Rent Boy by Elizabeth Holden. Bodie left the house by the front door. He shut the
carved wooden door carefully behind him, hearing the lock fasten itself behind ...
Rent Boy by Elizabeth Holden Bodie left the house by the front door. He shut the carved wooden door carefully behind him, hearing the lock fasten itself behind him. He knew he was not far from the Thames, so he jogged lightly to the end of the street, then turned left and across the road, dodging cars, to the Chelsea Embankment. Once there, he hit his stride. There was a breeze from the water this morning, and it kept him cool as he ran, breathing deeply, stretching his legs. "I can fly," he thought, as he jumped over a garbage-bin, grinning at his success. He was wearing jeans, vest, and jacket, which was normal enough. He liked to think he looked like James Dean, but he knew he didn't. He always described himself as stunningly handsome, and some people seemed to believe it, though he couldn't, himself. Being fairly unspectacularlooking, he had to make do with stamina, a strong body, and youth. He had managed to cultivate a mischievous charm that was good for openers. So far, it was enough. He was still alive, wasn't he? Ma had said he'd be dead in a month in London, murdered or on heroin, or sick with one of them unmentionable diseases. So far, none of those things had happened, and it was eight months now, right through from March to nearly the end of October. He didn't have much of a notion of what the future would bring, but he had every intention of surviving to get to it. He liked early mornings. London was quiet then, and he liked quiet. He'd never had it much, growing up. Early like this, it was possible to pretend the cool air was fresh and the Thames was clean. Sometimes, being early, he could get a job for a few quid, helping out on the docks or on the ferry. There was never enough work, and too much competition for it, to get enough to live on, but it bought a meal or two, or sometimes fresh clothes, or a night of privacy with a roof over his head. Not the Dorchester, but still. He planned to go to the Dorchester some day, where they'd treat him like a gentleman and he'd have the most expensive meal in the place. Satin sheets, too. There was a pretty girl walking her poodle near the Battersea Bridge. Bodie turned his head to watch her as he ran past. The poodle was sniffing at a bit of muck. "Oh, Freddy, stop that!" said the girl, and Bodie grinned, appreciating her knees. He ran into someone, hard. The other man was running in the opposite direction. They collided head-on. Being agile, Bodie did not fall, or break his neck on the Embankment wall. Instead he hit it sideways with his knee and shin, and the pain went straight up to his esophagus. "Fuck!" he said, resting his hands on the top of the stone to keep himself upright. The other man was apologising. Bodie hardly heard him, though the pain was abating now. "Watch where you're going!" he snapped. "I was watching the girl with the poodle," said the human express train. "Really, are you all right, mate?" "Yeah," said Bodie, straightening up. The thing was, some of his people didn't like bruises. They wanted his body to be perfect. Nothing to be done for it now, though. At least his trousers hadn't torn. He could still look decent. Looking at the man who'd smashed into him, he said, "Yeah. And I was watching her, too."
The skinny bloke had auburn hair like a brillo pad. His cheek had broken at some point, and been irregularly set. As he laughed, Bodie could see that some of his teeth were crooked. His laugh was so infectious that Bodie found himself laughing along with him. He had dimples; Bodie liked that. And spirit. He liked that, too. "Look," said the runner, "why don't we go get some breakfast?" Bodie hesitated. "I'll buy," said the young man, quickly. Bodie looked at him again, more speculatively. A potential client? No. Too young, too scruffy, probably didn't have much more cash to him than Bodie did himself. Quite possibly less, since Bodie had spent the night with Old Midas, and that meant his pockets were full for a change. "Can't," said Bodie succinctly. "Have to finish my run." "I'll run with you, then." Bodie shrugged. "If you can keep up." "Try me," said scruffy-curls. Bodie liked the flash of challenge in the green eyes. He usually preferred to keep himself to himself when possible, and particularly he didn't like company when running, but he was willing to make exceptions. "Suit yourself," he said, and started to run again. His companion ran like a sprinter. He was ahead of Bodie within seconds. Bodie, seeing suddenly that he'd made the mistake of underestimating this one, picked up his speed. Cheeky devil, he thought, admiringly. He ran well, as if he'd trained. Maybe he used to be in track and field, too. Maybe he kept it up, like Bodie. Maybe that was why he had such a great arse. He caught up and they found a shared pace, side by side along the embankment. "How far you going?" asked curls. He was slightly breathless, Bodie was happy to hear. "Far as Cleopatra's Needle." "You do this a lot?" "Every day." Except when some money-bags wanted to keep him for a lie-in bonus. Or when something interfered, like a spell in the nick, or a hangover. "Name's Doyle." They shook hands without breaking stride. "Bodie," said Bodie. They ran in silence. Bodie became aware, as he ran, that he liked this green-eyed lad with the bold smile and the wizard legs. He was the kind of person he'd like to keep as a friend. The kind of person he might have befriended, back in Liverpool. Bodie had no friends. He'd had none since he left Liverpool. There'd been acquaintances on the street, there'd been clients, but he hadn't the time or opportunity for friendship. He tended to
