Part thirty-five: Victory & Vice
It was that grim hour where it ceased to be the night before and started to feel a lot like the morning after. Only the grizzle of rainfall, the dull echoes of nearby traffic, and the wet slop of his own feet were audible in the narrow streets of South Manchester where he trudged. A motley collection of jabbing pains competed for attention across the 6'4 range of his body: there were at least two headaches, one the pounding scream of too much to drink and sniff, and the other somewhat linked to the trickle of blood running from near his left eyebrow and mingling with the gooey mess of a nosebleed somewhere around his stubbly moustache. There were various points of pain across his back and torso, where the kicks and jabs were perhaps beginning to bruise. One wrist felt perhaps sprained, and he was hobbling a bit, though it was hard to tell exactly why.
In this dishevelled state, Harry Maguire slumped uncertainly through the Mancunian night, from the wet dirty corner in which he had so recently regained consciousness.
For the third or fourth time, he rifled painfully at the pockets of his dark jeans, but those lads had taken everything. Fucking hell. Life always threw highs and lows at you, but never in such comfy proximity as the joys and horrors of today, surely? How could he have felt so on top of the fucking world about twelve hours ago (although it was hard to tell, as he now realised his watch was stolen too) and be right here, right now, like this, now?
He lumbered cautiously and uncomfortably around another corner, squinting for street signs and trying to get his bearings. The world span a bit as he jerked his head too quickly, and he stumbled to his left a bit and grabbed at a corner of coarse brick to steady himself, grazing the palms of his hands at this rough angle and the force of his heavy weight pressing on them. He made a pained yowl of a noise, steadied himself, and tried again to focus.
And that's when he spotted it, only yards ahead. A phone box. In a different context and a different mood, he might have laughed at this relic, stuck here next to a parade of abandoned looking shops, all graffitied shutters and boarded up window. But here it was, a real, working telephone box, a ghost of the 20th century in the dark depths of Manchester. He took some painful staggering steps towards it, and yanked the cold wet plastic of the phone receiver off its hook, then stared through bleary eyes at the little square buttons of numbers and hashtags and... Fuck. Fuck. Who would he even call?
Fresh burst of pain and misery afflicted his heavy physique as he leant down into the phone booth, designed and built for a more average height user. Harry planted a rough, scratched hand to his face, winced as he brushed his own injuries, and let out another strangled cry of fury, exhaustion and pain. He felt nauseous for a moment, and thought he might vomit there and then, but it passed. Things cleared a little in his head as it did, and he stared at the keypad.
Earlier in his life, perhaps, he'd known more telephone numbers, but now... In his bleary, 3am misery, only one sequence of numbers was drifting into clarity somewhere at the front of his aching brain. He closed his eyes, swallowed painfully, then jabbed an aching finger at the pad of buttons, and dialled the only person he could.
Harry's Sunday had not started well: it had begun with an argument with his fiancée, who was particularly sleep-deprived from the little one at the minute, and was ready to take literally anything out on him that she could. Of course, she'd been worse with him lately, after his late night visit to Burnley had meant him accidentally missing their first prearranged `date night' of the year. Babysitter booked, schedule cleared, then he had forgotten and been ridiculously late back – of course, he hadn't been able to tell her he was enjoying himself in a Burnley hotel room with two pals she knew well, so his vague answers had made her suspicious, and angrier. Consequently, it had been a shitty week.
And escaping this latest petty row with her and driving in to Old Trafford to join the lads hadn't exactly been a bundle of laughs. United had lost their last two games and the media were reeling off career-low stats for the club at every opportunity. The atmosphere at the ground as the players and staff gathered for their short coach journey to the day's FA cup clash was dour to say the least, and now with the captaincy on his shoulders, Harry felt it twice as hard.
Entering through the sliding doors and lingering about the business reception for a while, he had tried to keep his mood light and encouraging as he greeted a few of the other arrivals: a big welcoming hug for Martial and some banter about how many goals the striker was gonna bag against fucking Tranmere Rovers today; a rough manly handshake with their goalkeeper Romero and some chat about a shared joke from the last uncomfortable defeat; then Lingard, who was a real marker of the downturn in mood at Manchester United at the minute. The lad was normally bouncing off the walls with energy, but Maguire could barely get a word out of him before Jesse hurried off away to join the others and collect his fresh kit. Harry watched him go with a frustrated grimace, and swung his long arms to try and energise himself, turning back towards the sliding doors. Of course, he didn't actually to stand around here like a goon doing this, but he felt the strong urge to be doing SOMETHING to get morale back...
