Computer Virus

This is the sixth story in the Feltenham Series. The others are:

1. 'Killer' 2. 'Feltenham Blues' 3. 'London Pride' 4. 'Little Boy Lost' 5. 'Scottish Dance'

COMPUTER VIRUS

A Feltenham Mystery

'KINGSLEY'S A FUCKING FAGGOT!' snarled the computer. Or at least it wasn't so much a snarl as one of those half-American twang, half-artificial robot voices that seem to get the emphasis in just slightly the wrong place. In fact it sounded quite polite - in a non-committal sort of way. Nevertheless David Kingsley, who had been expecting a screen of sales figures, was understandably shocked - which was presumably the intention of whoever had programmed the remark.

Kingsley looked guiltily around although he knew there was no one apart from himself in his office who might have overheard, no one who could see the glaring red letters scrawled across the screen, hiding the sales figures for the month. But supposing that incriminating announcement was also on other screens, out there in the general office, where everyone, typists, office boys - even a director walking through could see. He switched off his computer, though he knew it was the wrong way to close down the system and felt a trickle of sweat run down the centre of his back. Who in the office knew he was gay? And why should whoever it was want to out him in such an offensive manner?

Being gay was not illegal of course. Even in the days when consenting acts between adults were against the law, actually being gay had never been but David Kingsley didn't want the giggling innuendoes, the possible outright hostility, especially not the stop put on his promotion prospects from the top when it was learnt that Mr Kingsley, South West Branch Manager of Geraldo's Records, was no more than a raging pooftah. Who, he wondered, had it in for him? Frank Derwent from Accounts whom he had beaten to the position of Manager? Certainly Frank had looked rather annoyed when the decision had been announced a month ago. But perhaps the reason for the malicious message was not quite so politically obvious. Could it be the couple of lads - what were their names - Eddie and Simon - who laughed and joked their way through their jobs in the outer office and whom he had had to reprove last week for generally fooling about. 'Only having a laugh, guv,' had said Eddie - or was it Simon. 'The name's Mr Kingsley', David had replied, perhaps a little pompously, only to be met with another guffaw of laughter and some presumably maliciously derogatory remark which David had not caught.

This couldn't be happening to him, thought David and suddenly the tiny office with its pale green walls and filing cabinets and desk with his PC perched on top of it, was overpoweringly claustrophobic. The heating seemed too high, the air close and almost unbreathable. He needed to get out, out into the fresh air, at least for ten minutes. But first of course he would have to pass through the general office.

He took a deep breath and gently opened the door, the same door which, only a month before he had been so proud when the sign writer had painted 'David Kingsley - Manager' on the outside. The room was large, lit, of course by the ubiquitous fluorescent strip lighting. There was a buzz of conversation. Two girls looked up from their word processors but did not give him more than a casual glance. Eddie and Simon were giggling together, shaven heads close though that was scarcely unusual. Both wore casual shirts and jeans and might well have been twins. Eddie glanced across and gave him a half-smile... It seemed to David that it was almost sly, knowing, as if he was sharing a secret.

Linda Phelps, Head of Personnel, stared out of the window at the buildings over the street, her mousy hair as tightly restrained as her personality. She ignored David as he went by. In fact she had ignored him for months now - except when essential business had necessitated contact - ever since the Christmas Party when, mildly flirting with her, David had suddenly realised that she was looking for more than he could (or wanted to) give and he had left hurriedly, pleading a previous engagement. So she had a grudge, though why she might have waited six months before doing anything about it he couldn't understand. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, though.

At the other end of the office Frank Derwent was hunched over the keyboard, tapping in rows and columns of figures. As David passed him going towards the outer door, he looked up from his desk decorated with framed photographs of his wife, two daughters and pet labrador.

"Ah Kingsley," he said. "You'll have to do something about this computer."

David froze. What was it? Had that message appeared on Derwent's screen?

"This screen keeps jiggling up and down," said Frank. "It's giving me a headache." He rubbed his eyes as if to give credence to the complaint.

"Right," said David, relieved. "I'll get the engineer on to it as soon as I can. Oh, by the way. I'm just popping out for ten minutes."

Frank grunted as if to say, some people take advantage of their position even though they don't deserve it, and went back to his keyboard.

A flight of steep stairs led down to the shop below, 'Geraldo's CDs', which had recently been enlarged to sell videos, books and, in the premises next door, to provide an Internet Cafe. From the original small record shop, Mr Geraldo had expanded to a chain of such stores and now he sat far away in his Central London office controlling his little empire, no doubt in front of a computer screen, noting how each shop fared and how Kingsley was looking after the South West area, which of course included the Feltanham shop, and - terrible thought - at this very moment a message in glaring scarlet letters was flashing in front of him to say that his area manager was . . .

