Medical Matters

Medical Matters

TUESDAY

Keith Hatch looked fondly through the doorway of the living room at the figure of his lover crouched studiously at the table over his college work. He was tapping away at the computer keyboard and the words streamed across the monitor screen. Keith admired the M-shape that his honey-coloured hair made at the nape of his neck. For a moment Keith paused to view the picture, framed as it was through the doorway. He saw the watercolour on the wall that he and Phil had chosen together, the light from the table lamp which shone on the silky-soft hair, the angle of his cheekbone. It was a sight that induced an almost physical spasm of emotion in the pit of his stomach and a desire to plant a kiss on that special place.

As if Phil was aware of the intent gaze fixed on him, he rubbed the back of his neck as if it pained him.

Keith felt a sudden need to speak, so that Phil would turn and he would see the bright eyes and the wide, impish smile.

"Have you nearly finished?" he asked. "I've got to go out tonight, but you could come too if you like."

Phil didn't even look round. "Must finish this essay," he said. "It's due in tomorrow." Phil was at University College, London studying for a degree in Business Studies. Although only 26 he was considered a `mature student' and had found the studying difficult and keeping up with the younger people, straight from school and used to the disciplines of study, a bit of a strain.

Keith couldn't stop himself. He went over to Phil and kissed the back of his neck, a gentle, lingering kiss.

"Mmmm," said Phil, though he still kept up the relentless typing. "Where you off to tonight, Sergeant? I assume it's business."

"What else," said Sergeant Keith Hatch of the Metropolitan Police Gay Liaison Force. "Do you think I enjoy trolling around the gay clubs of London on a Friday night?"

Phil looked round for the first time. His eyes had a sparkle. "Of course not, darling. What is it this time?"

"Some kid. Usual story. Had a row with his parents. Blurted out that he was gay. Father saw red and shouted at him so he left home and headed for the Big City. Parents, when they cooled down, are now worried and want him back but don't know where he is."

"A kid?"

"Well sixteen.. a kid to me."

Phil looked at him with a smile. "You're getting old, honey. That's not a `kid'; that's a young man."

For a moment Keith did indeed look older than his thirty years, his brow furrowed. "I've always been old," he said. "I think it's worrying over `kids' like you."

"When I get my degree and a good job, I'll look after you in your dotage. Warm your slippers, heat your Ovaltine."

"As long as you keep my bed warm, I'll be OK. Anyway I won't be too late, I hope. I'll just make a few enquiries and see if anyone knows him or has seen him."

Phil yawned and rubbed the back of his neck again. "I'm bushed," he said. "I'll finish this and get to bed early. Gotta stiff neck."

Keith repressed the obvious riposte. "I'll try not to waken you."

"You'd better. If you don't, I'll be most disappointed." The expression in his eyes and his quizzical grin showed that his `disappointment' would be physical. He offered his lips for a kiss. "Don't pick up any chickens," he said.

Keith knew the Clubs - the gay ones anyway. Some of course sprang up like mushrooms overnight and then were gone in a couple of months. Others like 'The Jam Factory', 'The Burlingham', 'Clicks' 'The Neptune', 'Major Barbara' had been around for ages.

He ran through the list in his mind. The Jam Factory' was grotty and predominantly rent. A possible for a young boy on his own and short of money. The Burlingham' was pretentious and catered for the more well-to-do who preferred a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings. The lad was unlikely to be there. The Neptune' was mostly sailors and marine aficionados. Major Barbara', transsexual, he assumed he needn't bother with that though he had no real idea of the lad's preferences. Clicks' was for the young. He might be there. Bottoms Up' peripherally leather and B/D.

He'd try `Clicks' first.

It was at its brightest and most eardrum-shattering best when Keith arrived. Laser lights flashed and probed in time to music. Harsh pounding rhythms with the bass notes on drums and bass guitar, the melody sharper, more intense, weaving in and out of the throbbing pulse. Coloured beams of light lit up sweat-slicked bodies and emphasised maleness and sex. Contorted limbs sharpened by the rampant rhythms, danced to the strident disharmonies of the lights. Smells of aftershave, sweat and young, healthy manhood. The persistent, insistent thump gave Keith the beginnings of an erection.

No point in trying to look for anyone in the mass of frenetically dancing bodies, so he went to the bar where several attractive young blonds - chemical rather than natural - dispensed bottles of lager at outrageous prices. Keith knew one of them, an effete youth who had been trying to get into Keith's underwear for some time - so far with no success.

"Hello, darling," the barman cooed. "Is it my lucky night?"

"'Fraid not, Gavin. I'm on duty."

"Well have a drink anyway." The lad looked round quickly to see if anyone could overhear - doubtful what with the high decibel level of the disco. "On the house." He smiled, whipped off the top of a bottle and put it on the bar in front of Keith, leaving his hand still around the neck.

Keith's hand made contact. The skin was warm and soft. "I'm looking for a guy."

"You found one," said Gavin and moved his hand so that his finger played with Keith's palm.

"This is business," said Keith, taking the bottle and lifting it to his lips. "Anyway I'm married."

"Married married, or gay married?"

"Gay married. But seriously married."

Gavin made a mock moue of disappointment. "What do you want to know?"

"There's a young lad called Timothy Derwent, just turned sixteen. Brown hair, brown eyes. thick eyebrows."

"Tim? Timmy?" said Gavin. "Know his cock size?"

Keith got the photo Tim's father had given the police and showed it. It was a school photo and had been taken about a year before. The slightly plump cheeks would probably have fined down slightly into adolescence now - especially if he'd been living rough for the past month. The mouth was smiling. The eyes looked innocent.

"Pretty boy," said Gavin. "Could have been in here but not recently, not this week anyway."

Keith finished his beer and went out, pursued by a cheerful if camp wave from Gavin.

The atmosphere in The Jam Factory' was completely different from that of Clicks'. In Clicks' they were enjoying themselves; in The Jam Factory' they were making - or at least trying to make - a living. Keith fancifully thought he could smell the acquisitiveness in the air. It came from the anxious searching in the older men's eyes and the weary availability in those of the younger ones. It was summed up, he thought, in the dollar sign embroidered neatly on the arse cheek of one young man's jeans.

Or perhaps not so young! Though his hair was fashionably cut, and his smile engaging, his skin seemed to be almost too perfect for any but extreme youth and underneath the almost professionally-applied make-up, there were tiny signs of Time's cruel fingers, mini-wrinkles that Keith himself had noticed while looking at his own face in the shaving mirror, but which he had not felt the need to try to conceal.

He smiled ironically at the thought that it was here, in this very Club, that he had originally met his own lover, Phil, what seemed like many years ago. Then, of course, it hadn't been the `rent shop' that it was now and, although Phil had foisted himself upon him with his customary impetuousness, it had been with the joy and exuberance of youth, rather than for any sad fiscal arrangement.

He knew none of the three bar-staff here, all of whom looked just as financially available as the others though probably not until later in the evening but he went up to the one who was at present rinsing some glasses.

"I wonder if you can help me," said Keith carefully.

The guy looked up. In his late twenties, he had dark eyebrows and a not unattractive smile which he immediately put on like a polite uniform, as soon as he saw a potential customer.

"I hope so," he said. "You'd make a welcome change from these other wrinklies."

Keith thought sadly of the desperate men searching for pleasure who had been condemned by this unfeeling man who would himself not be long before he joined the same band.

"I'm looking for this lad," said Keith, and passed him the photograph. "His name's Timothy Derwent, Tim, Timmy perhaps."

The smile left the man's face. "You'd better ask him," he said shortly, nodding in the direction of a slim, possibly eighteen year old who was standing in a temptingly alluring pose against the wall opposite. "Used to pal up with him."

Keith wondered how he knew but perhaps the boys told each other things when they weren't obviously picking up. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Who? That guy? Oh - Stiff."

Keith looked at him sharply to see if he wasn't joking or taking the piss, but the barman looked serious.

Keith walked across. "Stiff," he said hesitantly. The boy looked him up and down. He obviously thought he was the sort who could pick and choose his custom and indeed he was an attractive lad, tall, slim, nicely developed under the form-fitting T shirt and `molded' jeans which showed off what looked like a fair-sized priapic package.