He stopped sharply as the doors slid open with their metallic rustle, and the latest arrival strutted in, handsome face and awkwardly angled hears jutting out from the pulled up hood of his black jumper, a slight tuft of fringe showing beneath its edge. Luke Shaw eyed him cautiously on his way in, and Harry took a step forward, bringing a hand up in the direction of the younger defender's shoulder, but the southern lad swerved away, and just gave him a curt nod.
`Harry.'
`Luke...'
`Fingers crossed for a better game today,' Shaw said in a polite monotone, then looking past him, flashing his bright white grin at the ladies on reception and a member of the coaching staff who was leaning on the counter gossiping with them. And with that, the 24-year-old walked on, hands in hoody pockets, arse bulging in skinny pale jeans, to give them a bit of banter before carrying on in to join the others. It left Harry standing there both looking and feeling a bit of a gimp. Surely the snub had been obvious to those onlookers?
He turned away to hide the brief burn of colour in his cheeks, and swaggered outside for a moment to let his face cool and to avoid having to look at Luke as he strutted off indoors. Harry rubbed at his face, blinked away the well of awkward emotion, and scoffed inwardly. Least of your fucking worries,' he told himself. Who cares what that blond tit is up to?' He realised he was thinking aloud, and laughed awkwardly at himself, and shook it off.
They were both on the starting lineup, he'd noticed, and perhaps that would be fine. At training and on the pitch, Shaw would communicate with him like normal, but off it...
Ahead of him, he spotted Dan James stepping out of an Uber, by the looks of it, and scampering hurriedly his way across the corporate car park. Harry lifted and flexed his shoulder muscles, unconsciously exaggerating his stature, completely unnecessarily, given Dan's petite form. James hurried his way, clocked his presence, averted his eyes awkwardly, and aimed for the doors.
`Alright?' Harry said roughly.
Yeah good,' Dan replied hurriedly, not slowing. Harry turned to keep pace with him and aim for the sliding doors. He reached across a little to touch the younger player on the shoulder but, like Luke, Dan pulled away a bit, but with less frost. He flashed an awkward, apologetic smile. Just running er, a bit late, so...'
Harry reached over more aggressively and patted him on the back of his waterproof coat. Oh don't worry, you're not even the last one here, so-
Dan pulled away a little, and hurried on through the opening sliding doors, and left Harry lingering in the threshold. He skipped his eyes from the short lad to the ladies on reception and the coach they were chatting to: they were looking his way and, in a flash of paranoia, he thought they must be asking all sorts of questions about who the fuck this useless captain was, and what fucked up relationships he seemed to have with his teammates, but... Of course they weren't thinking that – how the fuck could they? How could anyone guess what the hell had been going on around here of late??
Still, he avoided eye contact with them as he crossed the lobby and turned after Daniel down the hallway to the common room where the lads would be slowly collecting for the first team talk of the day. Young DJ had slowed his pace as soon as he was around the corner, so big Harry caught up in a few urgent strides, and he grabbed the Welsh national player by the shoulder with a light grip, briefly alarming him.
Oh,' young James mumbled, you again...'
Yeah, me, your captain,' Harry chuckled in what he thought might be an almost flirtatious manner, giving the firm muscle of his friend's shoulder a bit of a squeeze through his jacket. I think you're on the bench later, lad, but...' He saw Dan's disappointed expression, realised how shite it was to be the messenger of bad news, regretted this tack immediately. But I'm sure it's only cos it's such a throwaway game, Ole probably saving your energy for-
Still,' Dan grumbled, what a fucking waste of...'
Well, maybe you can use your energy differently,' Harry said in a low voice, leaning in a little closer, and giving the shoulder a more meaningful squeeze. He reached down and lightly grabbed the front of his own jeans, feeling himself through the dark denim and winking. Dan looked down, then up, then away, very rapidly. Come on,' Maguire said, and tugged on his arm. `We've got five minutes.'
Maguire,' Dan protested quietly, what if...'