David pushed the thought out of his mind and went into the shop. It was gratifyingly full and on any other occasion David would have been pleased. Two assistants coped efficiently with the customers. He knew both of them, Alan Forrest, good looking lad, dark gold hair, straight nose, mobile lips, and Denny, Denny something, surely too pretty to be straight. And on the counter in front of them, a computer screen, another fucking computer screen, linked to the same network that his was, though to a different part of course. Perhaps that message was only on his, David's, part. But how could anyone have put it there? Whoever had done it would need his password to get in. David thought how stupid he had been to choose his own name as the password. It would be the obvious choice, yet using something difficult would always give him the problem of remembering it. He determined to change it immediately he got back.

Outside in the street there was the reek of petrol fumes but at least it was cooler than the fug of the office. David took some deep breaths. People pushed by him on the pavement. He noticed an attractive young man standing outside a shop just a few yards away. He seemed to be looking in David's direction but then a woman came from behind him and they went off together. Forget about your fucking cock, thought David suddenly angry with himself, for a few fucking minutes, can't you?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Unusually for him, Phil Howard was feeling rather depressed. He had come down to Feltenham for the week and perhaps was missing his lover, Sergeant Keith Hatch, left up in London. All the same he and Alan Forrest usually managed to cheer each other up when either was low. But at the moment both seemed on a downward curve. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, drinking instant coffee from mugs in the shape of penguins. It might have been the end of the world.

"I guess I can't go on being a supermarket shelf filler for the rest of my life," said Phil.

"It's a job," said Alan.

"At least you enjoy yours at Geraldo's. And you like the people you work with."

"Denny? He's a sweetie."

"Not gay though?"

"No. Sadly. He'd be a wow at the Club."

"What about your boss?"

"Kingsley? Yes, he's nice. Rugged, I think you'd call him. Looks like a rugger player and his hair's nice too, over his forehead in a fringe. Butch."

"Probably wears it like that to hide that he's going bald," said Phil, dispirited. "Anyway those butch-looking types always turn face down in bed. How old is he?"

"I don't know - thirty something."

"Do you think he's gay?"

"Could be. He's never made a pass though."

"I'd ask him. Subtly, of course."

"I know your idea of subtle," said Alan smiling. "You'd grab him by the balls and then ask him if he enjoyed it. I wouldn't do things like that."

"No," said Phil suddenly depressed again. "Sometimes I behave like a daft old queen."

"Oh no," suggested Alan comfortingly, trying to joke him out of it. "Daft young queen if anything."

"I'm nearly twenty two," Phil said in a voice which sounded appalled at the very thought, turning down his mouth into the parody of a tragic mask. "It's time I did something with my life. I can't rely on Keith all the time."

"So what you planning on doing - before you start getting the old age pension?"

Phil considered. "I could go back to College, perhaps get a degree. I got some reasonable A levels at school."

"A degree isn't everything," said Alan. "Look at Esteban. He's got one and what has it got him?"

"You?" said Phil.

Alan laughed. "Seriously though," he said, "Esteban's so depressed about everything. Now he thinks he's gotta go back to Costa Rica . . ."

Alan looked at his friend. Funny to think they'd both been Keith's lovers. And at one time Alan had been prepared to hate this guy who, he had felt, had supplanted him in Keith's affections. Now, well he was his best friend. At least the one he always he felt he could turn to in times of trouble. Now Phil was the one with problems. His normal impish grin was gone. Keith had once said that the two of them looked almost like brothers and there was a resemblance - even Alan could see it - though Phil had more of a tilt at the end of his nose which - even at twenty-two - sometimes still made him look fourteen and much blonder hair which flopped uncontrollably over his forehead.

"Hey, chum! Wake up!" said Phil. "Where've you got to? And what's all this about Esteban?"

"Depths of despair, darling," said Alan, though his flippant tone might have hidden his concern. "He thought that having got a good degree, the offers of jobs would come flooding in."

"But what about work permits and all that bollocks?"

"I think he thought one of the Central American Banks over here would give him a job or the Costa Rican Embassy or something. As it is he's got nothing. His grant's dried up, of course. And he's so unhappy, he doesn't even want sex any more."

Phil showed a sign of interest. "Wow!" he said on disbelief. "You don't think that's an excuse and he's having it off with some rubber hosed Scotsman up there."

"I don't know," said Alan miserably. "If he is why does he come down here every weekend? Though when he does it's just to mope around looking gloomy, so it's not much fun."

"Poor old love," said Phil. They both looked a bit downcast for a moment.

Alan finished off his coffee, which was now almost cold. "Want to go to the Club?" he asked.

"Might as well." Phil pulled himself together back into something of his old form. "Let's get all dolled up and go out and kill'em," he said.

"I can't be too late," said Alan. "Work tomorrow."

"There you go. That's the disadvantage of having a job," said Phil.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Olympia Club was the centre of Feltenham's Gay Social Life. The Club room had, Phil noticed, been redecorated since his last visit there a year before. It looked grander, more refined, the capitals of the original Regency columns down one side, picked out in gold, the mural, depicting Greek athletes with rather large genitals, vanished. Discreet music played from hidden loudspeakers. It seemed like a cross between the Public Library and a deserted Marks and Spencer Superstore.