avoid the other street-whores, who saw him as dangerous competition, and would beat him up if they got the chance. There'd been a girl, that first month in London, who had shown him around a bit and given him good advice, the best of which was, "Don't trust nobody." A week later, she'd stolen his wallet and disappeared. It didn't matter much. The wallet was tattered and held no money, only a battered photo of his sister Jenny taken when she was ten (she'd be twelve now), and a folded map of London. By that time, he hadn't needed the map any more. He had become lonely, so lonely that it was like a shirt he put on every morning. He covered his solitude with pride and affability, but it was there, waiting to be faced like the nightmares he could not shake and the fears that were a constant enemy. Fear of pain, fear of death, fear of Da's heavy hand on Jenny or Paul. Or even, truthfully, on himself. He wouldn't be quick to forgive that. Not that anyone would ask him to. This bloke, Doyle, had reacted to his bad temper with good humour. Even better, he knew how to keep his mouth shut, in friendly silence. No questions to complicate things. They reached their goal, the obelisk. "This way," said Doyle, and headed purposefully uphill. Bodie followed, pretending he wasn't panting and aching. He had the suspicion that Old Midas had fed him too well last night. He'd have to watch that sort of thing, or he'd get soft. Doyle showed no such handicap. Doyle was tough, he'd grant him that. The cafe Doyle took him into was a clean, middle-class place, and therefore too expensive for Bodie's lifestyle. But Doyle had said he'd pay, and Bodie could think of no reason not to let him. They sat down on either side of a square table, and a waitress gave them their menus with a cheery, "Morning, luv." It wasn't a general greeting. Doyle knew her. "Morning, Maggie," he said. "You want the usual." "Yeah, and something for Bodie here." She looked inquiringly at Bodie and he said, "The same." He had thought it might be awkward, at first. He had a store of small talk - he could, if required, talk all night about whatever anyone wanted. He could make it light and funny. He could talk dirty. He could gossip, or be tough. It didn't seem right, though, to play that sort of game when this wasn't a client and he didn't have to work. So he just relaxed in his chair, and accepted the cup of tea Maggie brought. It was hot and strong, the way he liked it. He could have had tea and toast at Old Midas' place, and possibly more breakfast still, but he didn't like to take anything more from a client than money, and that, the agreed amount. Otherwise you were beholden, and they had taken a step towards control. If they gave you gifts, they could accuse you of stealing them. If you decided not to go with them any more, they could turn you over to the police, or worse. So he often skipped meals rather than risk it, and told himself he did it so he wouldn't get fat. Not likely, when he was running almost every day, but better safe than sorry. The tea was like heaven, creamy and sweet. Doyle was frankly studying him, and he looked back with a bland expression. The deep green eyes were full of thought, all of it unreadable. The mobile mouth sipped some tea (black, no sugar) and Bodie was struck by the sensuality of the lips.
Bloody hell. Never get emotionally involved, he told himself, as he had said a hundred times before. If you're tempted, walk away before you care too much. And if you care at all, you care too much. This wasn't just interest that Bodie felt, it was lust. Professionally speaking, he had to be able to lust whenever it was necessary or useful, and he was perfectly able. When he wasn't really into it, he'd learned tricks to make himself perform on command. Sometimes, just sometimes, without warning, his self-control failed and he was overwhelmed with wanting. The person was always out of his reach. It was just as well. A whore couldn't afford to want his clients too much, and a whore has nothing of himself to offer potential lovers. Solitude was best. This Doyle, whoever he was, was out of his reach. "So," said Doyle, "d'you think Manchester will win the cup?" "Not a chance," said Bodie. Then they were off: talking about football was something Bodie could do not only all night, but all day to follow. It was one of his passions. He used to play, back when he was in school. He missed those days. By the time breakfast was over, Bodie was convinced that Doyle was a friend - a friend he wanted to keep. A friend who was respectable, more or less; straight, more or less; and unbelievably desirable. He didn't want to lose that friendship, and he had the feeling that if Doyle knew what he did for a living, there would be no hope of a friendship, and no possibility of anything remaining but disgust. Breakfast over, Doyle threw the money onto the table as if it didn't matter, and headed to the door. "Take care, then," he said to Bodie, and was about to go out the door, when he stopped, and turned. Bodie was right behind him. "Want to run together tomorrow?" "Yeah," said Bodie. His heart was hammering for no reason he could think of. "Where'll we meet?" "Your place?" Bodie was not going to say that he didn't have a place. "Naw. How about we meet at the steps of St Paul's?" "You can get there?" asked Doyle, surprised. It was nowhere near the embankment in Chelsea where they'd run into each other today. "Yeah," said Bodie. "I can." He'd do it if it killed him. He did, after a long, sleepless night full of physically demanding work and frustration. Sometimes it was like that. He had some new bruises, too, but not where Doyle would be able to see them. It hurt a bit to run afterwards, but he knew from experience that running would clear up the discomfort of a few minor abrasions, get his circulation going, keep him limber. "I've got to be off to work," said Doyle, when they had finished running. "Shift change." His colour was high, from exertion. It suited him. He didn't say what his work was, and Bodie didn't