"I'm looking for Timmy Derwent," said Keith. "I understand you know him."

"What do you want him for?" The guy sounded suspicious and aggressive.

Not sure whether it was the time to pull rank or to appear as if he wanted Tim for himself, he fell back on a version of the truth. "Look, the guy's underage. His parents are worried out of their minds about him."

"Shouldn't have chucked him out then, should they?"

Keith realised Tim must have told at least his side of the story to Stiff. "No, and they realise that. They're desperately sorry. Want to make it up."

"You mean drag him back to the family where the father can have another go at him?"

"I don't think it's like that. The news that he was gay was a shock and things just got out of hand. They don't want to take him back against his will, but they want to know if he's OK."

Stiff looked at Keith. It seemed that he recognised the sincerity for he warmed. "Wanna drink?" he asked and beckoned to the barman to bring over a couple of bottles. They sat down at a small table in the corner while `business' affairs continued around them.

"OK," he said, once they were settled. "I saw him the first night he came in here - alone. You recognise the new ones. They don't know the scene. Stick out like sore pricks. I chatted to him, told him what's what. Who to go with. Who to keep away from, you know, the dodgy ones."

"He was on the game?" asked Keith.

"Whatdya think? He didn't have no money. Had to do summink to eat. But he weren't really good at it. Didn't like being fucked. Hurt too much, he said. You get used to it, I said. I tried to help him, you know, recommended some stuff, made sure he used condoms etc. Then he suddenly stopped coming to the Club."

"When was this?"

"About three weeks ago I s'pose."

"And you never saw him again?"

"Thought he'd probably gone home again. He wasn't a real renter. Too soft." Stiff's lip curled. He obviously saw himself as really hard - perhaps he was though his looking after the novice Tim suggested otherwise.

"He didn't go home," said Keith.

Stiff shrugged.

"You don't know anything else at all?"

"Well he give me his phone number. I did try it a coupla times but couldn't get no answer."

So he had cared enough at least to try. "Have you still got it?

Stiff nodded. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans - Keith was surprised that he could get anything into it - and produced a piece of paper. There were several numbers written on it in a scrawled, almost child-like hand. "That's the one," he said unnecessarily and pointed to where it said `Tim' and the number. Keith, always prepared, wrote it down.

"Thanks, Stiff," he said.

"Fancy anyfink? A quickie? Do you a special rate specially if you got your own place." He made a gesture to his own groin.

Three offers in one evening, though Keith. He couldn't be looking as old as he sometimes felt. He took out a fiver and gave it to the guy. "Not tonight," he said. "Here get yourself a drink or something. Take care now."

Stiff pocketed the note with practiced ease and was already looking round for possible business by the time Keith turned and made for the exit. Outside, in the cool September air which even now had a hint of autumn chill in it, he went into a telephone booth to call the number Stiff had given him. He listened to the ringing sound but there was no answer. Outside the staleness of the telephone box, the night tasted almost fresh. Keith wasn't a Londoner by birth; he had in fact only lived here for just over three years and yet he had grown very fond of it, fond of its exuberance, its busyness. Yes it could be a dangerous place but once you got to know it, there was much to treasure. He could even feel affectionate to the red buses, the black taxis that took such liberties with the other traffic, the crowds during the day of office workers and tourists, and then the pleasure seekers by night. And after they had gone home, the deserted streets, lit by the lamp light with the pigeons snoozing comfortably on the cornices above. Tuesday night. Perhaps everyone was out - enjoying themselves. Phil of course would still be home, working or perhaps even now in bed.

Keith hurried home.

Phil was already in bed, lying, as he always did when they didn't get to bed together, down the extreme centre so that Keith would have to wake him when he got in. His fair hair was tousled and his face seemed slightly flushed so that he looked indeed like the very kid that Keith always thought him. Remembering the instructions Phil had given him before he went out, Keith made no real attempt to creep in silently but Phil didn't wake and only mumbled something incoherent as Keith wrapped himself around him. As always the feel of Phil's body against his aroused Keith but he restrained himself and tried to sleep.

The light from the street lamp outside lit the room and Keith wished he had drawn the curtains but he didn't want to get out of bed again.

As always the feel of Phil's body against his aroused Keith but he restrained himself and tried to sleep. His body, though, was not in the mood for sleep In vain. Stiff's upcurled lips appeared for his mind's eye, Gavin's pass he made on himself and finally Tim's school photo.

Keith tried another position and pulled Phil's limp body close to his chest. The smooth skin under his stroking palms felt hot as he followed Phil's sleek body contours and sensed a stirring finally.

"Is it morning already?" he heard Phil's sleepy voice.

"No, honey." Keith sniffed the clean smell of his hair. "You said you would be disappointed if I didn't wake you."

Phil wriggled in his arms and turned to face him. Keith kissed his tilted nose and smiled, then he searched for the half open lips. "Or are you too tired?"

Phil still was a bit dizzy from sleep but smiled that ravishing smile of his. He bent down to Keith's ear. "I'm never too tired for you. Take me." He reached down and squeezed Keith's balls which provoked a little gasp from his lover's mouth. Keith heard him giggle and pushed him gently onto his back, sniffing again the sweet scent of youth, allowed his hands to roam over Phil's slim hips, down the long legs and up again, now caressing the insides of his thighs, approaching with every stroke the centre of Phil's devoted body.

Keith' gaze was locked on his lover's face, the half closed eyes, the smile around his luscious lips, watching intently as his fingers cupped Phil's ballsack and Phil let out a little moan. Keith smiled, slid down while he showered that smooth body with little kisses until he faced Phil's hard cock and pressed his lips just between the junction where the shaft met the balls.

Phil stroked Keith' short hair and thrust his hips in demand. But Keith rose to his knees and lifted Phil's legs before he began to trace his mouth along Phil's calves, his feet and sucking his big toe into his mouth.

Phil gasped and opened his eyes. A hot wire seemed to lead from his toe directly to his cock. Keith' gently sucked on it then he went further, along his smooth legs, caressed with his tongue the inside of his thigh, then the knee before without warning Keith's tongue met the centre of Phil's body, pressing his mouth at his anal opening, inhaling deeply his lover's scent, feeling Phil lifting his legs even more, hearing him moaning in delight.

Keith's tongue wandered higher, lavishing the smooth round orbs of his ballsack; higher, sucking then at the crown of his cock, circle around, licking the droplets and finally inhaling Phil's twitching cock deep down his throat.

Keith felt more than he saw Phil's mouth open in delight, making strange little noises, thrusting his hips until he hissed indistinctly "come into me. Please."

Keith hated to let loose of Phil's dick; slowly he pushed a wet finger into Phil's opening, breaking the little resistance while with his other hand he opened the drawer and pulled out the almost empty tube of KY.

Phil's eyes were still firmly closed and his face was flushed, one lock of his unruly hair lay damp at his forehead. Keith bent down, pulling Phil's legs over his shoulder and guided his slick cock to the hot opening, pushed cautiously and went slowly further. Very slowly, watching Phil's face until his balls met the firm flesh of Phil's arsecheeks.

It was almost too much for him; he desperately tried to hold back the urge to thrust and to pull out, to thrust again in fear he would come to soon or he would hurt Phil. But one look into Phil's smiling face again reassured him to go further, he felt his lover's hand grabbing his cheeks; the nails scratching, pulling Keith deeper into him, thrusting against him, faster, rushing; his hard cock squeezed against his belly and Keith prevented him from touching himself. "Don't", he whispered while he bent down over his body and began to kiss Phil's dry lips, wetting them with saliva, probing his tongue deep into his mouth while his cock did the same with Phil's arse, rising the speed, faster, faster, gliding his cock over Phil's prostate until he couldn't hold on anymore, he saw Phil's penis expand a bit, saw the flooding of white semen over his belly, heard his outcry from a distance and joined him in crying and emptying his load deep into his lover's insides.

A drop of sweat from Keith's forehead merged with the white puddle on Phil's belly. Keith outstretched his body upon Phil's, tasting his sweating chest, listening to they harsh breathing, before he lifted his body again a bit to Phil's ear. "Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you ok?"