The protests were right, Harry was being daft. Grabbing at his cock so suggestively and pulling affectionately on the shorter 22-year-old like he was some ragdoll were hardly sensible moves right here, and yet... He pulled on his arm more, nodding urgently into the gentlemen's toilets just nearby, and almost dragging James in through the door with a wily snigger. It wasn't even that he was madly horny, he was just... low. The general mood, the row with the missus, that cold frosty moment just then with Luke... Not that HE was the main problem, he told himself firmly, Luke Shaw was NOT in control of his fucking mood AT ALL... Ridiculous.
Inside the gents', he strode forward and checked the three cubicles were all empty and that there was nobody at the urinals. Dan stumbled along at his side, no longer dragged, but looked deeply uncertain about this sudden little detour between them. Harry,' he said in a hiss, we should probably get moving down to the...'
`We don't need long,' Harry snapped firmly, and lunged into the far cubicle, reaching back and taking Dan by the hand, feeling the size and power of his own grip over the smaller guy's fist, and yanking him into the narrow space with him. Dan almost fell into him, and Harry yanked the cubicle door shut behind him. Dan was right, he knew that, they should be joining the others, and they'd both been seen arriving, so this was really fucking risky, but...
`Come on,' Maguire barked in a low raspy voice, and he pulled more tightly on the hand he had taken, and pressed it against the front of his jeans, guiding Dan's fingers around the fat package there, and leaning his shoulders and neck forward to press his forehead down on Daniel's. With his other hand, he tugged and unbuckled his belt and fumbled with the top button until the jeans were opening at the front and he could stick Dan's hand in against his warm boxer shorts.
Harry, this is fucked up,' Daniel mumbled quietly into the limited space between them. I know we've done weird shit but I'm not into it, I have a GIRLFRIEND, I need to...'
Shush,' Harry muttered, irritated by the risky noise this flaky little prick was making, pressing his hand more firmly against his own bulge, roughly manhandling both Dan's fingers and his own meat. Shush and play with it...'
`We need to go,' Dan said, a little bit more forcefully.
Soon,' Harry spat back, soon, it won't take long to...' As he spoke, he pushed Dan's hand more firmly in between the denim and the cotton, closing his grip around the outline of his cock, and rubbing, and pushing and... Fuck. No response? His cock felt almost numb. Literally zero response down there to the furtive movement of both their hands. He let out a grunting sigh through gritted teeth.
`I need to go,' Dan James said, in the more aggressive voice of youthful confidence he used more normally, on the pitch and in training, but a voice Harry had never heard when pulling the young lad aside for more... private interaction. He glared down at the tanned features of the handsome little Welsh-Yorkshireman, the hard-set dark eyes, the determined jut of his jawline. With that, Dan pulled his hand firmly away, breaking Harry's grip, and he retreated quickly out of the cubicle back into the main gents' room.
Harry followed him out in a hurry and stood watching him go, taking a minute to realise his belt and button flies were jutting open. He did them up and looked for a moment at his reflection. Tall, muscular, powerful, as dominant in appearance as ever. And yet... something here wasn't working quite right, was it?
And then of course, things did get better. A lot better. A whole fucking first-goal-for-a-new-team-he-was-fucking-captaining better. When Harry volleyed it in in the 10th minute of the cup clash, all negatives were fucking forgotten. In fact, the whole first half of the game was fucking amazing, goal after goal. Okay, so it was only Tranmere, but still... The United fans who had followed them here to this damp corner of the Northwest were going mad for this outstanding return to form.
Amongst all of the fired-up enthusiasm of the squad, it was also nice to be communicating with Luke again, even if it was just barked back-and-forth of instructions or requests or demands. Their eyes never met, but there was something in the silky teamwork that took Harry back to a simpler time between them. If he tried to chat to him again later on, after they won, then maybe...?
Harry loped aggressively about his half of the pitch, still buzzing from scoring the 2nd goal of the game, and daring to think he might shove in another before the first half was up. That didn't happen, but he entered the 2nd half with the same glimmer of optimism, though he could hardly resent each successive teammate who joined him on the scoresheet today. By the time Mason Greenwood booted in goal no.6, the whole fucking team was ecstatic. Harry jogged in to join the celebrations, but as he swooped his big arms down to try and hug the young goal-scorer, Greenwood just shot him the most dismissive of looks, and slipped by him to grasp and embrace another player instead. The snub was subtle and unnoticeable, as Maguire was quickly grabbed in leaping hugs and yelling whoops by two other United lads, but still... another sting to Harry's ego and mood. The look of dismissive contempt in the teenager's eyes seemed to burn into his mind. He'd tried a good few times now to reopen banter and chat with Greenwood since their visit to Luke's flat, but...