ask. If he did shift work, it could be anything. Bodie had done shift work back in Liverpool, on the docks. It didn't make a lot of money but it was enough to get food for Jenny and Paul before Ma drank it away. Doyle might be a dockworker, or he might be in construction - that would explain the muscles. Or he might be anything: an intern at some big hospital, a stock-clerk in a grocery, a security guard at the bloody Palace, or anything else at all. Whatever it was, Bodie fought the distracting impulse to kiss him then and there. "See you, then," he said. "Tomorrow," said Doyle. Bodie was surprised, but pleased. The next day he got to St. Paul's early - he'd been roaming the streets since four, napping for a bit in a park, breakfasting on a tin of sardines at six when one of the shops opened. At six-fifteen he was at St. Paul's, and Doyle arrived only a few minutes later. "Early," said Doyle, by way of greeting. "Yeah. Wanted to get started." "Let's go," said Doyle, and they were off and running, the light rain in their faces, their feel light. When they stopped, Bodie was grinning. "What?" said Doyle. "Wish I could run forever," said Bodie. A few days later, they arranged to have lunch together. It seemed Doyle was off work - maybe his work was casual, maybe it was his day off, maybe it was none of Bodie's business. They ate fish and chips on a bench in Green Park, joking about their running. Then they went off to play darts at a pub, and Bodie won. Doyle, who was seldom beaten in a game, was sulky about it, but cheered up when offered a pint. "You from Liverpool?" Doyle asked, towards the end of it. Bodie grimaced. "Yeah. The accent shows?" "A little, sometimes. I couldn't be sure. And then, you support Liverpool. Only a Liverpool man or a lunatic would do that." "Oh? So which am I?" asked Bodie, and Doyle laughed hard enough to get beer on his chin. They wandered up Charing Cross Road, making jokes about the shows at the theatres they passed. "I never get to see anything," said Doyle, regretfully. "Work nights too much, and I don't have a girl. But it won't always be like that." "Yeah," said Bodie. He worked nights too. He wondered how long it would last, when he would have enough money to stop, and how much would be enough. Old Midas paid well enough, whatever he asked a man to do, but most of them were pikers hiding from their wives anyway and it wasn't exactly a route to riches, or something to put on a resume. The next Tuesday, Bodie arrived early. They were meeting at Victoria Station, and he sat for a while on a hard wooden bench, reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle enter, spot him, and circle a little to come up behind him. He slipped his book in his jacket pocket and stood, turning.
Doyle grinned. "Sharp eyes, you have. What're you reading?" "None of your business, you nosy parker." "Ah-hah! It's something filthy, then. Let me see." "Not on your life!" Bodie skipped backwards, out of his way. "C'mon, Bodie, you're too young to be reading stuff like that." "Rubbish. Anyway, you don't know what it is. Might be my daily prayers." Doyle made a lunge for his pocket, but Bodie was off, and Doyle after him, out of the station and along the street, past the pedestrians, down Buckingham Palace Road to St. James, down Birdcage Walk to Parliament, then up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square. Doyle got there first, collapsing at the base of Lord Nelson among the pigeons, still out of breath, but looking as happy as Bodie felt. Bodie looked down at him. "I won," said Doyle, smugly. "Yeah. Fastest man on two feet, you are. A regular diesel with toes." "I claim a prize." "Oh? What?" "Let me see your dirty book." Bodie flushed, something he seldom did. "You'll be disappointed," he warned. "No, I won't. Show me." Bodie reluctantly pulled out his paperback and tossed it to Doyle. It was The Letters of Lord Chesterton to his Son. Doyle whistled, and checked the bookmark, about halfway through the volume. It was the type of book that had many pages, very thin, with tiny print. "You reading this?" Bodie shrugged. "You studying English lit or something?" "Just reading." "History, then. You're a student." "Not exactly,"said Bodie. He added, awkwardly, "My Da never gave me any advice. I wanted to see what a father'd say if he said something." He didn't add that he was trying to learn the secrets of proper manners, however and wherever he could find the information, and to learn more words than those of the Liverpool dockyards. The thing about leaving school early, you were never sure exactly what you were mlssmg. "Knowing you," said Doyle, "you could teach Lord Chesterton a thing or two." He tossed the book back to him.