"It all looks rather stately-piss-elegant," said Phil. "Is this where you strut your stuff on a Saturday night? I doubt if I could get a hard-on in this atmosphere."

"You don't notice it so much with the laser lights on," said Alan with a smile. "I have managed an erection under extreme circumstances. They play real music at the weekends, not just this dance-around-your- handbag stuff."

"Is Nick still barman here?"

"Oh yes. The Olympia wouldn't be the Olympia without old Nick."

"He's cute," said Phil.

"No he's not," said Alan. "You're 'cute'. He's attractive. Those dark good looks, and his eyebrows, sort of sardonic, and the mouth, sneering and smiling at the same time. Dangerous and attractive."

"He's harmless," said Phil.

"Don't you believe it."

The doors opened and a group of men came in, laughing, joking, taking the piss out of each other. Alan knew them as regular visitors to the Club and introduced Phil. They chattered for a while and then Phil found himself falling silent - unusual for him - the recent discontent and frustration returning. All of a sudden he wished Keith were here.

"Hello, honey." A soft voice close to him. He turned and saw Nick standing there, dark, dressed in a black pullover with a double white stripe around his chest. Thumbs in the pockets of his blue jeans, his hands downward, provocatively resting around the bulge in his groin, emphasising, inviting.

"All alone?" asked Nick.

Phil gestured at the crowd.

"I mean no Keith?"

Phil shook his head. "He's in London," he said.

"You'll have to wait until he leaves me on my own," said Nick.

"What?" asked Phil, not understanding.

"It's what you said to me in Edinburgh. In the Festival Bar. When I asked if you'd come back with me. 'You'll have to wait until he leaves me on my own' you said. Well, here you are - all on your own. The offer still stands."

"It was a joke," said Phil. "I thought you realised."

Nick stood looking at him, the hands cupping his crotch and Phil's eyes were drawn down there.

"Alan's lovely," said Phil, feeling a bit treacherous, "and he's on his own."

"I've had him already," said Nick.

That made Phil cross. "You only see people as a fuck, a suck or a wank," he said.

"What else is there?"

"What about companionship . . . caring . . . or even love?"

"Oh luuurrrve!" said Nick dismissively, prolonging the word until it lost all its meaning, became distorted, trivial, worthless.

Phil saw Alan looking across at him. "Do you want to go?" he called back.

Alan nodded.

"He's all dick and trousers," said Alan on the way out.

"Nice trousers though," said Phil.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alan was alone in the shop when David Kingsley, his boss, arrived the following morning. Denny was in the stockroom sorting through a delivery of CDs that had just arrived.

"Morning, Mr Kingsley," said Alan.

"Er.. Good morning, Alan," said David, thinking as he often did what an attractive lad Alan Forrest was - especially when he smiled. He stopped to chat, seeing that the other assistant wasn't around. Though there was perhaps an ulterior motive. He was still worried about that troublesome, annoying message.

"Any problems?" he asked, It was the sort of question a manager could ask of his staff - was supposed to ask.

"Don't think so, thank you," said Alan.

"Computer running OK?" Was it Alan's imagination or did Mr Kingsley's voice have a slight touch of apprehension in it?

"Yes, Mr Kingsley. Nothing I can't sort out anyway."

"Ah. You're a computer expert then are you?"

"Well I wouldn't say an 'expert' but I know a bit about them. Did a course at college."

"Ah." Mr Kingsley hesitated then seemed to make up his mind. "If someone wanted to break into the network, to enter something that he shouldn't - you know as a joke or something. All he'd need to know would be the password, wouldn't he? - or she," he added.

"Well, yes - if that's all the safeguards that are imposed. On some systems you can only get into certain parts from designated terminals." The technical terms came out pat. Mr Kingsley was impressed.

"Hm. I suppose most passwords are fairly simple to guess?"

"Many people aren't that imaginative," said Alan. "Using their own names or things that it would be fairly easy for someone who knew them reasonably well to guess, birthdays, wife's or children's names."

"Sure, and without the password, they wouldn't be able to get in," said David, sounding slightly relieved. "Well, have a good day."

Alan was about to say that there were other ways but Kingsley was walking towards the door leading to the upstairs office and Denny emerged in a rush from the stockroom.

"What's wrong with old Kingsley?" he said not seeing David at first. "He's ordered the wrong - " He broke off, though even when he realised that the manager must have heard, he didn't look all that embarrassed. "Oh sorry, sir, didn't see you there." He smiled, that angelic smile that must have melted many a heart.

"What's the matter then?" asked David.

"It's this morning's delivery," said Denny. "Instead of the usual Top Twenty we've got loads of records of some guy I've never heard of - Noel someone - singing a song called 'Mad About the Boy'. Cover looks real old-fashioned. It'll never sell. Sounds too gay anyway. Can't flipping dance to it . . . and look here . . . he's ripped of Joe Cocker's 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' . . . flipping cheek."