Maguire was disappointed when, not long later, he was subbed, but he accepted it with grace. After all, he was still on a high from scoring his first goal in a red jersey, always a fucking achievement for a defender like him. As he jogged himself off the pitch, he realised he was being replaced with another frosty-faced Old Trafford colleague... And here was another look, strangely piercing, as young Brandon Williams crossed the touchline to enter play. For a moment, the two passed each other, little and large, two very different cornerstones of the United defence. The narrowed eyes and closed body language were eerily similar to Mason minutes ago, and in fact... to Dan, and to Luke, and to...
Harry was instantly distracted from this pattern of discomfort by the congratulatory messages of Solskjaer and the team. Everyone was chuffed for him at his goal, and at the general 6-0 massacre going on out there, and though it had all been said at half-time, it was said again. And then Ole's assistant manager leaned in, took Harry by the elbow, and said in a strangely serious voice, `Actually Maguire, can we have a quick word back in the tunnel, mate?'
`Of course, of course,' Harry panted, staring back out onto the pitch. 6 goals already, could they make it to something crazy like 10?
`Come with me,' the aged man muttered to him, and disappeared off. Harry gladly grabbed the water bottle and overcoat he was offered by a less senior member of the management team, and followed the Assistant Manager away from the floodlights and into the shelter of the tunnel, away from the spitting Mereyside rain.
`A goal at last,' Harry whistled excitedly, leaning on the wall and beginning to warm-down his legs with some stretches. In front of him, the suited guy in his mid-50s cleared his throat awkwardly, nodded, but failed to repeat his earlier praise.
`Look, this might not be the best time to bring this up,' he said, in a tone that Harry didn't like at all, and then seemed to hesitate again, and scratch his beard.
Harry forced a laugh. `Spit it out, mate?' he said with jovial uncertainty.
Harry, pal, there's no easy way to say this, but... Look, we're going to have to have a disciplinary meeting first thing tomorrow.' Harry stared at him in confusion – what the fuck? And I'm sorry mate, to tell you this now, after your goal and all, but... Well if I don't do this now, I'm not sure when we will, and it really is quite a serious matter, so...'
What are you on about?' Harry asked, a little angrily, then remembering who he was speaking to, I don't get it... WHAT is a serious matter?'
Racism, Harry, racism is a really serious matter-
`What the fuck?' Harry demanded, unable to control his language. He stared intensely at the short slight man in his suit and glasses, and then looked back down the tunnel out into the glaring lights of the local team's cheap stadium. He could see his real gaffer silhouetted in the floodlights, and beyond him, the last quarter of the game. He listened out for an elusive 7th goal.
Maguire,' the man said very formally, there has been a serious complaint against you, and we simply have to investigate.'
`Complaint? About... racism?'
`Look, Harry – perhaps it was all a misunderstanding, and nothing offensive was meant, but...'
`Perhaps?!'
`We have to take these things seriously, Harry. There will be a meeting, and an investigation, and if disciplinary measures are required, then...'
`But...'
I see no reason why this should represent any permanent threat to your being Captain, and-
`What the fuck?' Harry almost shouted at him, and his words and tone were poorly chosen. The elder man paused, looked coldly at him, his empathy drooping, and he took off his spectacles to polish silently. Harry let out a series of ragged, confused breaths, totally lost. What had he done or said? What the fuck...?
You will need to take this a bit more calmly and seriously when we speak about it tomorrow,' the Assistant Manager said in an unmistakably warning tone. I wanted to mention it to you today so you had time to... recollect. To reflect. As I say... this should be handled very carefully by us all, but we DO have to treat it seriously, and so...' With each carefully chosen word and phrase, this stupid old prick was killing Harry's buzz. He couldn't stop frowning incredulously at him.