It was Bodie's afternoon for helping Shusai at the dojo. In return for odd jobs and cleaning, Shusai taught him exotic oriental martial arts. "You must apply yourself," said Shusai, not for the first time. "You have the force, the strength, the control, the tenacity. You do not have the concentration. Today, your mind is everywhere. Is there a reason?" There was no one else he could tell. "I've fallen in love," said Bodie. It seemed absurdly true, but what right has a whore to fall in love? He was not sure if he felt embarrassment, happiness, or pride. "Is that wise, Bodie?" asked Shusai. "A man in your position must be carefuL" He tactfully did not refer directly to Bodie's profession. He never did, though Bodie had never withheld the truth from him. "No," said Bodie, "it isn't wise at all. But sometimes... don't you think... there's more to life than wisdom." "Enough idling," said Shusai. "The core of wisdom is reached by work. Take the staff again. In position. Concentrate!" Bodie concentrated. That night, the limousine came back to Bodie's favourite corner, and stopped beside him. The door was opened by an invisible hand and the formal tones of Old Midas' chauffeur said, "Get in." Bodie got in. "Same terms?" "No. Double fee. There will be others with you." Others? Bodie thought a bit. Did this mean he was going to be asked to service several men? Or simply have an audience? No need to ask questions, and no point to it; he knew already that the chauffeur disliked him, and dealt with him only under orders. Old Midas, whoever he was, had a will of iron and allowed no skimping on his commands. There were rumours that he'd sacked people for taking sixty seconds from the kitchen to the dining room, and some worse rumours than that. Bodie took them with a grain of salt. Old Midas had been demanding but not cruel, and he paid well. He was worth taking a few risks with. Bodie was confident of his ability to take care of himself. Sure, some blokes liked pain. At least it was an honest liking, and not the kind of hidden spite that so often erupted in his father. Bodie was used to pain. It didn't frighten him. Not much. As before, he was given the use of a gold and white baroque dressing room adjoining a bathroom that was larger than his bedroom back home, the one he'd shared with Paul. As before, he scrubbed himself well, wrapped himself in a dark blue satin dressing gown, and walked barefoot to the room of the man who owned this urban mansion. His feet felt moist on the tiles. He tapped on the door. "Come in," said the owner's crisp, dry voice. He entered. The old man was naked, with two naked men beside him. Men? Boys? They were young, possibly even younger than Bodie, though not children. "Come and join us," said the black-haired one. He looked like someone Bodie had known in Liverpool, until he licked his lips and moved his body sensuously. The fair one simply said, "Hello, Bodie." Old Midas was stroking his shoulder and back, the hand straying occasionally to his arse or thigh. He was sitting straight, half-smiling.
So they were whores, as Bodie was. Reassured, he dropped the dressing gown at his feet, to reveal the erection he had fostered in the dressing-room. He saw the look in Old Midas' eyes, and knew this was going to be a successful night. The next day, he and Doyle went to a few shops, because he needed new boots and, thanks to Old Midas, could afford them. They bought them on Oxford Street, and Bodie threw his old ones into a bin. "Hey, there's still use in those," said Doyle. "Forget it. I have new ones." "But that's wasteful, that is!" "Doesn't matter. What would I do with old boots? Don't want to be materialistic." The truth was, he had nowhere to store anything. He had a locker out in Pimlico, but it didn't hold much. Doyle grinned, shaking his head. Bodie suddenly took a turn down a side street. "Ey, where we going?" asked Doyle. "Saw a copper." "So?" "I don't like coppers. They're bad news, every one of them." "What've you been reading now?" asked Doyle. "Anarchists' Review?" He seemed annoyed. "Just some life experience, my son. What's wrong with that? What turned you into a pillar of respectability all of a sudden?" "Nothing," said Doyle crossly. "Let's go have a look in Foyle's." So they did, and nothing more was made of it. That night was one of those hard nights that Bodie didn't like to remember. One client stiffed him and another kept hitting him in the head. That reminded him of Da, and he didn't enjoy those memories, or the feelings they aroused. It started to rain around midnight, and he found shelter under an awning. He wished he was warm and comfortable somewhere. His final pick-up of the night was a Dutchman whose English was incomprehensible, and Bodie was hard put to manage the job. He succeeded by fantasizing about Doyle. Later, while Hans slept, he lay staring at the ceiling of the shabby little hotel room. The paint was peeling, shadowed by bright lights from the club next door, but Bodie was looking at imaginary vistas beyond. He was in love. It had been true, what he said to Shusai. No sense lying to himself. He thought of Doyle too much, liked being with him too much, wondered what he was doing when Bodie wasn't around. He wanted to give him the earth. That was a laugh, that was, when he had hardly a farthing to his name and nothing of value except one pair of good boots and one leather jacket. Falling in love was dangerous for a man in his profession. But he was human, and had human weaknesses. He needed... he wanted someone who wasn't using him. Doyle wouldn't use him. Or even if he did, it wouldn't be the same, because he wanted Doyle to use him. There was no kind of real relationship possible, he told himself firmly, and wished there was. He
fell asleep, imagining Doyle cuddled in his arms. The morning was foggy and cold. Their breath hung around their face as they ran, and every once in a while one of them would disappear into the mist in front of the other. In some places, you couldn't see across the Thames. In other places, you couldn't see the buildings across the street. They could hear the lapping of the water, muffled as if far away. "Good morning for a murder," said Bodie conversationally. "Don't say it, mate. Life's complicated enough." "I didn't mean us. I've been reading Our Mutual Friend. It's full of fog and bodies in the Thames." "And what is it, when it's at home?" "A novel by Dickens." "Ex-cuuse me. I thought he did Oliver Twist." "He did, you ninny." Bodie saw that Doyle was teasing him and said quickly, "Race you to the obelisk." They set off in a burst of speed, lungs painful, though Bodie was not about to admit it. Bodie reached Cleopatra's Needle first, and leaned against it, laughing triumphantly as well as he could, between gasps for breath. "The winn-ahr!" shouted Doyle recklessly, holding his arm up in a triumphal salute. "Bodie gets the gold!" "I'm Superman, that's what," gasped Bodie. "So, Clark, pick your prize." "What?" "You showed me your book. Pick whatever prize you want." Bodie wasn't sure what Doyle was talking about, though it was probably an offer of breakfast. Bodie didn't give a brass farthing about breakfast. He took his glorious opportunity. "This," he said, and took Doyle's head firmly between his hands, and kissed him on the lips. Doyle did not stiffen in surprise, or resist. He moulded his frame to Bodie's, opening his mouth, returning the kiss with a gentle delicacy that made Bodie's head spin. When Bodie lifted his head, he realized Doyle's arms were holding him at the waist, protected by the privacy given by the fog. Doyle's leg was against his, thigh to thigh. "That was good, that was," said Doyle. "D'you have more where that came from?" Bodie needed no more encouragement. They kissed again, and then again. Drunk with sensation, Bodie jumped when a car went by, a muted monster barely in the range of vision.