Phil nodded, his eyes closed, he wrapped one of his legs over Keith's hip and fell asleep.

Keith resisted for a moment to do the same, he held his young lover close, stroking the moist skin and planting a kiss on the sweaty forehead. His skin was hot and soon Phil, in his sleep, pushed himself away.

WEDNESDAY

It was late when Keith awoke the following morning. He had forgotten to set the alarm clock - his job - and it was the sunshine that crept in through the window that woke him. God! 9.15. Already 15 minutes late for work. He prodded Phil who groaned and stirred.

"We've overslept," said Keith, jumping out and pulling the covers off. "Come on. No time for breakfast. Thought you said it was an important day at College. Hey it's Wednesday. You don't usually go in on Wednesdays." College hours of work seemed astonishingly lax to Keith

He rushed around grabbing his clothes and pulling them on. He went into the bathroom and ran some water into the bowl, washed, shaved, pissed and came into the bedroom. Phil was still in bed, looking at him through bleary eyes.

"What's the matter, honey?"

Phil groaned again. "Headache," he said indistinctly. "God I feel like shit."

"Stay in," said Keith. "I'm off at midday. I'll look after you."

"No," said Phil. "Gotta get to College. Deadline for the essay. The tutor's coming in special." He raised himself and clutched his head. "I'll have an aspirin. See you later."

Keith looked at him with concern. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Go on. I'll be OK. The tutor's coming in specially."

"What's the matter with you? You just told me that," said Keith and shot out of the flat.

The office was busy when he arrived. Inspector Sheridan, his immediate superior, was making irritable noises at his non-appearance and it seemed as if P.C. Peter Lippett was having a hard time trying to cover. "I told him you were interviewing someone on the way in to work," he managed to say before a shout from the inside office called Keith in.

"So?" asked Sheridan, sitting bolt upright in his office chair. "What's the news on this kid?" Inspector Sheridan was usually a mild-mannered man, helpful to his staff and not over-intrusive into the way they conducted enquiries. They produced results and he was pleased. They had problems and he was there to give advice. Something must obviously have upset him for him to be so aggressively inquisitive about what was in fact just another kid who'd run away from home.

"Well, sir," said Keith. "I've got a lead. Spent most of last night making enquiries and eventually came up with a phone number of his last known address."

"And..."

"Haven't been able to get in touch with him yet. In fact I was just going round there now."

"Thought Peter said you'd do it on the way in," said Sheridan, grumbling a little. "Thing is, this kid's father is apparently a friend or acquaintance or something of the Chief Constable of Worcestershire. That's where he came from isn't it?"

Keith nodded.

"And the CC got in touch with my boss and you know how HE gets if he is chivvied by another Head?"

Keith nodded again. He did indeed know how Superintendent Irvine got when `chivvied'. It was not a pretty sight. No wonder Sheridan was itchy.

"Peter must have got it a bit muddled," said Keith, mentally apologising to his PC who in fact had been doing his best to keep HIS arse out of the toaster. I'll make it up to him, he promised. "I'll try to get in touch now," he said.

Sheridan smiled. "Peter's a good lad," he said. "Loyal and supportive." There were no flies on him.

Keith went out and gave a thumbs up to Peter. "Get us a cup of coffee," he said. "Had to come out without breakfast." He dialed the number he had got from Stiff and listened to it ringing. He was about to put it down when he heard the receiver lifted.

"Hello," said a woman's voice.

"Oh hello," said Keith. He didn't want to scare the kid so he didn't give his name and rank. "Can I speak to Timothy Derwent."

"Who?" asked the voice.

"Tim Derwent. Timmy."

"Sorry never heard of him. But I'm new here, only just moved in. I don't think that name is on any of the bell pushes."

Keith realised that this must be a communal phone for a number of bed-sitting rooms. "Is there anyone there who HAS been around for a while?" he asked.

"You'd best ask the landlady," said the voice. "But she's just gone out shopping. Be back in a couple of hours, she said. Who is it calling?"

As it seemed that Derwent was no longer living there, Keith saw no reason not to give his name. "It's Sergeant Keith Hatch of the Metropolitan Police," he said. "I'd like to speak to her. Tell her not to get worried. It's just a routine matter. What's her name?"

Peter put a mug of coffee in front of him on the desk and a couple of oatmeal biscuits. Keith thanked him with a smile. The coffee, though instant, tasted good.

"Mrs Flanagan."

"And can you tell me the address?"

The voice suddenly sounded suspicious. "How can I be sure you're the police," it said.

"Absolutely right to check," said Keith. "You can ring us back if you like."

"It's OK." The voice seemed reassured. "146, Juniper Street, Islington. I'll leave a note to tell her you'll be round."

The house was a tall Victorian, brick-built building, obviously one ideal for carving up into individual units to let out to the single, less-well-off young. Keith rang the bell marked `Flanagan' and a bright, bird-like woman answered. She had sharp eyes which could obviously tell that you were lying if you tried to make excuses for non-payment of rent. She invited Keith in to her basement flat which had small windows set near the top of the room which looked out onto the ankles and feet of the passersby outside. She sat him down on a large Victorian sofa which gave a little groan and then tried to engulf him in its brocade stuffiness. Various heavy dark wood pieces of furniture hemmed him in around the walls. He refused the offer of a cup of tea.

Oh yes, she said, she knew Mr Derwent, a nice enough lad though not what you'd call a regular payer. Sometimes there would be a couple of weeks where he begged a little clemency but she understood how young people did have cash flow problems', she thought they called it nowadays. Her bright eyes as she said this seemed to make clear that she knew exactly why nice Mr Derwent' hadn't been able to earn enough for the rent.

"But he's no longer here?" said Keith.

"Moved out three weeks ago," said Mrs Flanagan.

"Owing anything?"

"Not really, dear, though he didn't give his notice. Just disappeared one night at the end of the week. And he left his things. Not that they were worth much. Just a few clothes and bits and pieces - and a suitcase."

"Have you kept them?" asked Keith.

"Oh yes, dear. Not worth selling but might come in useful." She opened a cupboard and produced one of those old brown suitcases which looked as if it, and probably was made from cardboard. It contained a pair of jeans, much worn and ripped in designer areas, a rather flamboyantly yellow shirt and a conservatively grey Marks & Sparks pullover (presumably bought by his mother). There was a razor and a toothbrush and squeezed tube of toothpaste, a paperback copy of Feinberg's `Eighty-Sixed'. Some pairs of socks and a handkerchief. That was all.

"Odd if he was planning on leaving, he didn't take his razor and toothbrush," observed Mrs Flanagan.

Keith had been thinking the same. "You didn't think to tell the police?"

"These kids move on all the time," said Mrs Flanagan. "If I told the cops every time they left, I'd be needing a permanent line."

"He was very young."

"Aren't they all? To us older folk."

Keith hoped he wasn't being included in that definition. "I suppose there's nothing left in his room."

"Cleaned out long since," she said. "And let to someone else... Nice young lady. Very regular with her payments." It seemed like the ultimate accolade in Mrs Flanagan's view.

"I'd like to take these, if I may," said Keith. "I'll send someone round to collect them this afternoon, if that's convenient."

"Has something happened to him?" asked Mrs Flanagan. Keith thought he could detect a hint of almost salacious interest in her tone.

Suddenly the room seemed unbearably stuffy and he was glad to get out into the fresh air. Even the exhaust fumes from the passing vehicles seemed wholesome. He rang back to the office and got Peter.

"Could you get round to that address some time this afternoon and collect a suitcase, though what we can find from it, I don't know. I'm going to try the Clubs again."

He rang off and as he did so, the receiver pinged.

"Keith Hatch," he said.

A man's voice spoke, cultured, precise. It sounded academic. "Mr Hatch. I'm sorry to bother you but your name appears as next of kin on the form filled in by Phil Howard, one of our students."

A sudden feeling of alarm caught at Keith's chest. "What's the matter with him?" he asked.

"It may not be anything serious of course, but he collapsed this morning and we got him to Hospital. Royal Free. Haven't heard anything since but I thought you ought to know."

Keith thought of Phil's complaint that morning and last night, of the apparent disorientation and forgetfulness which he had put down to Phil's over-sleeping. A guy of twenty-six collapsing - of course it was serious. "Thanks," he said. "I'll get over there."