"I'll sort it out," said David uncomfortably and went upstairs. Who could have made that mistake, he wondered. Sounded like the sort of silly joke Eddie or Simon might have done. Though would they have heard of Noel Coward? Anyway he had changed his own password the previous evening, replacing the obvious 'David' with the name of his dog, 'Diogenes' though even that he never called him, for it had long been corrupted to 'Dingy' which was what the dog answered to. Only on the vet's inoculation booster record was the name in full. And his sister always asked after 'Diogenes' when she rang him from Shropshire.

Frank Derwent was at his desk though Linda and the boys hadn't yet arrived. Frank grunted as we went in. "Got my replacement monitor?" he asked, eyebrows meeting in a frown.

"It's in hand," said David and went into his own office.

Even Frank's grumpiness couldn't sour David's disposition. It was a 'good' day. No one had seen the message yesterday. He had changed his password into one that he was sure couldn't be guessed - not in a million years. Alan had smiled at him. Alan had smiled at him! Did he really mean that? Was he interested? He remembered a coarse expression - Never shit on your own doorstep. If he wanted his own sexual orientation to remain a secret it would be madness to make overtures to one of the staff. What if he wasn't gay anyway? But there was something about him, not effeminate, for Alan looked straight enough. But some sixth sense - what they called Gaydar - told David that he was gay. Anyway - he pushed all thoughts of Alan out of his head - now what was this problem with the Noel Coward records. He'd recognised the song immediately. If he could prove that Eddie or Simon had been fooling around with the records, ordering the wrong ones, they'd be out so quickly, their feet wouldn't touch the ground. But probably it was just a mistake in the order number. Perhaps theirs had got mixed up with another branch's.

He switched on the computer and waited while it booted up, did all those strange things that it had to do - and which David didn't really understand. So Alan knew about computers did he. So he could ask him if . . .

The screen cleared and then was filled with a message while that idiotic, inhuman, impersonal voice announced to all and sundry - "KINGSLEY'S A FUCKING QUEER. WHY DOESN'T HE ADMIT IT?"

"Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" blasphemed David. "What the fuck's happened now?" His complacent little world of a couple of minutes ago shattered into pieces. He struggled not to panic, and to try to think calmly. He had changed the password, changed it last night to something which no one could possibly guess. So either there was some other way round that or someone had programmed the messages in BEFORE he had changed the password and put perhaps a sort of time delay before the second one appeared. Was that possible? He cursed the fact that he knew so little about computers. They did what he wanted them to do and that was fine. When they misbehaved, he was lost. Another thought struck him and he felt the sweat appear on his palms. if a time delay was possible then, there could be many messages waiting - an unexploded time bomb indeed, one for each new day - and possibly ones waiting on the other networks too. "Christ! What to do?"

Almost as if he feared something would literally explode, he tentatively prodded at a key - and the message disappeared, revealing the familiar menu for his stock ordering program. David took a deep breath and checked on the order for the shop downstairs. It was quite right - or at least quite wrong. 300 copies of the Noel Coward record and nothing for the Top Ten for the week. So someone had deliberately changed his order and substituted this other unsaleable - well in the quantities delivered - item. Someone who also would have needed to know the entry password. Someone from the outer office. Must be.

Obviously he couldn't ask them, interrogating would mean mentioning the incriminating messages. "Think," he told himself. "Fucking think!"

Then at last something did penetrate the fog of panic which seemed to have short-circuited all his brain cells. Alan! Alan would know. Alan downstairs. He had never upset him. He knew about computers. He would be able to tell him what was happening, what he should do. Now all he had to do was to decide the best way of arranging a private meeting, preferably after the office was closed - and without alerting the suspicions of everyone else.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"So you're out tonight," said Phil. "And I'm left on me tod!"

"Sorry about that. Kingsley was most mysterious about it. Said it was absolutely private and confidential. I nearly had to sign the Official Secrets Act. So I can't take you along."

"Oh that's OK. I'll nip along to the Club. Will you be late home?"

"Don't think so. Probably only an hour or so. I'll join you at the Club afterwards, if you like, and tell you all about it."

"Could it be promotion?" He twisted his face into a grotesque leer. "Or seduction?"

"Doubt if either," said Alan, smiling. "But we'll see. I'm meeting him at the Crown."

The Crown Inn was occasionally 'gayish' but never outrageously so. Suggesting it as the meeting place hardly gave a definite clue to David's sexual orientations one way or the other.

Alan was about ten minutes early. He bought himself and sipped a glass of lager and looked around. Two young lads were playing darts, one tall and slim, his friend more tubby and dark. Both in their way attractive. An elderly man in a cloth cap and a woman who was presumably his wife - as he paid her no attention at all - sat at a table and looked as if they were not enjoying themselves.

David was on time.

"Hello, Mr Kingsley," said Alan smiling.

"David, please. We're not at the office now. Are you ready for another drink?"

Alan shook his head and David bought himself a pint, came and sat down at the table next to Alan.

There was a brief pause. "Alan," said David at last. "I need some help. It's personal and I want to think I can trust you."