They leaned against the monument, hands touching each other. "I love you," said Bodie, rashly. He had never said that before to anyone. It made him feel even more light-headed. Doyle's green eyes shone with eagerness. "Can we go to your flat?" he said. "My place is no good. No privacy. Walls like paper. It's my Dad's place. I'm saving up for a flat, but till then, I'm staying with him. He's a good bloke. We have our rows - he thinks I'm a right tearaway - but he backs me up when I need him." Bodie wondered what it was like, to have a Dad who'd back you up when you needed him. Who might talk to you, if you needed to talk. Who wouldn't half bloody kill you for any excuse or no excuse at all, but drink and foul temper. He didn't say he had no home. He just said, "Naw, that wouldn't work." "You know anywhere, Bodie?" There was, Bodie well knew, no such thing as nowhere to go; just some difficulty in finding a spot. He just said, "Yeah, follow me," and headed off into the fog. He heard Doyle's footsteps and his breathing close behind him. There was something about his breathing that was exciting, as if it were more than the exertion that made his breathing heavy. The ache between Bodie's legs intensified. It was a bit of a walk, but he found the property he wanted with no difficulty, and pushed aside a board over a window for Doyle to snake through first. The fog was lifting a little, but it hid them well enough. Usually he had to do this after dark. It was a squatter's house, quiet this time of morning, though no doubt people were sleeping in some of the rooms. Bodie led the way up the stairs, through a passageway, and into a dark room of boarded-up bow windows. There were pillows on the floor, an old mattress, and a sofa without legs. There was no one there. Most folk didn't like to climb that high, when there was plenty of room on the floors below. "It isn't the Regency," said Bodie, "but it's comfortable enough." Doyle stood in the doorway for a moment. Bodie sat on the mattress, pulling off his boots. He flexed his toes and looked at Doyle. "Well?" he said. Doyle didn't move. "Doyle? You getting cold feet?" "No," said Doyle. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said, "I can't believe how beautiful you are." Bodie felt oddly shy about removing his clothes. Suppose Doyle was disappointed? He fought the fear, and pulled off his shirt, tossing it aside. Doyle stared at his chest, then came closer. A hand delicately and carefully touched his chest, outlined a nipple, traced a rib. Bodie took a deep breath. He was almost trembling. His cock was huge and hard and he knew Doyle knew it. Doyle said softly, "How did you know I wanted you to touch me?" "I didn't," said Bodie. "Just wanted it for myself." Doyle lifted his hand and touched his face. "Can't believe it," he said. Then he looked down at the mattress, and wrinkled his nose. "Sure it doesn't have bugs?"