`I ain't fuckin' racist,' was all he could spit furiously through his panting recovery breaths. Another icy look, and the suited man sighed, and walked on past him back out onto the dugout. Harry leant heavily to the wall and continued to stretch his leg muscles, winded by this utterly bizarre interruption to the triumphant Tranmere game. What the actual fuck?
The coach back into Manchester was like some sort of stag do party bus. All rules were relaxed, and beer bottles were being handed down the coach in the same way as water or energy bars or fruit rations might normally be. There was plenty of singing and chanting, and Snapchat and Instagram story streaming, all the usual noisy banter of a very successful team. As a collective, the United lads were very happy to erase recent losses from memory and temporarily revel in the singular victory against a minor threat like Tranmere Rovers, taking victory where they found it.
To begin with, Harry was terse, and unable to relax. But after a beer, he pushed this latest weird worry to the back of his mind. After all, it must be a fucking mistake. So he drank along with the others and did his best to rouse the loudest and most triumphant behaviour. But he avoided certain corners of the bus, not going anywhere near where Luke and Dan were arm-in-arm with Lingard and Jones having a little victory singalong, and he avoided going too near the back to where the youngest players always congregated, Greenwood and Williams in the corner like two naughty schoolboys looking really fucking pleased with themselves. Harry did not need any more threats to his mood after that surreal disciplinary conversation before the game was over.
And when the coach rolled into the car park of Old Trafford, at least half of the men on board were on their way to being quite drunk. Harry, drinking quickly, and moving around to congratulate and encourage as much of the team as he could bring himself to talk to, had managed to get perhaps the drunkest, unnoticed because he didn't stick with any individual or group for too long. Probably nobody had spotted just how rapidly he was throwing back the beers.
It was the gaffer himself who announced the victory party, although he put it more modestly, in the corporate bar, and things moved swiftly from the coach to there. Several rounds of free pints were poured and served, and the United squad revelled in a 6-0 turnaround. It was a well-timed boost by any measure.
Maguire could feel himself sliding into a drunken state long before he stumbled into the loos and caught up doing some lines of coke with Lingard and Jones. Returning to the bar after that, he felt utterly wired. The day was feeling long already, a surreal chain of awkward moments replaying in his brain: his fiancée shouting at him over breakfast, his hand dragging Dan James into a toilet cubicle, his goal flying into the net, the stony looks on the faces of several teammates and the Assistant Manager... it was all a strange blur, really.
`You're wasted.'
Harry steadied himself against the bar with both hands, let out a slow laugh, and turned to his right where Luke Shaw was stood cradling a half-pint, looking far more sober than anyone else he'd spoken to in the last ten minutes. The younger lad looked worn out from a full 90 minutes' hard work, his hair soft and fluffy from the showers, his blue eyes particularly bright today.
I am,' Maguire agreed with a slight slur. And you're...' He shuffled along, leaned in, and breathed his beery gasp into Luke's ear. `Gagging for it,' he finished, and then burped in Luke's face.
Luke shrugged his hand off, and sighed. `Let's not do this hear, mate,' he grumbled.
Harry reached for the back of his sweater, chuckling and staying close, too close, perhaps, in public – but who would mistake this for anything more than tactile bromance? He pawed at Luke's back muscles and leaned into him. `Come here,' he slurred imperatively.
No,' Shaw said firmly, and pushed his hand away again. You're out of it. What have you had? Not just beer, that's for fuckin' sure...'
`Oh relax,' Harry snapped.
`We are literally at work,' Luke told him frostily, looking about in panic. This just made Harry giggle, though he knew with dreadful clarity that he was making some big mistakes here. He rubbed at his tingling nostrils, shoved Luke in the arm, and straightened up, and picked up the other bloke's half pint to rudely finish.
`You used to be fun,' Harry said darkly.
`You used to be someone I looked up to,' Luke responded in that dull monotone from earlier. And he gave Harry that look again. It was... less suspicious than the manager guy earlier, less hateful than Mason Greenwood, less frightened than Dan, it was... what was it? Harry's head was spinning. It was a look of pure... disappointment. And with that Luke pulled away and vanished into the crowd. Harry pushed his hands to the bar again, steadying himself, and blinking. He would order another drink now, if he was allowed, but that wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was to rip that fucking ugly Adidas sweater off stupid Luke Shaw and throw the lad on the floor and do whatever he wanted to him until... Harry caught sight of his sweaty bleary face in some mirrored glass behind the bar, and shuddered. He actually did look as wasted as he felt.