Alan looked ar him. He seemed worried but although he had a frown on his forehead, it didn't make him less attractive. His eyes were brown, Alan noticed, and, whatever Phil had suggested, he wasn't losing his hair. There were tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. What did they call them? Laughter lines? He'd be really dishy when he laughed. His teeth were white and regular, the lips sensual - kissing lips. His body under the casual sweater and trousers looked athletic - what he could see of it. For a brief moment he knew he would like to see more. He suddenly realised that David was talking. He had missed the first part.

" . . . . when you said you knew about computers, I realised you might be able to help."

"Just say that again," said Alan, "to make sure I've got it right."

"OK. Someone is putting messages into my machine, and altering the stock orders. I don't know who, except that it must be someone in the office. And then, even though I changed the password last night, another one came up this morning and I wondered if there could be a sort of time delay . . ." He realised that he wasn't describing it very clearly but Alan seemed to understand.

"Yes, it's possible," said Alan. "Using the computer's internal clock of course. But then there'd have to be a little program inserted somewhere, probably hidden inside another file. But strictly speaking of course, it needn't be someone actually in the office. Anyone with a modem link, who knew your dedicated telephone number and the password could hack in and alter the data, plant the messages. It'd be fairly easy. As far as the 'time program' is concerned, I could probably find if there was one, so you'd know if there was anything more waiting to happen."

"But no one knows the password. No one at the office. No one anywhere!" His voice sounded desperate.

"Do you mind telling me what it is," said Alan. "After all you can always change it tomorrow."

"Diogenes," said David. "It's the name of my dog, though I always call him 'Dingy'."

"And no one knows his real name? No one at all?"

"No," said David. Then considered. "Well I guess it's on the vet's computer, and I suppose I might have mentioned it to friends, occasionally that is or . . . " He seemed to be about to add something else but evidently decided against it and finished "or . . friends. But I don't see how anyone in the office could know."

"Would you like me to have a look?" asked Alan. "At the computer, I mean. See if I can find a foreign program. It might put your mind at rest and then we could worry about the other matter."

'We' thought David. He was astonished at how pleasant that little word sounded. "Would you?" he asked. "Tonight? I've got the keys and I'd prefer no one else knew about this. That is, if you haven't planned on doing anything else." He wondered whether he should add 'I'll make it worth your while' but that sounded mercenary. He could always give him something afterwards, a present.

They left together, the elderly couple looking after them in a disinterested fashion. Outside it was raining slightly and they ran, trying to keep under the overhanging doorways of the High Street buildings as far as possible. Occasionally they banged into each other and, at first apologised, but after a while they just laughed. David felt much younger than his thirty-two years.

Both slightly out of breath, they arrived at 'Geraldo's CDs' and David unlocked the door. It was dark inside and he didn't switch on the lights, locking the door behind them still with the light from the street lamps showing the way. But on the stairs it was pitch black and Alan coming behind, feeling his way, bumped into David, feeling for a moment his body against him before he moved away, apologising. Then the door at the top was open and the light on so that they could see their way into David's office.

Almost reluctantly it seemed, David switched on his computer, heard the hard drive hum into life, but it powered up and showed the normal screen display. Alan sat on the chair and David pulled up another one alongside.

"OK," said Alan. "Let's have a look at the programs." He pressed some keys and a list appeared all down the screen and off the bottom. "I see someone's been consistent," said Alan. "They all start with the Company's initials, GCD, so unless our hacker's also been ultra wary we should be able to see if there's an obviously alien one." He skimmed down the list and down the next directory window, and the next, and the next.

"Wow," said David. "I hadn't realised there were so many programs."

Alan reached the end. "No," he said. "Nothing obviously wrong. Let's look for something inside a program. Try the Boot file first." Again a few more key presses and a mass of strange symbols and figures and letters filled the screen. "Let me see, if I put this into a word processor, I can search for your messages," said Alan. He seemed to be talking to himself. "What exactly did they say?"

The moment of truth. David swallowed. Oh well it had to come out eventually. "'Kingsley's a fucking faggot'," he said, "and 'Kingsley's a fucking queer. Why doesn't he admit it?'"

That tight little office suddenly seemed full of people. Alan could sense David's discomfort and didn't turn to look at him. They were close, though, so close that Alan could feel the other man's warm breath on his cheek. He was suddenly conscious of the physical body just inches away from his own. If he turned slightly their legs would brush. If he put his hand on his own thigh it would be only centimetres from David's. Alan felt the beginnings of an erection stir in his groin. He hurriedly transferred the file into the WP and instructed it to look for the word 'fucking'. It was hardly one that would normally be in the original software. The search came up with a blank.

"What does that mean?" asked David's voice, inches away from his left ear, sounding strained and somehow different.

Alan swallowed. His mouth felt dry. "Well there's no trace of the message in the Boot file, so probably it was just put in the once and there isn't a time bomb."

