I pity you really. I'll have a Coke, please."

The drink arrived.

"Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me," said Pickering, sitting back in his chair. "After all, I've found out what I wanted to know, haven't I?"

The youngster finished his Coke.

"Yes, but I didn't tell," he said. "And that was the bet."

He held out his hand.

"I'll take it now."

3. The Hunchback

There was just one gas-lamp, on the street corner. It had been lit no more than an hour past, and already the snow was beginning to cover it, like a great nightcap, funnelling its yellow light to a dim puddle on the pavement. It was only six in the evening, and within a mile of St Paul's, but it was the darkest time of year, and, as the homegoing cabs, carriages and hansoms from the City clattered past, the link-boys were all out, running ahead of the carriages, their torches streaming flame and smoke, their nimble bodies flitting through the traffic like dragonflies. There were few lights in the houses, but firelight shone from between several shutters, as the night was bitter, and freezing fog was already beginning to drift up from the river, making the passers-by muffle up heavily against the penetrating cold, speeding them on their way homeward.

Amid the hubbub, few could hear the singer who stood in a broad doorway near the lamp, half-dwarfed by its heavy lintel. He was barefoot, in rags – a shredded jacket, tattered trousers – and he was several degrees thinner than any twelve-year-old boy has a right to be, even an unwashed urchin like this. A cap was on the ground in front of him. Most people, already late because of the snow, pushed by unheeding, but not all. Some lingered, some raised their eyebrows in slight surprise, and some few – but very few – dropped a coin in the boy's cap.

Because the urchin's singing was strangely sweet and tuneful, even as heard through the rattle of the carts and the clangour, now, of the Cathedral bells. But those who lingered would soon pass on impatiently as the youngster's body was racked with yet another coughing spell, as the boy stooped and clutched his narrow chest, as again the song broke up and died.

Then one passer-by lingered a little longer than the others. The boy had been concentrating on his songs but, in a moment or two, gradually becoming aware of his companion, he turned and looked at him curiously.

It was a lad only a little older than himself. One he hadn't seen in the street before, one with tumbled fair hair and oddly bright eyes. He wore a heavy cloak.

He smiled at the urchin. "Will you sing that one again?"

The younger boy eyed him thoughtfully. The newcomer didn't look like he had any money – but then friendliness was rare on the street.

"Awright, then." The youngster took a deep breath and began again.

Ave Maria, gratia plena…

Then, after a few lines he again started coughing; his thin body shaking, doubled up; he gasped for breath, croaked, whooped. This happened more often now.

"Sorry," he said weakly, after a moment.

"Don't be," said the other boy. "That was beautiful. What's your name?"

"My name's Sam, Master."

"Master no-one. I'm Michael. Mike."

Then Mike said, "Here – sit down for a minute. Back here, where it's more sheltered."

The snow was not yet lying between the massive door-pillars; the two boys sat on the step and Mike reached into the depths of his cloak. "It's not much, but – here."

Sam's eyes lit up. "Cor!" Just two slices of bread and a wedge of cheese – but the half-starved urchin's mouth watered even at the sight of it. "You – you sure?"

"Yes, take it all, I've had plenty." Then, after the boy had munched for a while, he asked, "Where did you learn that song?"

"There," said the urchin indistinctly, nodding towards the tall church on the corner. He swallowed, then said, "I always sits in the porch when the choir sings. They 'ave the stove on, an' a bit of heat gets out. An' – an' I listen to the singing. It's wizard!"

He looked at Mike. "An' I see the boys in the choir sometimes, in their white robes an' all. Coo, I think, they must all live in big houses like palaces, have beautiful mothers, have hundreds of toys – like a dream it must be."

"Hmm – maybe," said Mike.

The youngster went on, "I once asked if I could sing in the choir, but the vicar said they didn't want no ragged kids. After that the bloomin' sexton chased me every time I tried to sit in the warm. Eh, what's that?"

Mike had turned his head away and had muttered something, it seemed angrily, but now he said, "It doesn't matter."

"Anyways," Sam went on, "I still listened, and they sing that one more'n any. I learnt it by heart. Don't 'arf like it."

Mike said, "Yes, it's a favourite of mine too. It was written by a brilliant young man in a country called Austria, a long way from here."

"I dunno about nothin' like that," said the urchin, munching again. "Ain't never bin to school, see."

The bread and cheese finished, Sam started to sing quietly again, but in a moment or two he started shivering, then coughing once more. Mike put his cloak round both of them and pulled the younger boy in against himself. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks, Mike."

In a few moments Sam stopped shivering. Mike asked, "You want to sing some more now?"

The youngster coughed, half-retched. "Dunno as I can, Mike."

"Oh yes, you can."

Sam, his attention caught by something in Mike's tone, turned to look at him, then his mouth fell open in dismay. He new friend was standing up now, and Sam could see that under his cloak was a hump, an enormous hump that pushed the heavy cloak back, and his body forwards.

Then, as if realising that he was staring, he said, "Oh, sorry." Then, with awkward sympathy, "Rough luck, Mike."

Mike laughed. "Oh, don't be sorry. Look."

Slowly, he began to remove his robe. The hump seemed to get bigger and bigger; it rose behind Mike's head, then spread out on both sides.

The urchin had stood as well. There was light in his eyes, then on all of his face.

"Cor!" he breathed at last. "Cor!!" Then he started coughing again, convulsing and whooping as if he would never stop.

But he did, and then the other boy put a hand on his shoulder. "Will you come with me now?"

The urchin, his face still bathed in the pure light, looked up at him and nodded.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

"Come on, then," said Mike quietly. "It's not as far as you think, though it's very dark. But take my hand, I know the way."

They walked together down the pavement and into a long alley beyond it, Mike's strong fingers entwined with Sam's. And at the end of the alley the snow, the mist and the darkness took them.

* *

Next morning, when the two parish constables came on early patrol, one of them stumbled over what at first looked like a bundle of old clothes on the pavement. But it was the small singer, cold and lifeless.

"Oh, Gawd," groaned one of them. "Not another one. Well – call the cart, Henry."

The other looked down, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Yes, I remember 'im, bit of a card as I recall. But the cold was getting to 'im in the end, talking a lot of nonsense 'e was."

"Look," said his colleague, stooping and then standing up again. From beside the dead boy he had picked something up.

A feather.

A white feather – larger, whiter and more beautiful than either of them had ever seen.

For a moment or two the constable who held it stared, was totally silent.

Then quickly, he crushed it in his hand and threw it into the pile of rubbish in the doorway.

"Bloody kids," he muttered. "Come on, let's get this pavement tidied up."

End of the last vignette