He left soon after that conversation, although as his mind tripped on the lines of strong coke, it was hard to be any more precise. On another day, Harry could have lectured anyone for an hour on the dangers of drink-driving, and yet here he was, behind the wheel of his purring jeep. It was the coke, he reasoned, as he took a sharp turn at the first roundabout he came to. It sobered you up, he lied to himself. Sharpened your edges, cut through the fug. He could drive fine.
And somehow, he sorta managed it. He only knew roughly where he was headed, and the road signs were tough to read at this stage of his drunken high, but he careered about the quiet late night roads and kept away from busier routes. He was pretty sure he was remembering the street names of his target neighbourhood right. It had been a real odd night of desperate needs when he'd done this bit of Google research, a few search terms he had immediately deleted from his browser soon after. He turned up the blare of the radio and sped on, miraculously avoiding god knows how many near-miss accidents as he went. Ironically, it was only as he was parking up in the rough patch of South Manchester he had aimed for that he bumped gently but noisily into the stationary car in front. Again, miraculously, no blaring alarm sounding off as a result. Just a dent that somebody else would pay for, not him.
He switched off the engine and swung out onto the dark street, forgetting idly to lock the car door behind him as he did. On his feet, out of the jeep, he felt drunker and less steady, and he hooted with laughter to himself. He steadied himself against the side of the car, pulled up the zip on his jacket, and strode off down the pavement in this and his tight jeans and battered trainers. He tugged down the beanie hat he'd grabbed from the glovebox and pulled up the collar of his jacket for the vague anonymity it achieved. Harry was a tall guy, and if people were going to recognise him, they were going to recognise him.
He didn't know this area well at all, but he knew what he'd read about in a few dodgy looking websites late one night in a hotel room, in his curious and shame-ridden Google search. He yanked up on his collar again and turned the corner onto a sort of high street, or the post-apocalyptic remains of one. God this patch was rough. It was late, but a few shops and businesses were open, crackling glimmers of neon amongst other premises that looked totally disused. Ahead of him, a tall guy in a long parka coat hung on the street corner, and Harry dared to look his way, but when the guy faced him, he saw a gaunt ugly face, and several missing teeth. He bowed his head, and strolled on.
At the next corner, the mouth of an alley, were two other suspicious figures. A tall black guy in a wig and a long leathery coat, and a shorter, mixed-race bloke togged up in sporty gear, and they both turned to look his way, and he averted his eyes sharply. These quiet streets were littered with carefully aimlessly figures, all of them confirming what he had read about this sketchy patch of the city: a male prostitution hotspot.
A few yards on, he caught sight of a figure that looked different. Younger, for a start. A lad of about 5'10 or so was walking alone in the same direction on the far side of the road, parallel but at a slower pace, so that Harry's determined strides quickly caught up, and then matched his shuffling pace. As they neared a junction, the figure, clad in layers of hoody and denim jacket, turned to look his way. The face in the hoody was a bit scruffy with facial hair and grease, but even in this dim light, seemed kinda good-looking. A flash of blue eyes, a snatch of blond hair. That was enough for Maguire, tonight. That was what he was looking for.
He crossed the road, and the youth started walking on again, but with deliberate slowness. As Harry hurried the last few strides, the layered up younger guy came to a stop, shoved their hands more deeply in their pockets, and turned to give him a nod. Harry fiddled with the brim of his hat and the collar of his jacket, and he fumbled for words. The coke and booze stung at the corners of his sluggish mind.
`You looking for something?' the potential rentboy asked in a vague accent. It wasn't English, but it was hard to pin down. Eastern European, maybe? Up close, the lad looked both younger (vulnerable, thin-faced, boyish blue eyes) and also much older (rougher around the edges, a cynical tightness to his smile, a greyish loop under each eye).
`Aye,' Maguire answered in a gruff burst of breath.
The youth seemed to stare him up and down. It was lucky that Harry was as wasted as he was, or the terrifying prospect of being recognised and `outed' would have sent him flying into a vaulting sprint back towards the car right then. As it was, his own fame was a distant concept he'd left behind at the fucking corporate bar along with his dignity and emotional wellbeing, somewhere in a heap next to Luke's withering glare.