"Hope he's OK," said the voice. "He's a nice lad."

You don't have to tell me that, thought Keith. He wondered whether to summon a car from the local Nick but probably a bus would get him there just as quickly. All the same he fretted at the stops and starts at lights, pedestrian crossings and bus stops. The facade of the Royal Free Hospital was imposing with its colonnade of pillars supporting a triangular pediment. He raced up the steps and through the anachronistic swing doors.

The woman in Reception was brisk and efficient. "He's in Intensive Care," she said after checking. "See the Sister in charge." She pointed the way.

A removable painted wooden sign on the door said `Sister Kathleen Winstone'. She was a tall, good-looking woman with black hair, tied back. She looked a bit harassed though she greeted Keith with a smile.

"Reception phoned through," she said. "Are you a relative?"

This was the moment he always dreaded. "He's my partner," he said.

"Business?"

"Life," said Keith firmly.

She suddenly realised what he meant and flushed. "Oh," she said awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise . . ."

"No matter. Can I see him?"

"He's unconscious at the moment. You'd best see the doctor first," she said. "Could you wait a moment outside, please. I'll see if he's available." She talked for a while on the phone. Keith could see her looking at him through the glass in the door and then explaining something. He sighed, beginning to get angry.

Then she came out. "He'll be with you in a moment," she said. "Try not to worry. I'm sure he'll be OK." It was the first sympathetic word Keith had heard since the announcement that Phil was ill, and for a moment he felt like crying. She put her hand on his arm. "Sit down," she said. "I'll get you a cup of tea. The doctor won't be long."

"It could be bacterial meningitis," said the doctor, tall and thin - and much too young. "We've taken a spinal tap to confirm the diagnosis."

"I don't really know much about meningitis," said Keith.

"It's an infection of the fluid tissues that cover the brain and spinal cord called the meninges. Perhaps one in ten of us, at any time, are carrying the bacteria which can cause the disease. We pass them from one to another by any regular close contact, such as kissing."

For a moment Keith had the thought that perhaps he had passed it on to Phil. "If so many of us carry the germs, why isn't it more common?"

"It's no problem for the vast majority of us that carry these bacteria as they don't make us ill. In a very few cases the bacteria get into the blood stream and cause meningitis or the blood poisoning form, septicemia."

"Serious?"

"Can be - very. But as soon as we find out which bacteria is causing the problem we can give him the appropriate antibiotics. Streptococcus pneumoniae and Neisseria meningitidis are the leading causes of bacterial meningitis."

The long Latin words meant nothing to Keith, except sounding seriously dangerous. "Can I see him?"

"Well we usually only allow relatives..."

"I'm the nearest thing he has to a relative," interrupted Keith.

"No parents? He's quite a young man."

"Yes. He has parents - but they - er - disowned him when..." Keith didn't see why he had to explain the awful rows Phil had said he had had with his parents when he told them he was gay, when he said he was going to live with another man.

"I understand," said the doctor. "Ask the Sister for a mask."

Phil was lying in a darkened room "They can't stand bright lights," explained Sister Winstone, only her eyes, grey and sympathetic, showing over the white mask which covered both nose and mouth. Beside the bed a tube led from a bag containing some transparent liquid into the back of Phil's left hand. For a moment Keith was reminded of another time, another young man in another hospital, with the same or similar intravenous fluid, the same VDU screen with that green blip crossing and crossing, marking Phil's life signs with electronic precision. That other young man had died soon after Keith had left. He tried to push the thought away but it stayed there at the back of his mind.

He sat down on a chair next to the bed and took Phil's free hand in his. It was warm and the palm felt slightly damp. Again he found himself remembering these same actions he had performed before. "Phil," he said. "Phil, it's Keith." Surely that was unnecessary. If Phil could hear his voice he would know it was his lover who spoke. They had talked to each other so many many times, whispered so many words of love. He would know every intonation of the other's voice, every mood.

"Can he hear me?"

Sister Winstone shook her head. "But it can do no harm to talk to him," she said. "I'll have to go. You stay here as long as you want. Do you want another cup of tea?"

Keith shook his head.

Alone, he didn't know quite what to say. It had always been Phil who chattered away, chattered about both the nonsensicalities (inconsequences) of his life and the important things. And here he was lying pale and almost still, only the faint up and down of his chest and the green blip showing he was still alive, his fair hair plastered damply over his forehead, a dark cap. Keith suddenly thought how it would be without Phil, without that bright ray of delight - both physical and mental - which played such an essential part of his life.

"You've got to hold on, honey," he whispered. "I can't go on without you." He felt a lump in his throat and knew, if he wasn't careful, he'd start sobbing. He found himself talking about the case - of Timmy Derwent and his disappearance, of Mrs Flanagan.

"Where could he have gone to that Saturday night three weeks ago?" he asked. "Surely unless something really traumatic happened, he'd at least have gone back to collect his things, few though they were."

His phone in his jacket pocket suddenly pinged and Keith took it out and then realised that a mobile phone could interfere with the equipment in a hospital. He took a quick look at the screen and cursed himself for not having switched off the phone before. But the blip was still making its horizontal repetitive journey from left to right, left to right. He went out into the corridor.

It was Inspector Sheridan. "Where the hell are you?" he asked.

"Sorry, sir. I got a phone call. Phil's got meningitis, they think. He's in hospital. I'm there now."

"Oh shit!" Sheridan's voice changed to one of sympathy. "You take all the time you want. I'll get Peter to take over the Derwent case and give him a hand if he needs it. Is there anything I can do your end?"

"It's all right, sir. They've just got to find out which bug is causing the problem, hatch out a culture, then they can start him on the right antibiotics." He paused, then went on in a rush. "Whatever happens will happen quite quickly."

"It'll be OK."

"Of course it will."

People always said things like that though they had no way of knowing.

Keith stayed with Phil the rest of the day. Every so often a nurse came round to check, to adjust the needle, pinch the catheter, change the bag, bring Keith yet another cup of tea. Sister Winstone came in at around five o'clock. "I'm going off duty," she said. "There really isn't anything you can do. We've got your number. If there's any change I've told the nurse to give you a ring. Why don't you go home and have something to eat, get some sleep?"

Keith realised he hadn't had anything at all that day apart from the two biscuits Peter had given him that morning. His body was hungry even if his emotions made the thought of food nauseating. He wanted to kiss Phil but couldn't because of the mask he wore. Instead he touched his cheek gently with the palm of his hand.

"Hang in there, lover. I'll be back first thing tomorrow."

Indoors it was as if nothing untoward had happened. The bed - as always in the evening - unless one of them had had the day off - was unmade, clothes belonging to both of them lay in untidy heaps in the bedroom, there was a dirty coffee cup beside the computer. As if in a daze, Keith picked up the clothes, washed the cup, made the bed. He had no appetite but made himself a cup of coffee. It made him feel slightly sick and a sour taste lingered at the back of his throat.

He sat down and stared in front of him. It was no good just sitting there, he told himself. He'd got to get through the evening as well as the night before he could get back to the hospital. He thought again of Phil lying there as he had left him, pale and still. His face expressionless and so unlike his usual smiling vivaciousness. How could he live without Phil? Stop thinking of yourself, he said aloud. What about others? Phil's parents, for example. Surely he should ring them.

It was a difficult decision for Keith to make. He knew Phil was so angry with his parents that he would never have wanted them to be told but what of the parents themselves. Even though they had apparently disowned' their son, had professed themselves revolted' by his - as they called it - perverted lifestyle', his affront to god and all decent men', said they never wanted to hear from him again, Keith couldn't believe that, with Phil so dangerously ill, they wouldn't want to see him again, perhaps - he forced himself to think the unthinkable - for the last time.

He looked for their number in Phil's diary, in Phil's jacket which still had the lingering smell of Phil about it so that Keith buried his head in the material and tried not to cry.

The phone was answered by Phil's mother.

"Mrs Howard, it's Keith Hatch here."

Her voice lowered itself to below 0 degrees centigrade. "Yes."

"I'm sorry but Phil is ill. He's in the Royal Free hospital. I thought you ought to know."