"But how. . . "

Alan turned towards him and they found their faces scarcely apart at all. Both experienced the instinctive urge to draw away but in fact found themselves getting closer. Lips touched, briefly, parted and then came together again. This time, Alan let his mouth open and felt a tongue creep between and meet his. He moved his whole body closer so that the two of them touched, arms folded round the other, pulled closer, feeling the warmth of the other's body through his clothing. He smelled the sweet tang of aftershave and underneath a distinctive smell of David's own self. He felt hands at his groin encouraging him to hardness.

"I never realised you were gay," said Alan.

"I've always fancied you," said David. He leaned towards him and again kissed him on the lips.

Alan knew at that moment that he had made a mistake. He should never have accepted David's invitation. He was a nice person but didn't really turn him on. He wanted Esteban's 'beso negro'. He wanted Esteban purring sweet Spanish words of love into his ear. He wanted only Esteban and Esteban's body.

David pressed up against him and Alan could feel the hard thrust of his erection against his thigh. His own cock now stayed resolutely limp. What was the matter with him? Surely he could at least get a hard-on. It had been long enough since he had had sex, even masturbated. The resources ought to be there. Think of someone else, the someone he really fancied. For a moment the image of Esteban Perez flashed into his mind, lying in bed in Edinburgh, his black hair in disorder, the ravishing smile on his face, the extended tip of his tongue with which he could bring about so much pleasure just licking his lips, his long legs stretched out, slightly open - always for him. His cock twitched.

Alan kissed him back and felt his own cock respond. It was going to be alright. He grabbed hold of David, putting his arms round him and feeling the firmness of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt. He hadn't let himself go flabby.

"Let's lie down," said David.

There was only the floor, though it was covered with a carpet and they undressed like any married couple getting ready for bed. Alan noticed that David folded his trousers neatly before putting them on a chair. Naked, the two of them lay down together, flesh cleaved to flesh, Alan underneath, David on top.

"What do you want to do?" asked David, his question gently into Alan' right ear.

"I'm sorry. I don't do penetrative sex," lied Alan. "Not even with a condom."

"That's OK," said David. He began to hump, his cock running along the groove in Alan' groin. The friction of pubic hair against his cock was arousing. A spring of liquid excitement lubricated and eased the frotting so that the groove became a slick-lined channel. Alan lay there, half hard, feeling a disillusion. wanting to co-operate yet driven by no sexual imperative. He compromised by reaching round and grasping David's buttocks, pulling him in time with his strokes. The man's breathing grew faster, became gasps and Alan knew that David would come soon. He faked excitement himself and as David's body arched in a rictus of orgasm and pulsed again and again, he pressed himself against the other, counterfeiting a moan of pleasure. There would be enough cum to pass for two. David need never know.

They lay for a while, Alan patiently waiting for David to recover. Eventually he rolled off and sat up.

"Did you . . .?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"I'll get a towel." He padded on bare feet across the grey-green carpet flooring to a filing cabinet and returned with a small hand towel. Alan wondered why he kept it there. He dried himself and started to put his clothes back on.

He felt ashamed at his deception. at his lack of involvement.

"Are you sure you don't want to come back to my house?" asked David. "Stay the night?"

"Gotta get back, I'm afraid." It sounded too dismissive, so he added encouragingly, "You know if you didn't let it bother you...I mean, well...there's plenty of lads, would let a nice looking bloke like you...well you know what I mean... Why don't you come to the Olympia club...I could introduce you to my friends... but, I mean, I'm 'with' someone...you do understand why I can't come back..."

David nodded. In a way he felt relieved. There wouldn't be an involvement. He had been unwise to allow this to happen, even want it to happen but it would have been even more difficult if Alan had been one of those people who hung on, made demands.

"I think it could have been someone from outside," said Alan, pulling on his jeans.

"What?" For a moment David had no idea what he was talking about.

"Your hacker. If no one in the office knew your dog's name, it must have been someone from outside, someone you told, about Diogenes."

David thought. There had been people of course. People he had brought back for sex, people to whom he'd said, 'This is Dingy, short for Diogenes'. But no one, as far as he could remember, whom he'd upset enough to want to exact this revenge.

"Well, thanks, Alan," he said. "Thanks for everything."

They switched off the lights and went out, locking the door on their sex, on that single one-night stand.

On the way home Alan bought some spicy vegetable samosas and onion bhajis from the Indian take-away. Phil might be hungry, he thought. But when he got in, although the Club must have been shut for over an hour, Phil wasn't at home.

A note, though, left by him from earlier in the evening, written in his untidy, rather childish scrawl, said that Esteban had rung from Edinburgh, needed to speak to him. It was too late to ring him now though and Alan felt guilty and miserable.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Phil's depression had returned. Although Alan had said he would probably only be an hour, it was well past that and he still hadn't turned up at the Club. There was no one there that he knew and those that were there were either interested only in each other or - to be blunt - Phil wasn't interested in them.

He had a beer and then another. This idea of going to College was crap wasn't it, he thought. College would be just like school and he'd hated school. He was pretty sure he wasn't bright enough to get a degree anyway. And the students there would just be kids, straight from school. He finished his lonely drink and had another one.