Bodie shrugged, grinned, and spread his black leather across it. "There you are, mate. Nothing gets through that jacket." "Brave boy," said Doyle admiringly. "You'll get lice from it, like as not." "Never have before," said Bodie. Doyle leaned over to kiss his neck and shoulder. He pulled him down, closer, revelling in the feel of the warm, lean body. He'd never known anyone so sexy. Doyle was a natural magnet for desire. It came from his control of his body, his unconscious grace, his honesty, his humour. It came from his toasty smell and his expressive eyes and a sensitivity of touch that made Bodie groan even though Doyle was still only touching his hands and lips. He wondered if his cock could catch fire from its heat, burn its way through his jeans. Doyle tossed his pea-jacket after Bodie's shirt. Bodie reached out and gripped Doyle's T-shirt, pulling it over his head. Underneath was a lean, dark-haired body with firm muscles over the ribs and nipples as delicious as satin. Bodie licked and sucked on one, and Doyle squirmed. "Uh-uh, Bodie, I want you undressed," he said. As casually as if he stripped for Bodie all the time, Doyle kicked off his shoes, pulled offhis socks, unzipped his trousers, and stepped out of them. He wore no underwear. Bodie caught his breath, enveloped in a wave of happiness so tender that he wanted to cry. Of course, he did not let himself. He pulled Doyle to him. He kissed his ribs, his navel, his belly. He felt the cock bob against his throat and while it turned him on, it also raised a lump in his throat. He didn't know why. He didn't know why he felt, all of a sudden, like a shy virgin, afraid of doing the wrong thing. He had pleased more men than he could count, and many women, too. Why was he worried about displeasing Doyle? Doyle pushed his hands aside, and unzipped Bodie's jeans. He put his hands inside and murmured something unintelligible and approving, as he kissed Bodie's lips lightly, quickly, repeatedly. Melting, Bodie tried to squirm out of his jeans without breaking the stream of kisses, but he couldn't. In the end, he had to take his hands off Doyle for a few seconds, and then at last they were both naked and needy. Stricken with a kind of insane stage-fright, Bodie was afraid to move. He did not want to be clumsy. He did not want to show his expertise, that this might appear as just another trick on a dull morning. So he let Doyle take the lead, and Doyle did. He appeared to know what he was doing, but of course, it wasn't difficult, not when they were so turned on to start with. They played and groped and murmured and kissed and, finally, came in each other's mouths. Afterwards, they lay back on the mattress, still fondling. Bodie played with Doyle's hair with one idle hand. Doyle had apparently forgotten about his fear of bedbugs. Bodie said, for the second time in his life, "Love you." Doyle looked up. "How come I'm so lucky?" Bodie shrugged. "Clean living?" he suggested, and Doyle laughed, one of those from-the-heart laughs that Bodie enjoyed so much. I could die happy now, thought Bodie, but he didn't say it. "Fuck!" Doyle leaped up, grabbing at his watch, which had fallen on the floor a few feet from them. ''I'm late for work." Bodie didn't move, except to yawn. "When d'you start?"
"Ten. It's almost that now, and I'm not dressed yet." As he spoke he was pulling on trousers and stepping into his shoes. Bodie watched appreciatively as the thoroughly-sucked cock, now softly waiting for Bodie's return, disappeared behind its zipper. "Does it matter?" asked Bodie. "Course it matters!" Doyle grabbed his jacket and was about to run for the door, but he stopped, whirled in mid-stride, and bent down to kiss Bodie again, fiercely and possessively. Then he was gone. Bodie moved part of the board that was over the window, just to watch him leave, running with that sexy smooth rhythm up the street. The fog had almost lifted. Bodie refastened the board, and dressed. The next day, Doyle didn't meet him at their rendezvous, and Bodie almost panicked. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe they'd gone too far. Maybe he didn't really want Bodie, and thought Bodie would make demands of him, and they'd never see each other again. Then he remembered that last devouring kiss, and knew that couldn't be the case. Or if Doyle planned to dump him, he had another think coming. Bodie would search till he found him. He ran by himself. That night, he was at a club in Soho, where the throaty woman was singing about lost opportunities. A pale-haired bloke with a beard was giving him the eye. He did his best to look available, interested (if the terms were right) and able. His eyes half shut, he thought about Doyle. The man came over to him. "Busy tonight?" "I don't know," said Bodie lazily. "Depends on the offer." "How much for a blow job?" Bodie named his price -- high enough to show he wasn't riffraff, low enough to keep his clientele unrestricted. "Triple it and I'm yours for the night," he said. "In that case," said the blond, in a friendly voice, "you are under arrest, m'lad." Bodie was gripped by the shoulder and trundled discreetly out to an unmarked car. He didn't bother to curse: that just made the coppers angry. He kept his head lowered. What a waste. This wasn't one of the ones he could buy off, even if he had any cash. Having had no luck yet tonight, he had less than a quid in his pocket. He wondered at the odds of getting off by offering free sex. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it earned a beating. He decided not to risk it. This bloke looked like Gestapo. The fair-haired copper opened the door. "Look what I have here." And Doyle's voice said, "Bodie?" in tones of incredulity. Bodie looked up as Doyle stepped out of the car. Doyle, in a police uniform. Doyle in full uniform, a young copper with his cap and belt and...