"AIDS?"

The single syllable rocked Keith. Of course the woman would think that. It was the disease she associated with `queers', the one Phil would be bound to catch if he consorted with people like Keith. He tried to restrain his anger. "No," he said. "They think it might be meningitis."

"Is it serious?"

"I'm afraid it might be."

"Are you responsible?"

Keith could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "I beg your pardon."

"Have you given it to him? Your disgusting lifestyle?"

"Mrs Howard, meningitis is caused by a germ, a bacterium or a virus. He could have caught it from anyone. Kids in school get it. Old people get it. It's nothing to do with being gay."

The receiver at the other end crashed down. Keith had a petty wish that it had broken. He suddenly found his legs were shaking. He sat down.

Alan - he must phone Alan. Although he was his ex-boyfriend from Feltenham, they had remained close and Alan was, if anyone, Phil's closest friend. He dialed the number and waited.

Alan's voice sounded a little remote and Keith wondered whether he was having his own troubles. His current boyfriend, Esteban, lived some sixty miles away in Bristol and there were difficulties, he knew, but at Keith's news, Alan's voice was full of concern.

"Shall I come up?" he asked.

Keith thought there was little point. The hospital would not allow yet more visitors and he was hardly in the right frame of mind to care for a visitor, even one as self-reliant as Alan.

"I'll let you know how things go," he said.

"And you look after yourself," said Alan. "It's easy to let things slip when there are problems. I know."

For a moment Keith thought back to the time when they had split up and the hollowness which he had felt, and which also Alan must have experienced.

"I'll come up at the weekend, whatever happens," said Alan.

Keith put down the receiver and as he did so the telephone shrilled. He wondered whether it was Mrs Howard again but then suddenly thought it might be the hospital ringing. Christ. Suppose Phil was worse. He snatched up the receiver.

MEDICAL MATTERS (part2)

Keith put down the receiver and as he did so the telephone shrilled. He wondered whether it was Mrs Howard again but then suddenly thought it might be the hospital ringing. Christ. Suppose Phil was worse. He snatched up the receiver.

"Yes."

"Is that you, Keith?"

A young male voice at the other end. For a moment Keith didn't recognise it.

"Who is it?"

"It's Peter, Sarge. Peter Lippett. Is this a bad time? Sorry. of course every time is a bad time at the moment. I just rang to see how things were. And to tell you about the case." The words came out in a rush as if he wasn't sure what reception he would get.

Keith breathed again. He felt he'd been holding his breath for hours. "Oh yes, Pete. Phil's holding his own." He recognised the ambiguity of this statement as he said it and knew Phil would have picked it up immediately. Thankfully Peter didn't. "I've been dismissed and told to stay at home until tomorrow."

"Can I come round? I don't know if you'd prefer to be alone, but I'd like to talk to someone about the case."

Keith realised that Peter must feel a bit lost, having the case dumped on him like that - and would probably prefer not to have to ask Inspector Sheridan for advice. Anyway it would take his own mind off Phil to think about something else. "Sure," he said. "When do you want to come around?"

Peter hesitated. "Actually, Sarge, I'm just outside. Phone box just opposite."

Peter arrived with a couple of pizzas and a six-pack of lager. "I don't know if you've eaten . . ." he said and Keith suddenly found he was ravenously hungry. They ate from the boxes and drank from the cans, the beer feeling cool against his throat.

Peter perched on the arm of the settee seeming a little ill at ease. He got up and, sipping from his second can of beer, wandered round the room. "Is that Phil?" he asked, pointing to a photo. Smiling, eyes sparkling, Phil, wearing an open-necked green shirt and white jeans, looked at his happiest. Keith remembered vividly the occasion when he had taken the photo, one glorious green and gold day when he and Phil had escaped from the City and visited that anachronistic finger of countryside. Epping Forest, that inserts itself into the North-East side of the metropolis. It had been a day of green and gold, gold buttercups and creeping masses of cinqfoil with their gold potentilla flowers, feathery bunches of bright yellow ladies bedstraw and overall the gold sun, shining through the leaves of the trees to make dappled shade on the grass. They had walked along a path probably created and used by deer, found a bank, sat and eaten their lunch and drank wine there, and afterwards made love. The expression on Phil's photographed face brought back every sensation, the fresh, clean smell of the turf, the warmth of the sun and of the other's body, the touch of flesh on flesh, the taste of the wine on the other's lips and tongue, the green and the gold, green shirt and golden hair, leaves, grass and the wild flowers of summer.

Suddenly brought back to the present by Peter's enquiring look, Keith realised that he hadn't answered the question. "Yes. Yes," he said. "Of course I forgot. You've never met Phil. You must. You'd like him. Everyone did." It took perhaps a couple of seconds to realise the enormity of the tense lapse into which he had fallen. What could he be thinking of, seeing Phil in the past?

He struggled to control himself, to bring back normality. "So, Peter, what about the Derwent suitcase? You collected it, I suppose? Find anything?"

Peter shook his head. "Just a few clothes and a book, and the toothbrush and shaving things. I guess he expected to return. Forensic are having a look at them but doesn't seem to be any clues as to why he disappeared." He paused for a second. "And it's been three weeks so the trail's gone a bit cold."

Keith couldn't really concentrate. "Three weeks." he repeated, as if it was important. "Oh yes, the landlady said it was three weeks ago." Something rattled at the back of his mind. Three weeks! Three weeks ago he and Phil had gone to a concert at the Festival Hall. It wasn't really Phil's kind of music but he'd said he'd enjoyed it. Richard Strauss' Burlesque', the waltzes from Der Rosenkavalier and Also Sprach Zarathustra' - romantic, luscious music, brilliant and dramatic. And that evening Tim Derwent had gone out from his Islington bed-sit and never returned. Three weeks! Who else had said, `three weeks'? The half-memory nagged at his mind.

"So what should I do now?" asked Peter. He looked very young and worried by the responsibility loaded on his shoulders. Keith realised that he was in fact younger than Phil by a couple of years. Blue eyes looked troubled and he had pushed his fingers through his short black hair so that it stood up in disarray.

"The Clubs, I guess," said Keith. It was where he had been going himself before the phone call had turned his world upside down. "There's a guy at the Jam Factory'." Suddenly he remembered. That was where the three weeks' came from. "Guy called `Stiff' - didn't find out his real name but everyone there will know him. He said that the last time he saw Tim was three weeks ago. Could be that it was the Saturday night he disappeared. He might know if he went off with anyone."

"Stiff?"

Keith smiled. "You'll probably realise why, when you see him."

For a moment he wondered whether he should go with him. It felt as if he was letting an underage Daniel into the lions' enclosure at Whipsnade Zoo.

But Peter decided it for him. "I'm looking forward to it," he said.

He is very high up. It seems on a walk way, scaffolding perhaps, just the width of two narrow planks under his feet. He can feel a wall on his right side. It feels safe whereas there is just a thin metal bar to his left and on the other side of that, a vertiginous drop into the darkness. Phil is in front of him, seemingly impervious to the danger. He dances along, his feet barely touching the surface of the bare boards. Keith feels them bouncing under his steps and himself tries to edge closer to the wall, the permanence that was security.

Then, just as a vibrating string reaches and then exceeds that pitch that is its own special velocity, the boards underfoot take on a wild, uncontrollable movement, throwing both of them about, first to one side then the other. His stomach wrenches as he is tossed towards that restraining bar, so thin, so insecure and he sees apparently the lights of the ground, impossibly far below. He feels the strip of metal hard against his stomach, his body weight almost losing balance before he is thrown back against the wall, the rough surface grazing his face, hard against his shoulder.

But Phil is being tossed in the opposite direction, first against the stonework then in a low arc, his feet actually leaving the planks, over the bar, clutching at it as he loses his balance, teeters on the brink, turning an agonised face towards Keith, mouth open in a silent shriek for help.

Forcing himself against the momentum, Keith reaches towards him, snatches at a flailing arm, catches, holds as the rest of Phil's body see-saws over the fulcrum of the bar and slides into the void. Phil's hand clutches at his and he grasps him, palm to palm, fingers desperately entwined. Phil's face stares at him, mute, pleading.