£50 for a suck-job,' the youth grunted simply, and £100 to fuck.'
Harry let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, knowing it had a fair few notes in, as always, just in case. He nodded, shifted foot to foot. `Where?' was all he could think to ask next. The lad shrugged, which was hardly reassuring, but also kinda exciting. He then began to walk again, and Harry followed. He looked with thrill and panic about him at the strange lurid vista of this semi-abandoned high street, its smashed windows and inexplicably open Chinese restaurant, its lurking figures and empty side-streets. And then the pavement in front of him felt empty, and the young lad of indiscriminate age was turning off into one of these shady alleyways branching off. Harry hesitated, and thought two things: walking into a pitch black alley with a stranger was an excitingly stupid terror, and also, the darkness would be good for his anonymity, if that wasn't already in shreds. He gave another look to the street scene around him. A shifty guy in his 60s was not far ahead, engaging in some strange, stilted conversation with other three vague youths in hoodies, either more rentboys, or just common drug dealers.
Oi,' came that vague accent again, sounding a little more Germanic this time. His blond-haired, blue-eyed youth was hovering in the mouth of the alley, kicking at the concrete with battered looking Convderse on his feet. You have money?'
Yes,' Harry said, mostly to himself, I sure fucking do...' He strode after the kid, who might have been a teenager, or might have been mid-twenties, who fucking knew or cared. They disappeared into the shadowy mouth of the alleyway, and he clenched and unclenched his hands. He reached out and found the limp arms of the young guy, pulling close to him in the darkness, trying to make out that flash of a handsome youthful face. The hood fell back and he began to make out features again. He ran fingers through the slightly greasy blond hair, his breaths shallow and uncomfortable.
`Suck or fuck?' demanded the rent-boy in a voice riddled with impatience and contempt. It might have killed Harry's buzz a little bit, if a day of pent-up frustrations weren't exploding in him right now. He could feel his big dick reaching semi already in his jeans, and his whole body burning with a desire to make this slender European lad his own.
Both,' he grunted into the shadows, if you can take it...'
He reached down and undid his belt quickly, just like in the toilet cubicle with Dan James. He felt the lad's hands reach inside his jacket to stroke his sides a bit through his tshirt, and he reached down to tug open some buttons of his flies. The lad reached in with one hand, his touch cold and rough, but gratefully received. Harry felt his twitching cock pulled out into the chilly air and grabbed with a few measuring grasps, as if the youth couldn't quite believe its size already. Well, probably the sad fuckers normally using these services were tiny-cocked idiots who... Harry's thoughts trailed off and he let out a pleased groan as the youth gave his cock a good pull and squeeze.
That's it,' he said in a low growl, good lad...'
You have big one,' he was told in the same clumsy international English. Very big thing.'
Harry chuckled and grinned, glad of the darkness between them, a brief flash of worry for his identity just then fading into the buzz of his high. He moaned as his cock was pulled fully free of his jeans and undies, and stroked with a little more tenderness. He looked into the face of the young guy, or not-so-young, maybe he was actually a year or two older than Harry Maguire himself, it was too hard to say... The context more than the physical contact was sending Harry wild with desire. This was dangerous, and filthy, and he could probably afford to get this desperate young loser to do literally anything he wanted, so...
`You pay me now,' the lad said then, hand stopping halfway up Harry's swelling boner. There was an odd look to his face, serious and disinterested at the same time. Harry faltered.
`Huh?'
`You pay me now,' the European – Czech, maybe? – repeated dully.
Harry stood there, his cock twitching against those cool, callused fingers, and his heart hammering wildly in the muscle of his chest. He reached into the right pocket of his jacket to close his fingers about the thick bulge of his wallet, and felt the twinge of discomfort at his position in this dark alley a moment too late to do anything about it. Just then, as he slid the wallet from his pocket, a knee jolted up between his legs and caught his balls through the denim, sending that hideous bolt of pain that crippled any man in a second. As he keeled forward a little in surprise and pain, the young lad swung his head forward to meet him, and nutted him hard in the brow. Harry reeled away, and the wallet dropped from his grasp. There were a couple of other voices, and footsteps. The shadows about him were a blur of fabric and facial features as the other young lads from the street seemed suddenly to be there.