If only Keith were down here but it was only Tuesday and he wasn't arriving until Saturday, Friday night at the earliest.

"Still alone, honey?"

Phil jumped. How did Nick always seem to manage to creep up on him so quietly? All the same Phil was pleased to see him, his handsome dark face, his sardonic smile. "Let me get you a drink," he said.

"I'll get them," said Nick. "Same again?"

Phil nodded though he knew he'd probably had enough. He felt a slight tingling in his finger tips - always a sure sign. He hoped Nick wasn't going to try the old seduction routine again. But no, for as soon as he came back with the drink, he launched into a detailed - and very amusing - history and description of everyone in the Club. Where he got his information from Phil had no idea. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he had had sex with all of them. Soon he had Phil laughing, feeling much more cheerful.

They had another drink, and then a short 'to finish the evening' as Nick said. As Phil got off the bar stool he staggered and Nick caught him round the waist. Phil giggled feeling pissed.

"Whoa, boy," Nick said.

The fresh air sobered him a little, but the arm round his waist felt good so he didn't object. They walked along the pavement together towards Cadogan Square, where Alan lived.

"Care for a coffee?" asked Nick.

"OK. Where?"

"My place," said Nick. "It's on the way."

"How do you know where I'm staying?" asked Phil.

"I know everything. Here we are."

Nick's flat was just round the corner from 'The Crown', the pub Alan was supposed to have met David Kingsley. For a moment Phil wondered what had happened to him but his alcohol befuddled brain decided it wasn't important. At the moment all he wanted to do was to sit down.

From the street a flight of narrow stairs led up to the flat, a living room, a small kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The furnishings in the flat looked cheap and had probably been provided by some miserly landlord, or landlady. There was a sofa against one wall, a tall bookcase with some paperbacks against another. Nick's only visual contribution seemed to be three posters of Spanish bullfighting on the wall. But there was an impressive display of computer equipment on a table over by the far wall.

"Do you want a drink?" Nick asked. He opened the cupboard part of the bookcase and revealed a well-stocked supply presumably obtained cheaply, or even free from his various bar jobs.

"No thanks," said Phil. "Think I've had enough. Just a coffee please." He plumped himself thankfully down on the sofa which was the only seating available. "I didn't know you were into computers."

"Sure am," said Nick, and pressed a switch. He went into the kitchen and Phil could hear him rattling some crockery. The computer went through its usual warming up exercises before the screen cleared to a picture of an Elizabethan four-poster bed with the caption 'Nick's Notches'. Intrigued, Phil hoisted himself from the sofa and went across to have a look. As he did so, the screen changed and he now saw a list of names and dates, the latest one being that day. Idly he scanned earlier using the up arrow. They went back for several years, some in fact were just questions marks though the date was always specified. Suddenly a name caught his attention, Alan Forrest, the date being over a year before. What on earth was Alan doing on this list? Then it became clear. Nick had kept a record of all the people he had had sex with. Alan had admitted to him that he had had sex with Nick after Keith had left him to go to London. 'Nick's Notches' - Notches on the bedposts, and the questions marks just anonymous sex probably in a public lavatory.

In a way Phil felt a little disgusted by the ostentatious display though he admitted to himself that once, in the time before Keith, he had himself made a list of conquests - nothing though to rival Nick's record. He scanned forward and actually recognised a couple of names, people he had known, and Nick had obviously had, in London. Then another familiar name caught his attention, David Kingsley. So Kingsley after all was gay and had had sex with Nick - and presumably was also now in the process of copping out with Alan.

Nick returned with two mugs of coffee and did not seem at all embarrassed by the fact that his records were on public display. Perhaps he was proud of his Casanova-like achievements. Phil sat down again on he sofa and Nick sat next to him.

"So how'd you like to join them?" asked Nick, nodding towards the list on the screen.

Phil sat back. It was a comfortable piece of furniture and the body next to him was warm and sexy. He didn't look straight at him but out of the corner of his eye he could see Nick's jean-clad groin, the provocative bulge there, the hand that wasn't holding his mug, lying next to it, emphasising the arousal. It would be so easy, thought Phil. Lie back and enjoy it. Nick was probably a marvellous fuck - well all the practice he'd had - and practice makes perfect, they say.

So easy! Too easy! And there was Keith, his lover, his partner. They'd never actually sworn to be faithful to each other but he knew perfectly well that Keith was. And he knew also how hurt and bewildered and - yes - betrayed Keith would feel if he knew. He made up his mind. It wasn't really too difficult.

"Don't fancy just being one of a long long list," he said, trying to make it sound light. "Anyway tell me a bit more about the computer thing. You an expert?"

"At everything," said Nick. "Program writing, hacking - even make a bit of money at it. Then there's fucking - could probably make something out of that too."

"Hacking?" said Phil desperately trying to keep away from the latter subject. "What's that?"

"You know. Getting into other people's systems."