"Hold on," Keith shrieks, but the weight of the body, pulled into the bottomless depths, is unsupportable. Slowly he feels the fingers slip. "Hold on! Hold ON!"

And then Phil drops, away into oblivion, his body swallowed by the blackness from which it can never return.

"HOLD ON!" The echo of the sound was still in the air as Keith awoke to find himself alone in the bed. Whether he had been shouting the words or just making a noise, he didn't know, but he found himself panting, the terror of the nightmare, the awful feeling of loss still with him.

The radio clock flashed its green numerals, 2.13 am. The small hours of the morning. The time when the body was at its weakest, at its most vulnerable, when those stricken with mortal illness, most often slipped away.

Christ! Phil. He must ring the hospital. But as he got out of bed, his heart still thumping, rationality prevailed. The Sister had said that she would ring him if anything happened. He could hardly disturb the hospital in the middle of the night on the strength of a bad dream.

He made himself a cup of tea and sat in a chair with a blanket wrapped around him staring through the window. Towards dawn it started to rain and fallaciously pathetic teardrops traced their way down the the panes. Eventually the pale grey streaks of dawn announced themselves over the roofs of the houses opposite.

THURSDAY

At eight o'clock - surely a hospital must be up and running at 8 - he rang through. The impersonal tone of the woman at Reception told him to wait while she checked and then informed him that Mr Howard had spent a comfortable night.

Well at least he was still alive. "What does that mean?" asked Keith.

She repeated. "Mr Howard spent a comfortable night."

"Is Sister Winstone on duty?" asked Keith.

The Receptionist's tone assumed a more frosty tone. "One moment. I'll check." The line apparently went dead for what seemed an excessively long time. Was he being punished for daring not to accept unquestioningly her report? At long last, after he feared he'd been cut off, there was a crackle and a woman's voice said, "Sister Winstone."

"I'm sorry to bother you but I wonder if you can tell me how Phil is. Phil Howard. It's Keith Hatch here. I was with him yesterday."

"Of course I remember, Mr Hatch. Yes. Phil's still unconscious. We've isolated the bacterium and are giving him the appropriate antibiotics. We are a little concerned about his heart. There's a flutter there, but we're doing all we can."

"What time can I come in?"

There was a pause. Then a hesitating, almost embarrassed reply. "I'm sorry, Mr Hatch. Phil's parents arrived last night. They are with him now. They specifically stated that they didn't want you to visit."

Keith was dumbfounded. "Have they the right?"

"They are related, you see. And you.... I'm really sorry. It's a real grey area here but you aren't in fact related - legally. The best that can be said is that you're a ... a friend. We bent the rules a little yesterday because there was no one else ... but now..."

Keith felt himself about to explode with anger, to swear, to rage. He managed to restrain the outburst.

"It isn't my ruling, of course," Sister Winstone went on. "But I will personally let you know if there is any change in Phil's condition, for better or for worse."

"I'll give you the number of my pager," said Keith, and did so. He put down the receiver and calmly washed up his tea mug, made the bed, washed, shaved and set off for work, his face set, his body rigid with self-control.

Inspector Sheridan looked up in surprise as Keith came in.

"What are you doing here, Keith? Is Phil better?"

"No, sir. His parents won't let me in to see him. I think I'll be better working than sitting at home thinking."

Sheridan looked at his pale, drawn face, the mouth set tensely, dark circles under his eyes. He nodded understandingly, and, realising that Keith didn't want sympathy, said, "OK. Just let me know if there's anything I can do. Work with Peter, will you. How did he get on last night?"

"Don't know. He's not in yet." The outside door clanged. "That's probably him now. Shall I get him in?"

Peter entered, looking almost as exhausted as Keith. He too looked a bit surprised to see Keith and, possibly, a little embarrassed. "What's the matter with you?" asked Sheridan.

"Nothing, sir, just had a bit of a late night. All in the line of duty, of course."

"So, did you learn anything about the Derwent lad?"

"Well, a bit. There was this guy who knew him at the Club..."

"Stiff," interjected Keith.

"Er yes. That's right." Could it be that he blushed? For one moment Keith had a wild thought. "His name is actually Gerald. Gerald Thornton."

It seemed a most unlikely name for the street-wise, cool as an ice-cube, Wham! Bam! Thank you, Sam, that'll be twenty quid! young man whom Keith had interviewed.

"Anyway we decided that it WAS that Saturday, the one when he disappeared, that Thornton had last seen Derwent. And apparently he remembered Derwent going off with someone. Old chap!"

"Old?" said Sheridan suspiciously.

"Stiff would think anyone over twenty-five was old," said Keith.

"Described him as the Colonel', a smart gentleman'. He'd seen him around several times before, though not since. Apparently likes them young, though nothing really kinky about him."

"So does that get us any further forward. Any ideas how we can find this `Colonel' type?" Sheridan turned to Keith.

"Sound like the sort that would be at home in `the Burlingham'."

"Go find then," said Sheridan. Peter went out.

"You up to it, Keith?"

Keith nodded. "They've promised to let me know if there's any change."

"At least that's something."

The Burlingham Club, haven for middle-class homosexuals of a certain age, opened at lunchtime and served a limited menu of meals for those who didn't have too discerning an appetite. Keith reflected that this was the club that earlier he had explicitly rejected (together with the transvestite, Major Barbara). He was glad he didn't have to go back to the Jam Factory. Even though the basic function and clientele had changed, the decoration was the same as when he had first met Phil. Phil! He must stop thinking of him. Impossible of course, but he trusted Sister Winstone's promise to let him know if anything should develop. In that case, whatever the `rules' were or what Mr and Mrs Howard wanted, he would go to the hospital, force his way in if necessary, to see Phil.

He and Peter decided to walk. The weather had cleared since this morning's downpour - `rain before seven, fine before eleven,' thought Keith - and the half hour's walk would be better than sitting in the office, trying to immerse himself in paperwork. It looked as if Peter could stand some fresh air anyway, if only to stop him falling asleep.

A wan sun shone from behind high cirrus clouds but the air smelled fresh and clean after the morning rain. They walked companionably along the streets, occasionally having to part to allow strangers to pass between them. The fresh air seemed to have livened Peter for he chatted away and temporarily took Keith's mind off thoughts of Phil. From time to time, though, he touched the shape of his mobile phone/pager in his pocket to make sure that he still had his link.

They paused for a while on the road bridge of Holborn Viaduct, looking down onto the green patch of Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Keith rested his elbows on the balustrade. "So, Peter," he said in a momentary gap in the running monologue which Peter had kept up since leaving the office. "What did you think of `Stiff'?"

For the first time Peter seemed a little at a loss for words. "Gerald?" he said as if it was two different people.

"And how in heaven's name did you get him to tell you his real name?"

There was no reply and Keith looked sideways to catch the full force of a blush spreading up the side of Peter's face. It was a magnificent example/specimen emerging from under his collar, creeping over his chin and up the side of his face to lose itself in the roots of his curly hair.

It took Keith a second or two before he understood. "Pillow talk?" he asked, insensitively. "You won't be able to claim that on expenses."

Peter looked uncomprehending for a second. "We did have a couple of drinks," he said. "I thought that would be OK."

"I meant the `cost'. How much did he charge?"

"Charge?" Peter looked genuinely mystified, then his face cleared. "Oh Gerald isn't rent," he said. "He's a marvelous lover."

Ought to be, thought Keith, with all the practice he's had. Still if Peter had somehow managed to get Stiff to bed, got some information - and enjoyed it - all for free, who was he to disillusion him.

They proceeded along High Holborn, crossing Shaftsbury Avenue and then off into the side road where a discreet brass sign announced: the Burlingham Club. Members Only'. A steep flight of stairs led up and opened, through a curtained doorway, into a wood-paneled room that might have passed for a Gentleman's Club' of a hundred years ago. Dark oak - or probably some plastic oak substitute - covered the walls and subtle lamps, each shrouded by a red shade, cast pools of light into partitioned and almost private booths. Some half dozen tables were occupied by middle-aged or elderly men, each accompanied by a much younger guy. The floor was covered with a thick pile carpet over which a man in tuxedo and black tie glided up to Keith and Peter as they entered.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, `but are you members?"