Only yesterday he had caressed and kissed that body, and it was a copper. "Fuck," said Bodie in disgust, and lowered his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the fury and pain in Doyle's. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked Doyle. "Why didn't you?" he asked, without looking up. He still hadn't entered the car. Doyle came around the boot, closer to Bodie, staring at him with narrowed green eyes. "You know him?" asked Gestapo. Doyle ignored him, speaking only to Bodie. "I reckoned you were homeless. Didn't know you were whoring." "Well, you know now," said Bodie. Doyle hit him, then. He almost welcomed it, because it gave him anger to counteract the pain. He lunged forward on the attack, but blondie grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and snapped the cuffs on him faster than you could say Et tu, Brute. Then they pushed him into the car. Doyle sat in the back with him. His body was altogether too close for Bodie's comfort. He could feel him there, feel the heat of his body and the intensity of his thoughts, even though Doyle said nothing. He kept looking over at Bodie, and then away. Neither of them spoke. The tension was painful. Bodie looked out the window at the lights of London, the streets which gave him such freedom and offered such promise and then, from time to time, cut him dead. Like this. Like giving him a taste of the person he wanted most in the world, who now looked on him with horror. Who was a copper. He blinked at shameful tears, and stared out the window. At least he had had... something. At least he had known Doyle, as a friend, briefly. As a lover, even more briefly. So now it was over, and life was back to bloody normal. He wanted to scream. They took him to an interrogation room, which wasn't the usual. Doyle stood at the door like a guard, and the plainclothesman sat backwards on his chair like a detective in a bloody American film and introduced himself as Inspector Norton. He said, "We need your cooperation, lad." "Fuck you," said Bodie, who didn't feel cooperative. He was cuffed on the head for that. It wasn't hard. It wasn't what you'd call police brutality, just a reminder that Bodie was at their mercy. Norton put a photograph on the table in front of him. "Do you recognise this man?" "No," lied Bodie. It was Old Midas. Bodie didn't know his name, never had. Didn't need to. Didn't want to. The less he knew, the better for everyone. It wouldn't do to betray his clients to the police, that was the route to starvation, and his reputation would be muck. No one would come near him ever again.
"Think about it," said Norton, and left the room. Doyle stood aside for him to go, then took up his stance at the door. Bodie was acutely aware that they were alone together in the oppressive silence. Doyle did not speak. The silence stretched interminably. Not having a watch, Bodie wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours, but he knew how long it felt. Lifetimes go by in less time. Slowly he raised his head and looked at Doyle, who was staring across the room, not at him. "You can talk to me, you know," said Bodie. "Why?" Doyle looked at him. Bodie flinched at the contempt in his eyes. "Why, what? Why'm I a whore? Why shouldn't I be? Why'd I make out with you? You know why. Why didn't I tell you what I did? I wanted you to think I was better than I am." "Fuck that," said Doyle. "I thought you had some tragic secret, and all the while it was just hooking." Bodie looked down at his hands on the table. Yesterday, those hands had been all over Doyle. "Yeah," he said. "Have you no pride?" His Da had said that to him, once. He looked at Doyle with a gaze as strong and firm as the finest judge in the land. "More than you can imagine," he said. "Guess I owe you some money," said Doyle bitterly. "For services rendered. If I told them, they'd lock you up for corrupting an officer, and attempted bribery." "If you told them, you'd lose your job," said Bodie sharply. "Don't play the martyr, mate. I was fair with you. You were never a job. You know that." "What was I, then? Practice?" Bodie opened his mouth to answer, but the door opened and Norton came in, with coffee and a cheese sandwich for each of them. Bodie ate eagerly. He'd had no supper. Norton tapped the photograph. "We think this man kills whores when he's through with them," he said. "You know anything about that?" Rumours. There were always rumours. Bodie shrugged, then remembered that he wanted to impress Doyle with his dignity. He said, "No, I don't know anything about that. If I did, I wouldn't go with him, would I?" "You don't like it, do you?" said Norton. He was a smooth one, all right. "A man who uses whores and then kills them. Would you like to help us take him in?" A few days ago, Bodie would have died rather than assist the police. Now, he was only aware of Doyle listening to them, Doyle looking at him, Doyle judging him. "I'd be happy to, Officer," he said, with his most charming smile. It took almost a week. Old Midas never went for the same person too many nights in a row.
Bodie didn't know (and didn't care) whether that was because he liked constant variety or preferred infrequent encounters. Bodie carried on his life as usual, hardly caring who he serviced or what they paid him. He was waiting for this thing to be over, this deal with the coppers. And then what? He didn't know. He only knew that he wouldn't be able to see Doyle after that. At least they didn't keep him locked up. He had to report to Norton and to Doyle every day, and he did so, with pristine obedience. He didn't need to say that the chance to see Doyle, even under these circumstances, was what he wanted most in the world. Even if Doyle didn't speak to him, unless he had to. Doyle in uniform was unfortunately as sexy as Doyle in jeans and pea jacket. Doyle as an authoritative and angry copper had a certain appeal that Bodie's body responded to, even while he cursed himself for the longing. He dealt with his clients with a forcefulness that was new to him. They didn't seem to mind. In return for his assistance, the police left him alone -- except to make inquiries about Old Midas. Then an evening came when the limousine returned, the chauffeur as disapproving as ever. Bodie sat comfortably in the back, memorizing details of the car that might be evidence for the law. Looking at it this way, he saw it in a new light. The glamour that had been so appealing seemed tawdry and misleading. He was betraying a client. Lawyers, priests, doctors ... they didn't do that, did they? He was helping to catch a criminal, if that was what Old Midas was. He was helping Doyle. He was trying to make amends for his life, for what he had become. He knew there were no amends to make. Again, the beautiful bathroom with the black and white tiles on the floor. The soap smelled of peach blossoms. He dried himself, tied on the satin dressing gown, and walked barefoot to the bedroom. The floor was cold under his feet, even when he got to the carpet. Old Midas was there, but not in bed, as he always had been before. He was there with the nasty chauffeur and two other. .. servants. They looked like thugs. They were all dressed except for him. Bodie looked at them brightly. "What, am I doing all of you?" he asked ingenuously. He had never been so cheeky before; best to be more careful. He was memorizing faces, details, evidence. He knew the address. He knew the layout of the house. He knew... But he was forgetting the routine. He dropped his dressing gown and stood naked, his erection unfortunately fading because he was afraid of these men, and what they could do to him. The fear made him angry. "You betrayed me," said Old Midas. He stood. "Fuck that," said Bodie, and the old man hit him across the face with a fist remarkably powerful in someone of his age and size. "Kneel," said the old man. Bodie knelt. "There is no betrayal without payment," said Old Midas. "What did you tell the police?"