"But why?" said Phil, genuinely curious.

"Oh industrial espionage," said Nick vaguely, "Learning about your competitors, sometimes it's just pure malice." He laughed. "I enjoy it. One the other day. This guy was upset because someone else got promotion over his head. Was sure the guy was gay and wanted me to slip some messages into his computer - oh and fuck up his data too a bit."

"Isn't it difficult?" asked Phil. "Protection and passwords and such?"

"There are ways around," said Nick. "But this one was easy. You see I knew the guy. He was gay. I'd actually had him, knew quite a bit about him, what words he might choose for his password. Piece of cake." He finished his coffee and put the mug done, then moved nearer to Phil. Their thighs touched.

Phil felt Nick's hand, warm, on his leg, moving up to the fork. For a moment, almost as if it had nothing to do with him, his leg relaxed, allowing the way up and Nick felt him through the material, felt his balls, the swelling cock, the way underneath.

"No," said Phil. "No, please don't, Nick." He moved the groping hand and tried to get up.

Instantly Nick's expression changed. "You fucking little cock-tease," he shouted and hit him in the face. It was a glancing blow, more of a slap than a punch but it jerked Phil's face upright and made him realise that the situation was serious. He got up but Nick's hands were clutching at his thighs and Nick was strong.

The alcohol was still numbing Phil's brain and his legs felt weak. He staggered and slipped onto the floor and Nick was on top of him, his hands, groping at his flies, pulling the zip down while his body half lay over him so that he couldn't get up.

"No," he kept on saying. "Please, no." Though his protestations had no effect, His flies were open, Nick's hand was inside and holding him. Nick's leg was over his so that he couldn't move them. Nick's free hand was holing his left arm. Only his right one and his head were free.

With what remained of his strength, Phil lashed out with his free hand and caught Nick around the side of his head.

"Why you fucking little bastard," said Nick and pushed his head nearer. Phil could see his eyes glaring, his mouth twisted in a rictus of anger. Not even knowing what he was doing, he butted his forehead into that head, caught it just above the nose, felt cartilage give and heard a shout of pain. Then he was released as Nick grasped his nose with both hands, suddenly pouring with blood. He felt the body lift from him and scrabbled free, not even looking back, making for the door, down the steep stairs, almost slipping and falling and then out, out into the night air. He was gasping but he was away, zipping himself up as he rushed back to Cadogan Square.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alan was about to climb into bed when he heard the door open and Phil come in. For a moment he wondered whether to carry on, leave it all until tomorrow. He found he didn't really want to discuss David and what had happened. But he had left Phil on his own in the Club and obviously something had happened to him so he went out into the living room. Phil looked dreadful. He was out of breath as if he had been running for miles. There was a red mark on his face and dark stains which could have been blood on his shirt. His eyes were red as if he had been crying.

"Christ, mate," said Alan. "What's the matter."

For a moment Phil said nothing then the tears started again. "Fucking shit! Fucking shit!" he said and Alan hugged him, holding him tightly while the sobs shook his body. At last he stopped, as if he had no more tears to shed.

Alan sat him down in an easy chair. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

Phil shook his head.

"Right. Just stay there. I'll get a coffee and be right back."

Phil nodded, holding onto him for a moment as if he didn't want to be left alone and then releasing him.

When he got back with two mugs, Phil was huddled in the chair looking miserable certainly, but not as desperate as he had been before. Alan gave him his coffee and then sat on the arm of the chair next to him.

"OK," said Alan. "Do you want to tell?"

And so the whole sorry tale came out and Alan listened sympathetically, thought his own thoughts and wondered why he also hadn't said no that evening. David wouldn't, he was sure, have reacted in the way that Nick had. He felt even more guilty. He wondered what Esteban had wanted on the phone.

"And Kingsley IS gay," said Phil eventually. "He was on Nick's list."

"Oh yes," said Alan. "He's gay all right."

"So what did he want to see you about?" asked Phil. He was feeling a bit better now that the story was told.

"Someone was hacking into his computer network," said Alan, "leaving anti-gay messages. He thought it might have been one of the office staff."

Light dawned. "Has he just been promoted?" asked Phil.

Alan nodded.

"It was Nick," said Phil.

"Nick? What do you mean?"

"Nick did the hacking. He was boasting about it. How someone had asked him to get into his boss's computer, put some messages, alter data. That sort of stuff. And he said it was someone whom he'd had. And Kingsley was on his list. Must be him."

Alan. nodded slowly. "I'll tell him . . . tomorrow. He'll know who it was in the office asked Nick. What a bastard!"

"You said he was dangerous," said Phil.

"Kingsley thought it might have been Eddie and Simon. That's a laugh. There's as camp as a row of tents."

They were silent and for a moment there was a slight distance between them, each thinking his own thoughts.

Keith would be down at the weekend. Phil wasn't sure what or if he would tell him.

Alan would ring Esteban in the morning, find out what was wrong. He wasn't sure what or if he would tell him.

They sipped their coffees.

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