"No," said Keith. "We're police officers."

"I hope there's no trouble."

"Just a few questions."

Smoothly and efficiently, the man ushered them into a small side room which was obviously used as an office. There was a filing cabinet, a desk, two telephones, a computer... all the essentials. The carpet wasn't as deep, the chairs looked less comfortable, more business-like than the larger room. Some abstract prints decorated the walls which, unlike the rest of the club, were painted in cream emulsion rather than decorated with the ubiquitous oak paneling.

The man admitted himself to be, Leonard Jamieson, the proprietor of the Burlingham. "In the evenings," he explained, "we have a man on the door. But at lunchtimes, when we are less busy, I like to greet members and their guests myself. What can I do for you?"

Warrants shown, Keith produced the photograph of Tim Derwent. "We're actually looking for this young man," he said. "He'll be looking a bit older now. This was taken about a year ago, but he's still underage." He allowed a slight hardness to creep into his voice as he said this last, not exactly a threat, but bordering on a warning.

Jamieson nodded. "Quite so. Quite so," he said. "And you think the child is a Member of this Club?" His little note of sarcasm matched Keith's own insertion. "We're quite expensive, you know."

"We have been told that the lad has been seen in the company of a . . ." he hesitated" . . . a more mature man. We have no name at present, you understand, though he was known as `the Colonel' at . . . another establishment."

Jamieson nodded again. "And you wondered . . .?" He let the question die.

"We wondered whether you have seen the boy or know of this man, the Colonel'?"

"We have many ex-military gentlemen." His tone was almost proud. "A couple of them are indeed Colonels. Haven't you a fuller description?"

Keith looked at Peter wondering what details, if any, Stiff had given him. "Fifties," Peter said, "tall, with short grey hair, thick eyebrows, grey moustache, blue eyes, deep voice."

For a moment an almost shifty look seemed to cross Jamieson's bland, impersonal face. The expression of confidence wavered, then was back again. He knows the man, thought Keith.

But he wasn't going to admit it. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Club to run."

He made sure they were heading down the stairs and then returned to the office.

"Well we didn't get much there," said Peter.

"Hold on a minute," said Keith and quietly returned, crossing to the door of the office and listening carefully. He was glad that, unlike other clubs, the Burlingham prided itself on a quiet atmosphere. At first he could hear nothing, then came the sound of Jamieson's voice. "Damn!" A pause. "OK, then, Wallace. Listen. The police have been round. We need a chat. No... I'm coming round. If you get back in before I arrive, just wait for me." There was the sound of the telephone receiver being replaced. Presumably Jamieson had been talking to an answering machine.

Keith slipped out.

"What's going on?" asked Peter.

"Out as quick as you can and then find a doorway to hide in."

Huddled together and peering out conspiratorially and feeling that they must look very suspicious to passersby, Keith quickly explained. "There's something going on. Jamieson knows this Colonel. He tried to ring him but he wasn't in. I think he's going round so he must live somewhere near. Hopefully we can follow him."

Jamieson suddenly appeared from the doorway of the Club and turned - luckily in the opposite direction - looking swiftly around, before heading off towards Shaftsbury Avenue. He appeared strangely `actorish' in a dark coat and wearing a large-brimmed Homburg hat, the sort that Keith vaguely remembered from pictures of the 40s, but presumably now returning as a sort of retro-fashion. The eccentric gear did, however, allow them to follow at a discreet distance, hidden in the crowds of lunchtime office workers, shoppers and tourists which thronged the pavements.

Jamieson turned right into Greek Street leading towards Soho Square and then almost immediately right again through an archway into a cul-de-sac which must at one time have been a Mews. It was like walking into history. The original stables, of course, had been converted into garages with front doors beside them while the lofts above transformed into smart, and no doubt, extremely expensive bijou flats. There were window boxes and half tubs of scarlet geraniums and cobbles on the street. Keith and Peter stood at the opening and watched Jamieson go up to a brightly-painted yellow door.

It is difficult to lurk, thought Keith, without appearing suspicious. The solution he found, was to pretend to be in earnest conversation with Peter putting him in such a position that he could look over his shoulder at what Jamieson was doing. Thus he saw him knock at the door and wait a while. "No one seems to be in," he said but then he saw the man go closer to the door and apparently speak. "Must be someone," he said. "He's talking through the intercom." As he watched the door opened and Jamieson slipped inside.

"We've got him," he said. "Come on."

Within a minute he was pounding on the door using the brass knocker in the shape of a horseshoe. They waited. "His luck's run out," said Peter. "Look, the horseshoe's upside down."

But it wasn't going to be quite that easy. Despite the fact that they knew there were at least two people inside, no one answered and no sound came through the intercom. Keith looked up at the bow windows of the first floor, net-curtains, geranium-filled window-boxes. "We're police officers," he shouted. "Unless you open the door, I shall obtain a warrant allowing us to enter by force."

That this would probably take, at the very least, twenty-four hours did not in his estimation minimize the force of the threat. There was, however, no reaction from inside, though Keith could visualise the panic going on upstairs. He prepared himself for a fresh onslaught with the horseshoe.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" asked a deep voice from behind them and turning Keith saw a tall, grey-haired man with blue eyes staring angrily at him.

"Are you Wallace?" he asked.

"I am Colonel Wallace," said the man. "Who are you?"

INTERLUDE

Phil's eyelids flutter and open. Dimly he can see shapes sitting beside the bed. His mouth is dry and his head pounds. He tries to speak.

"Drink," he croaks through cracked lips.

One of the shapes leans closer.

"Keith?" Phil asks.

One shape turns to the other. "He calls on his sodomite friend."

Phil tries to focus. "Father?" he says. "What are you doing here?"

"We are doing our duty. We are waiting for you to die."

Phil struggles to sit up but he is too weak and his head hammers so.

"Where is Keith?" he asks.

"As you can see, he is not here. What makes you think he wants to be with you at the end? We are your parents. We shall see you through the Portal and trust that God in his infinite mercy can forgive you for your sins."

"Even though we," says the other shape, "consider them heinous and unpardonable."

Their faces are as set as the Aztec statues of their gods - and as implacable.

"Mother," gasps Phil, his lips framing the word with difficulty. "Can I have a drink of water."

"We are waiting for you to die," she repeats. "We are doing our duty."

"Keith is waiting for me. He wants me to live." Does he say this or just think it? He forms some words and they emerge, shadows of reality but intelligible. "I am going to live."

"I don't think so," says the first shape. He leans over and pulls away the pillow from under his head and, as Phil falls back, advances the smothering softness towards his face.

END OF INTERLUDE

"Colonel Wallace," said Keith. "It was you we came to see. I am Sergeant Hatch and this is Constable Lippett."

The Colonel's face betrayed nothing. He seemed neither surprised nor particularly apprehensive.

"And how can I help you?" he asked.

"Could we perhaps go inside, sir? It's a little public out here in the street."

There was the slightest of hesitations but then he smiled. "Of course." He opened the front door and the three of them climbed the stairs. It was a pleasant room. The windows overlooking the Mews, faced South so were lit by the afternoon sun. Comfortable chairs and settee were covered in a bright floral cretonne. Two mahogany book cases stretching from floor to ceiling and filled with books stood each side of a polished desk, the sort with a front that pulled down to provide the writing surface. An antique-looking clock ticked away on the mantelpiece. Occasional tables held some porcelain figurines - someone would have to be careful dusting, thought Keith. He couldn't see the Colonel doing it. In fact the room had more than a touch of the feminine about it, everything polished, everything dusted.

Wallace didn't invite them to sit. Perhaps he hoped the visit would be a brief one - perhaps it would.

"So what's this all about?"

"We're looking for a young man who's gone missing," said Keith, producing the photograph which now was looking a bit dog-eared.

Wallace took the picture and looked at it carefully. "And why should I have anything to do with it?" he asked.

Keith noted that he hadn't denied knowledge of Tim Derwent.

"Well, sir, we had some information that a man referred to as the Colonel' was seen with him at a Club called the Jam Factory' some time ago, and..."

"You know what the Jam Factory is, I suppose?" interrupted Wallace.

"It's a gay club," said Keith.