"Nothing," said Bodie. The old man hit him again, and this time his fists were joined by the others. Bodie tried to fight, tried to use Shusai's methods, tried to bring his concentration and anger and pride all to focus on self-defence and a hope of survival, but he was outnumbered, and naked, and these men were well-trained and probably in practice. Staring at the ugly faces and the clubs raised, he thought he saw his father with his fist or his belt or his metal chain, and he leaped at Old Midas, hitting him, knocking him unconscious, battering his head. He kicked him in the genitals and twisted his arm behind his back. Unaccustomed to hitting people, he was exhilarated with it. The others tried to pull him off the old man, but his fingers were at his throat. So they beat him with their cudgels. He held on as long as he could. He felt his ribs break, and knew there was blood running down his head. He felt consciousness fading. Somehow he was lying on the floor again, and they were kicking him. They slammed his face into the floor, holding him down, hands on his wrists and ankles, and hands, too, spreading his buttocks. It wasn't hands that fucked his arse, and he wept with the pain of it, though he tried to stop. It didn't end there. There was more pain to come, more humiliation, more things for them to do to him - to his cock, to his feet, to his mouth. He shouted curses, spitting blood, unable to move even when they let go of his arms and legs and used their fists to hit him again, and again. The light faded to darkness, and a sort of tense, pained isolation. He was in a void of sharp and wandering pain centred on his genitals. His voice had gone, and he was still screaming. When he opened his eyes, it was to a dream of Doyle. But Doyle was splashing cold water on his face and saying, "He's coming round, I think." Norton was there, too, standing behind Doyle. Bodie thought it was odd that he would dream about Norton. He tried to push himself to a sitting position. His head swam, though he had only moved a few inches. Doyle held him down gently, an arm around him, gently wiping blood from his face with a handkerchief. "It's all right now," he said. "You'll be all right." "They wanted to kill me," said Bodie indistinctly. His tongue would hardly move. "Couldn't. I'm too tough." He wasn't sure if any of the words formed themselves at all, but Doyle seemed to understand. Doyle gently touched his bruised hand. "Toughest bastard I ever met," he said, and he said it with admiration. A few days later Bodie awoke from a deep sleep to find Doyle by his bedside. He was in a private hospital room, and his nurses were pretty - most of them - and there were several notes and cards by his bed. He'd managed to read them, in a few moments of bleary midnight consciousness when the pain tablets had worn off a little. One card said, "To Bodie, from Doyle. Get well soon." One said, "With love," with no signature, but he knew Doyle's writing. One said, "To Bodie, with thanks, Insp. Norton." That was attached to a bottle of scotch he was forbidden to drink. No one had ever given him single malt before. It must have cost a lot. He wondered if Norton had really sent it, or Doyle. Or if Doyle had forced Norton to send it. Standing beside him now, Doyle was once more out of uniform in jeans and pea jacket, looking no less sexy. "Joining the land of the living, are you?" he asked. His eyes were anxious, but his voice was like it had always been. Music to Bodie's ears. "Maybe," said Bodie. "If they offer me tea and custard tarts." "Thought you liked the other kind of tart." "No," said Bodie. "I am the other kind of tart."
To his surprise, Doyle laughed, the way he used to. "Oh, Christ, Bodie," he said. "I missed you so much. Then I thought the old bastard had killed you." "Fooled you." "I've been thinking." "Yeah?" "I'm sorry for... When I... You didn't just use me. I knew that. I wanted you, and you felt the same way." "I wanted you," said Bodie. "I loved you." He thought a minute. "Still do." "Yeah. Stupid, isn't it?" "Memories," said Bodie. "I never had any good ones before. Now I do. I've been thinking, too. Thinking of a change of job." "Oh?" "Thought I'd take up something safer than whoring. Maybe the army?" "You? A soldier?" Doyle stared in amazement. "Can't see it, mate. Not you." "Why not?" said Bodie, nettled. "I'd be a good soldier. Make it to the SAS soon enough, you'll see." Doyle reached over, to touch Bodie's healing face. "Bloody fool," he said fondly. Smiling, Bodie relaxed in the warm and comfortable bed, and fell asleep with Doyle's fingers still on his cheek.