Harry reached for his swinging boner with an instinctive vulnerability, head spinning, but the effort of stuffing his meat back into his jeans cost him his balance, and then suddenly there was a sharp kick to one calf, and down he went. Another kick, to the back of his thigh, and then one to his ribs – oh fuck... Harry's face hit concrete paving and pain flooded through his body. He opened his mouth to shout or yell, and tensed his big arms to begin pushing himself back, but an even stronger kick struck his forearm and he rolled over with a muffled scream of shock. Another flurry of kicks, and the world went dark.
And now here he was. Mugged, lost, bleeding. If he'd stopped long enough to think it all through, he would have sank back down to the cold wet pavement and cried his fucking eyes out. No watch, no wallet, no phone, no fucking keys. And where was his fucking motor? Where had he parked? Had he even locked it? Would it still be there?
He leant heavily into the flimsy structure of the phone booth, felt it buckle a bit, and tried to put more weight back onto his own legs. His teeth were chattering. God, it was so cold all of a sudden. He blinked and flinched in fresh pain, and then pulled more on that wire, bringing the receiver to his ear. Of course. The phone call. He dipped his other hand into his pockets, remembered he had been fully fucking robbed, and almost sank to his knees in defeat. But no, in the jacket... that little inside pocket. Wasn't there always a scrap of coinage in there? A childish habit sustained. He reached into the pocket with some difficulty, and found the clinking silver. Enough? Hopefully. One by one, he slotted coins into the machine, heard the positive ping of confirmation. And now to dial... Well, the only number that drifted to mind. He punched in the numbers one by one, each press an effort of willpower and a battle with physical pain. Then came the dialling tone, the slow impatient beeps and the ocean of doubt. Was he home yet? Would he hear it? Would he answer...?
Hello?' came the longed-for voice at last. Luke sounded half-asleep, groggy. Hello?' he said again, a little more clearly, but almost angrily. Harry breathed weakly into the receiver. Where to fucking begin? He heard Luke's voice again. Who is this?' demanded the sleepy murmur of that polite southern lad. If this is a prank call, then-`
Luke,' Harry groaned. Luke, it's... me.'
Silence. How long a phone call would those coins even buy?
When Luke spoke again, he sounded even more dazed and bewildered. Harry?' came his breathy, trembling question. For fuck's sake, buddy... do you know what time it is? What the hell do you want? If I didn't make myself clear enough earlier, then...' The voice trailed off, and Harry just whimpered pathetically, the pain in his wrist getting worse as he held onto the telephone receiver. Luke went quiet, and Harry stifled the sob of distress mounting in his throat. He thought about just hanging up: this was a stupid idea!
Harry,' Luke murmured, are you okay?' When no answer, his voice sounded panicked and gentler. `Where are you, Harry? Do you need me to...?'
Please,' Harry mumbled into the phone. I didn't know who else to call...' His voice faded to a hoarse croak, and he slumped forward, unsure if he'd even got the words out. He heard Luke's sharp intake of breath down the phone, could almost hear the internal battle of indecision and turmoil.
Where are you, Harry?' Shaw asked in a voice that was less gentle, more angry, but resigned and worried. Where are you? I'll come now.'
Harry fought back another sob. His head felt like it might explode into a thousand pieces any moment now. He struggled with the blur of visuals, but knew from memory the name of the infamous street he had Googled and come in search for. I'm... near... Langley Road,' he put out in a series of pained grunts. Somewhere... near there... Please... Luke...'
`I'm coming, I'm coming,' the other guy muttered down the phone. And then the click of it ending. It was unclear if Luke had hung up, or Harry's money had run out, or both. He let the receiver drop from his aching hand, leaned forward into the booth until it nearly broke from its stand, and slowly slid down so his knees grazed the pavement below. Again, the madness of the day and night whirled through his concussed brain... one moment you're scoring your first goal for the team of your dreams, drowning in the adoring screams of several thousand fans... and the next, you're here, on your knees, robbed blind in a back alley of Manchester, and the only person you can call is the one person who hates you most.
Oh Luke,' he mumbled faintly into the rusty metal of the phone-stand. Where the fuck did everything go so wrong?'
TO BE CONTINUED!!!