"It's a rent club, Sergeant. A place where you can find male prostitutes. Some of whom are way under the age of consent, but forced into it from not being able to get money to live on any other way." He sounded almost outraged.

"Yes, sir, we do know that."

"And many of the boys have been abused at home, you know, both physically and sexually. You wouldn't believe some of the stories I've been told."

Keith wondered in fact if there hadn't been a certain amount of elaboration to gain favour from the sympathetic sort of person that Colonel Wallace seemed to be.

"So you do know Tim Derwent, sir?" he asked.

"Ah Tim..." He paused and then seemed to make up his mind. "Yes I know Tim Derwent."

Keith noticed that Peter, who had been listening to the conversation with proper attention, and presumably making mental notes, now appeared to have been seized by some sort of strange affliction. He was flicking his head sideways and gesticulating with his hand. As the Colonel had his back to him, he was unaware of this strange behaviour.

Suddenly Keith realised that Peter was trying to draw his attention to the door through which they had entered, the door from the stairs which in fact continued upwards presumably towards the bed and bathrooms. "And would Timothy Derwent be in this house at the minute, sir?" He nodded to Peter. "Yes, please, Lippett, the door!"

Peter took one step and flung the door open to reveal two people trying to creep past and down the stairs. They froze as they were revealed. One was Leonard Jamieson, the other a young boy.

Wallace sighed. "You'd better come in," he said.

The boy was obviously Tim Derwent but the photograph hadn't done justice to his flawless complexion, the shining gold of his hair, his candid grey eyes and sensual mouth. He looked a little frightened at the moment and this made him appear desperately young. Smiling he would be devastating.

For a moment there was silence. The five people standing rather uncomfortably in the room seemed to fill it and make it feel cramped. Tim started to fidget nervously.

"I suggest we all sit down," said Wallace taking charge.

They sat. Keith and Peter on the settee, not too close. Jamieson and Wallace in the easy chairs and Tim on the arm of Wallace's, though making sure he didn't touch. The proximity seemed to reassure him for he looked easier.

"OK," said Keith. "Now the point of all this is that Tim's parents - " he turned to the boy " - are worried about you. They don't know where you are, how you are, even if you're alive or not. They are desperately sorry about the scene they made and they want you back. It was the shock of your announcement that made them react as they did. Given time, they'll probably understand."

Tim looked doubtful. "I don't want to go back," he said. "I'm happy here."

"Trouble is," said Keith, "you're underage. They can insist, you know."

"I'll run away again." His mouth set in a firm line.

"Yes I thought you might." He tried another tack. "Well what about the Colonel here. He's breaking the law if he's having sex with you. He could go to prison for a long time."

"Who says we're having sex?" asked Tim, though he didn't meet Keith's eye.

"Look. The law about the age of consent is in the process of being changed - though it hasn't yet. You think you're gay - "

"I know I'm gay," interrupted Tim.

"OK. Well you can't be `talked' out of that."

"Oh you realise that?" said Wallace.

"Oh yes," said Keith. "I'm gay myself."

There was quite a satisfying reaction, a startled gasp from Jamieson, an audible intake of breath from Tim and a slow nodding from Wallace. "I thought you might be," he said.

"I'll do the best I can for you. I'll talk to your parents, tell them your point of view - my point of view when I was your age - if you'll come with me and see them. Or I'll get them to come up to London, and we can talk privately. What do you say?"

Tim looked at Wallace, silently asking him the question.

"You have to make your own decision, of course. But if it's sorted out then there won't be the problems of being afraid to go out in case someone recognises you, of not answering the phone or the door - unless you know who it is."

"But they'll want me to live at home, carry on at school."

Wallace looked at Keith. "If they're worried about how he is. If you could reassure them that he's well, that he's being looked after. He could enrol at the College."

"I'll talk to them. Do you trust me?"

Tim nodded.

On the way out, Keith had a quiet word with Jamieson. "Next time - if there is a next time - don't tell lies to the police," he said. "We may not be so lenient."

Once outside, Keith took a deep breath. He wanted to phone the hospital. For a brief interval he had almost managed to push the thought of Phil's illness out of his mind but now that the business was over, the worries returned.

He would put in a report at the office and then go to the hospital. As he thought this his pager pinged. On the screen was the hospital number. His heart lurched. Like something bad that wouldn't happen, as long as he ignored it, he didn't want to phone.

But of course he did. The impersonal voice of the Receptionist answered him. "Ah yes, Mr Hatch," she said, "Sister Winstone asked me to page you. She says you should come in immediately."

"Why? Is Phil? Is Mr Howard worse?"

"I'm afraid I have no recent information about Mr Howard's condition."

"Can I speak to Sister Winstone?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Hatch. The line is engaged."

Keith immediately imagined the worst. Surely if Phil were better, his parents would be even more adamant that he be excluded. He must get there as soon as possible.

"You'll have to do it on your own, Peter," he told Lippett. "I've got to go to the hospital."

The journey there was even more fraught - and seemed longer - than that of the day before, even though this time he grabbed a taxi. The driver was sympathetic and cut corners, breaking the speed limit and even going the wrong way round traffic islands - Keith didn't say he was a Police Officer - but even so the drive seemed to take for ever.

The antiseptic smell of the hospital made him feel sick as he ran down the corridors, not even stopping at Reception. He passed Sister Winstone's little office and as he did so, she came out. "Mr Hatch," she called. "Wait a moment."

He paused, out of breath. more from anxiety than the exercise. "What is it? How's Phil? What's happened?"

"Come in and sit down," she said.

It was as he feared. Phil was dead. They always told you to sit down when they had to tell you about a death. He did it himself to worried relatives. His body felt empty as if everything had drained out of it. His legs were weak and he understood why they asked you to sit down. He thought he might be sick. For a second the room seemed to tilt and he fell rather than sat into the chair.

He stared at her dumbly.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

It seemed as if hours passed.

"No," she said, after a millennium, "He's not dead. In fact he seems to be better but something rather worrying happened - and I thought you ought to know about it."

He couldn't take it in. All he heard was the `No'. Relief surged through him like adrenalin. "Can I see him?" then a thought. "What about his parents?"

"That's what I want to talk about," she said. "Purely by chance a nurse went in to check the patient and found the father with a pillow .. er... It looked as if he might be trying to .." she seemed to have difficulty in putting her suspicions into words.

Keith could scarcely believe it himself. "To kill him?" he asked.

"Well, of course when she went in, they drew back. She asked them what they were doing and they said just straightening his pillow, making him more comfortable. But the nurse was suspicious and decided to stay with him and they left - without saying anything more."

"Trying to kill him?" said Keith aghast.

"There is no proof. But I thought you should know... thought you should be with him."

"But he is better?"

"Conscious though very weak."

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course. There is however one other thing. He is better, yes but you ought to know that meningitis can leave up to one third of those who survive with some form of long-term disability or impairment. The doctor will be able to tell you more."

"Yes. Yes." He brushed aside the words and got up. "I must see him."

Phil lay in the bed, his eyes closed. He looked shrunken, lonely, his cheek bones prominent, the eyes, deep in their sockets. Keith's heart went out to him. "Phil," he whispered almost under his breath but Phil heard. His eyelids opened and he smiled.

"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice thin and reedy, a parody of his normal cheerful tone.

To explain that his parents had forbidden him seemed too much to explain at the moment. "I'm sorry, honey. Had to go out on a job."

"Interviewing chickens?" asked Phil, with the ghost of a laugh.

"None as beautiful as you." He sat down and took Phil's hand. In only two days it seemed to have shrunk to just skin and bone. He held it in his own warm one as if he could pass his own life and strength into it.

Phil didn't answer but pressed his hand. After a while he said, "I had such a funny dream. I thought Mum and Dad were here waiting for me to die. I'm not going to die am I?" He sounded like a child and Keith had difficulty in holding back the tears. He suddenly realised how nearly he had been to losing him.

"You're much better, honey. You'll be out of here soon and I won't leave you again, I promise."

"Ever?"

A rash promise but Keith made it. "Ever," he said.

"I'm very tired," said Phil. "Do you mind if I go to sleep now? You won't go away?"

"I'll be here when you wake."